her husband was no traitor, and had
only done what every true-hearted Scotsman ought to do, if he would save
himself and those he loved from destruction; the next, piteously
acknowledging his crime, and wildly beseeching mercy. For a while Nigel
endeavored, calmly and soothingly, to reason with her, but it was of no
avail: louder and fiercer became her curses and imprecations; beseeching
heaven to hurl down all its maledictions upon him and the woman he
loved, and refuse him mercy when he most needed it. Perceiving her
violence becoming more and more outrageous, Nigel placed her in charge
of two of his men-at-arms, desiring them to treat her kindly, but not to
lose sight of her, and keep her as far as possible from the scene about
to be enacted. She was dragged away, struggling furiously, and Nigel
felt his heart sink heavier within him. It was not that he wavered in
his opinion, that he believed, situated as he was, it was better to
spare the traitor's life than excite to a flame the already aroused and
angered populace. He thought indeed terror might do much; but whether it
was the entreating words of Agnes, or the state of the unhappy Jean,
there had come upon him a dim sense of impending ill; an impression that
the act of justice about to be performed would bring matters to a
crisis, and the ruin of the garrison be consummated, ere he was aware it
had begun. The shadow of the future appeared to have enfolded him, but
still he wavered not. The hours sped: his preparations were completed,
and at the time appointed by Seaton, with as much of awful solemnity as
circumstances would admit, the soul of the traitor was launched into
eternity. Men, women, and children had gathered round the temporary
scaffold; every one within the castle, save the maimed and wounded,
thronged to that centre court, and cheers and shouts, and groans and
curses, mingled strangely on the air.

Clad in complete steel, but bareheaded, Sir Nigel Bruce had witnessed
the act of justice his voice had pronounced, and, after a brief pause,
he stood forward on the scaffold, and in a deep, rich voice addressed
the multitude ere they separated. Eloquently, forcibly, he spoke of the
guilt, the foul guilt of treachery, now when Scotland demanded all men
to join together hand and heart as one--now when the foe was at their
gates; when, if united, they might yet bid defiance to the tyrant, who,
if they were defeated, would hold them slaves. He addressed them a