he knew this, had, instead of denying
it, encouraged the report, and therefore was at no loss to discover his
master's woe. He advanced, knelt down, and in a trembling, husky voice,
addressed him. "My lord--Sir Nigel."

The young knight started, and looked at the intruder, evidently without
recognizing him. "What wouldst thou?" he said, in a tone somewhat stern.
"Who art thou, thus boldly intruding on my privacy? Begone, I need thee
not!"

"The Earl of Hereford hath permitted me to tend thee, follow thee,"
answered the page in the same subdued voice. "My gracious lord, do not
thou refuse me."

"Tend me--follow me! whither--to the scaffold? Seek some other master,
my good boy. I know thee not, and can serve thee little, and need no
earthly aid. An thou seekest noble service, go follow Hereford; he is a
generous and knightly lord."

"But I am Scotch, my lord, and would rather follow thee to death than
Hereford to victory."

"Poor child, poor child!" repeated Nigel, sadly. "I should know thee,
methinks, an thou wouldst follow me so faithfully, and yet I do not.
What claim have I upon thy love?"

"Dost thou _not_ know me, Nigel?" The boy spoke in his own peculiarly
sweet and most thrilling voice, and raising his head, fixed his full
glance upon the knight.

A wild cry burst from Nigel's lips, he sprang up, gazed once again, and
in another moment the page and knight had sprung into each other's arms;
the arms of the former were twined round the warrior's neck, and Sir
Nigel had bent down his lordly head; burning tears and impassioned
kisses were mingled on the soft cheek that leaned against his breast.

CHAPTER XXI.

The ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, associated as it is with
Scottish and English history from the time these two kingdoms had a
name, presented a somewhat different aspect in the year 1307 to that of
the present day. The key to both countries, it was ever a scene of
struggle, unless the sister kingdoms chanced to be at peace, an event in
the middle ages of rare occurrence, and whoever was its fortunate
possessor was undeniably considered as the greater power. Since the
death of Alexander it had been captured no less than three times by
Edward in 1296, by Wallace the succeeding year, and recaptured by the
English the following spring. To Edward, consequently, it now belonged,
and many and fearful had been the sanguinary executions its walls had
beheld. Its streets had been deluged with n