Читать книгу The Caged Lion - Yonge Charlotte Mary - Страница 3

It was a lonely tract of road, marked only by the bare space trodden by feet of man and horse, and yet, in truth, the highway between Berwick and Edinburgh, which descended from a heathery moorland into a somewhat spacious valley, with copsewood clothing one side, in the midst of which rose a high mound or knoll, probably once the site of a camp, for it still bore lines of circumvallation, although it was entirely deserted, except by the wandering shepherds of the neighbourhood, or occasionally by outlaws, who found an admirable ambush in the rear.

The spring had hung the hazels with tassels, bedecked the willows with golden downy tufts, and opened the primroses and celandines beneath them, when the solitary dale was disturbed by the hasty clatter of horses’ feet, and hard, heavy breathing as of those who had galloped headlong beyond their strength.  Here, however, the foremost of the party, an old esquire, who grasped the bridle-rein of youth by his side, drew up his own horse, and that which he was dragging on with him, saying—

‘We may breathe here a moment; there is shelter in the wood.  And you, Rab, get ye up to the top of Jill’s Knowe, and keep a good look-out.’

‘Let me go back, you false villain!’ sobbed the boy, with the first use of his recovered breath.

‘Do not be so daft, Lord Malcolm,’ replied the Squire, retaining his hold on the boy’s bridle; ‘what, rin your head into the wolf’s mouth again, when we’ve barely brought you off haill and sain?’

‘Haill and sain?  Dastard and forlorn,’ cried Malcolm, with passionate weeping.  ‘I—I to flee and leave my sister—my uncle!  Oh, where are they?  Halbert, let me go; I’ll never pardon thee.’

‘Hoot, my lord! would I let you gang, when the Tutor spak to me as plain as I hear you now?  “Take off Lord Malcolm,” says he; “save him, and you save the rest.  See him safe to the Earl of Mar.”  Those were his words, my lord; and if you wilna heed them, I will.’

‘What, and leave my sister to the reivers?  Oh, what may not they be doing to her?  Let us go back and fall on them, Halbert; better die saving her than know her in Walter Stewart’s hands.  Then were I the wretched craven he calls me.’

‘Look you, Lord Malcolm,’ said Halbert, laying his finger on his nose, with a knowing expression, ‘my young lady is safe from harm so long as you are out of the Master of Albany’s reach.  Had you come by a canny thrust in the fray, as no doubt was his purpose, or were you in his hands to be mewed in a convent, then were your sister worth the wedding; but the Master will never wed her while you live and have friends to back you, and his father, the Regent, will see she has no ill-usage.  You’ll do best for yourself and her too, as well as Sir David, if you make for Dunbar, and call ben your uncles of Athole and Strathern.—How now, Rab? are the loons making this way?’

‘Na, na!’ said Rab, descending; ‘’tis from the other gate; ’tis a knight in blue damasked steel: he, methinks, that harboured in our castle some weeks syne.’

‘Hm!’ said Halbert, considering; ‘he looked like a trusty cheild: maybe he’d guide my lord here to a wiser wit, and a good lance on the way to Dunbar is not to be scorned.’

In fact, there would have been no time for one party to conceal themselves from the other; for, hidden by the copsewood, and unheeded by the watchers who were gazing in the opposite direction, Sir James Stewart and his two attendants suddenly came round the foot of Jill’s Knowe upon the fugitives, who were profiting by the interval to loosen the girths of their horses, and water them at the pool under the thicket, whilst Halbert in vain tried to pacify and reason with the young master, who had thrown himself on the grass in an agony of grief and despair.  Sir James, after the first momentary start, recognized the party in an instant, and at once leapt from his horse, exclaiming—

‘How now, my bonnie man—my kind host—what is it? what makes this grief?’

‘Do not speak to me, Sir,’ muttered the unhappy boy.  ‘They have been reft—reft from me, and I have done nothing for them.  Walter of Albany has them, and I am here.’

And he gave way to another paroxysm of grief, while Halbert explained to Sir James Stewart that when Sir Patrick Drummond had gone to embark for France, with the army led to the aid of Charles VI. by the Earl of Buchan, his father and cousins, with a large escort, had accompanied him to Eyemouth; whence, after taking leave of him, they had set out to spend Passion-tide and Easter at Coldingham Abbey, after the frequent fashion of the devoutly inclined among the Scottish nobility, in whose castles there was often little commodity for religious observances.  Short, however, as was the distance, they had in the midst of it been suddenly assailed by a band of armed men, among whom might easily be recognized the giant form of young Walter Stewart, the Master of Albany, the Regent Duke Murdoch’s eldest son, who was well known for his lawless excesses and violence.  His father’s silky sayings, and his own ruder speeches, had long made it known to the House of Glenuskie that the family policy was to cajole or to drive the sickly heir into a convent, and, rendering Lilias the possessor of the broad lands inherited from both parents, unite her and them to the Albany family.

The almost barbarous fierceness and wild licentiousness of Walter would have made the arrangement abhorrent to Lilias, even had not love passages already passed between her and her cousin, Patrick Drummond, and Sir David had hitherto protected her by keeping Malcolm in the secular life; but Walter, it seemed, had grown impatient, and had made this treacherous attack, evidently hoping to rid himself of the brother, and secure the sister.  No sooner had the Tutor of Glenuskie perceived that his own party were overmatched, than he had bidden his faithful squire to secure the bairns—if not both, at least the boy; and Halbert, perceiving that Lilias had already been pounced upon by Sir Walter himself and several more, seized the bridle of the bewildered Malcolm, who was still trying to draw his sword, and had absolutely swept him away from the scene of action before he had well realized what was passing; and now that the poor lad understood the whole, his horror, grief, and shame were unspeakable.

Before Sir James had done more than hear the outline of Halbert’s tale, however, the watchers on the mound gave the signal that the reivers were coming that way—a matter hitherto doubtful, since no one could guess whether Walter Stewart would make for Edinburgh or for Doune.  With the utmost agility Sir James sprang up the side of the mound, reconnoitred, and returned again just as Halbert was trying to stir his master from the ground, and Malcolm answering sullenly that he would not move—he would be taken and die with the rest.

‘You may save them instead, if you will attend to me,’ said Sir James; and at his words the boy suddenly started up with a look of hope.

‘How many fell upon you?’ demanded Sir James.

‘Full a hundred lances,’ replied Halbert (and a lance meant at least three men).  ‘It wad be a fule’s wark to withstand them.  Best bide fast in the covert, for our horses are sair forfaughten.’

‘If there are now more than twenty lances, I am greatly mistaken,’ returned Sir James.  ‘They must have broken up after striking their blow, or have sent to secure Glenuskie; and we, falling on them from this thicket—’

‘I see, I see,’ cried Halbert.  ‘Back, ye loons; back among the hazels.  Hold every one his horse ready to mount.’

‘With your favour, Sir Squire, I say, bind each man his horse to a tree.  The skene and broadsword, which I see you all wear, will be ten times as effective on foot.’

‘Do as the knight bids,’ said Malcolm, starting forth with colour on his cheek, light in his eye, that made him another being.  ‘In him there is help.’

‘Ay, ay, Lord Malcolm,’ muttered Halbert; ‘you need not tell me that: I know my duty better than not to do the bidding of a belted knight, and pretty man too of his inches.’

The two attendants of Sir James were meantime apparently uttering some remonstrance, to which he lightly replied, ‘Tut, Nigel; it will do thine heart good to hew down a minion of Albany.  What were I worth could I not strike a blow against so foul a wrong to my own orphan kindred?  Brewster, I’ll answer it to thy master.  These are his foes, as well as those of all honest men.  Ha! thou art as glad to be at them as I myself.’

By this time he had exchanged his cap for a steel helmet, and was assuming the command as his natural right, as he placed the men in their ambush behind the knoll, received reports from those he had set to watch, and concerted the signal with Halbert and his own followers.  Malcolm kept by him, shivering with intense excitement and eagerness; and thus they waited till the horses’ hoofs and clank of armour were distinctly audible.  But even then Sir James, with outstretched hand, signed his followers back, and kept them in the leash, as it were, until the troop was fairly in the valley, those in front beginning to halt to give their horses water.  They were, in effect, riding somewhat carelessly, and with the ease of men whose feat was performed, and who expected no more opposition.  Full in the midst was Lilias, entirely muffled and pinioned by a large plaid drawn closely round her, and held upon the front of the saddle of a large tall horse, ridden by a slender, light-limbed, wiry groom, whom Malcolm knew as Christopher Hall, a retainer of the Duke of Albany; and beside him rode her captor, Sir Walter Stewart, a man little above twenty, but with a bronzed, hardened, reckless expression that made him look much older, and of huge height and giant build.  Malcolm knew him well, and regarded him with unmitigated horror and dread, both from the knowledge of his ruffianly violence even towards his father, from fear of his intentions, and from the misery that his brutal jests, scoffs, and practical jokes had often personally inflicted: and the sight of his sister in the power of this wicked man was the realization of all his worst fears.  But ere there was time for more than one strong pang of consternation and constitutional terror, Sir James’s shout of ‘St. Andrew for the right!’ was ringing out, echoed by all the fifteen in ambush with him, as simultaneously they leapt forward.  Malcolm, among the first, darting with one spring, as it were, to the horse where his sister was carried, seized the bridle with his left hand, and flashing his sword upon the ruffian with the other, shouted, ‘Let go, villain; give me my sister!’ Hall’s first impulse was to push his horse forward so as to trample the boy down, but Malcolm’s hold rendered this impossible; besides, there was the shouting, the clang, the confusion of the outburst of an ambush all around and on every side, and before the man could free his hand to draw his weapon he necessarily loosed his grasp of Lilias, who, half springing, half falling, came to the ground, almost overthrowing her brother in her descent, but just saved by him from coming down prostrate.  The horse, suddenly released, started forward with its rider and at the same moment Malcolm, recovering himself, stood with his sword in his hand, his arm round his sister’s waist, assuring her that she was safe, and himself glowing for the first time with manly exultation.  Had he not saved and rescued her himself?

It was as well, however, that the rescue did not depend on his sole prowess.  Indeed, by the time the brother and sister were clinging together and turning to look round, the first shock was over, and the retainers of Albany, probably fancying the attack made by a much larger troop, were either in full flight, or getting decidedly the worst in their encounters with their assailants.

Sir James Stewart had at the first onset sprung like a lion upon the Master of Albany, and without drawing his sword had grappled with him.  ‘In the name of St. Andrew and the King, yield thy prey, thou dastard,’ were his words as he threw his arms round the body of Sir Walter, and exerted his full strength to drag him from his horse.  The young giant writhed, struggled, cursed, raged; he had not space to draw sword or even dagger, but he struck furiously with his gauntleted hand, strove to drive his horse forward.  The struggle like that of Hercules and Antæus, so desperate and mighty was the strength put forth on either side, but nothing could unclasp the iron grip of those sinewy arms, and almost as soon as Malcolm and Lilias had eyes to see what was passing, Walter Stewart was being dragged off his horse by that tremendous grapple, and the next moment his armour rung as he lay prostrate on his back upon the ground.

His conqueror set his mailed foot upon his neck lightly, but so as to prevent any attempt to rise, and after one moment’s pause to gather breath, said in a clear deep trumpet voice, ‘Walter Stewart of Albany, on one condition I grant thee thy life.  It is that thou take the most solemn oath on the spot that no spulzie or private brawl shall henceforth stain that hand of thine while thy father holds the power in Scotland.  Take that oath, thou livest: refuse it, and—’  He held up the deadly little dagger called the misericorde.

‘And who art thou, caitiff land-louper,’ muttered Walter, ‘to put to oath knights and princes?’

The knight raised the visor of his helmet.  The evening sun shone resplendently on his damasked blue armour and the St. Andrew’s cross on his breast, and lighted up that red fire that lurked in his eyes, and withal the calm power and righteous indignation on his features might have befitted an avenging angel wielding the lightning.

‘Thou wilt know me when we meet again,’ was all he said; and for the very calmness of the voice the Master of Albany, who was but a mere commonplace insolent ruffian, quailed with awe and terror to the very backbone.

‘Loose me, and I will swear,’ he faintly murmured.

Sir James, before removing his foot, unclasped his gorget, and undoing a chain, held up a jewel shaped like a St. Andrew’s cross, with a diamond in the midst, covering a fragmentary relic.  At the sight Walter Stewart’s eyes, large pale ones, dilated as if with increased consternation, the sweat started on his forehead, and his breath came in shorter gasps.  Malcolm and Lilias, standing near, likewise felt a sense of strange awe, for they too had heard of this relic, a supposed fragment of St. Andrew’s own instrument of martyrdom, which had belonged to St. Margaret, and had been thought a palladium to the royal family and House of Stewart.

‘Rise on thy knees,’ said Sir James, now taking away his foot, ‘and swear upon this.’

Walter, completely cowed and overawed, rose to his knees at his victor’s command, laid his hand on the relic, and in a shaken, almost tremulous voice, repeated the words of the oath after his dictation: ‘I, Walter Stewart, Master of Albany, hereby swear to God and St. Andrew, to fight in no private brawl, to spoil no man nor woman, to oppress no poor man, clerk, widow, maid, or orphan, to abstain from all wrong or spulzie from this hour until the King shall come again in peace.’

He uttered the words, and kissed the jewel that was tendered to him; and then Sir James said, in the same cold and dignified tone, ‘Let thine oath be sacred, or beware.  Now, mount and go thy way, but take heed how I meet thee again.’

Sir Walter’s horse was held for him by Brewster, the knight’s English attendant, and without another word he flung himself into the saddle, and rode away to join such of his followers as were waiting dispersed at a safe distance to mark his fate, but without attempting anything for his assistance.

‘Oh, Sir!’ burst forth Malcolm; but then, even as he was about to utter his thanks, his eye sought for the guardian who had ever been his mouthpiece, and, with a sudden shriek of dismay, he cried, ‘My uncle! where is he? where is Sir David?’

‘Alack! alack!’ cried Lilias.  ‘Oh, brother, I saw him on the ground; he fell before my horse.  I saw no more, for the Master held me, and muffled my face.  Oh, let us back, he may yet live.’

‘Yea, let us back,’ said Sir James, ‘if we may yet save the good old man.  Those villains will not dare to follow; or if they do, Nigel—Brewster, you understand guarding the rear.’

‘Sir,’ began Lilias, ‘how can we thank—’

‘Not at all, lady,’ replied Sir James, smiling; ‘you will do better to take your seat; I fear it must be en croupe, for we can scarce dismount one of your guards.’

‘She shall ride behind me,’ said Malcolm, in a more alert and confident voice than had ever been heard from him before.

‘Ay, right,’ said Sir James, placing a kind hand on his shoulder; ‘thou hast won her back by thine own exploit, and mayst well have the keeping of her.  That rush on the caitiff groom was well and shrewdly done.’

And for all Malcolm’s anxiety for his uncle, his heart had never given such a leap as at finding himself suddenly raised from the depressed down-trodden coward into something like manhood and self-respect.

Lilias, who, like most damsels of her time, was hardy and active, saw no difficulties in the mode of conveyance, and, so soon as Malcolm had seated himself on horseback, she placed one foot upon his toe, and with a spring of her own, assisted by Sir James’s well-practised hand, was instantly perched on the crupper, clasping her brother round the waist with her arms, and laying her head on his shoulder in loving pride at his exploit, while for her further security Sir James threw round them both the long plaid that had so lately bound her.

‘Dear Malcolm’—and her whisper fell sweetly on his ear—‘it will be bonnie tidings for Patie that thou didst loose me all thyself.  The false tyrant, to fall on us the very hour Patie was on the salt sea.’

But they were riding so fast that there was scant possibility for words; and, besides, Sir James kept too close to them for private whispers.  In about an hour’s time they had crossed the bit of table-land that formed the moor, and descended into another little gorge, which was the place where the attack had been made upon the travellers.

This was where it was possible that they might find Sir David; but no trace was to be seen, except that the grass was trampled and stained with blood.  Perhaps, both Lilias and old Halbert suggested, some of their people had returned and taken him to the Abbey of Coldingham, and as this was by far the safest lodging and refuge for her and her brother, the horses’ heads were at once turned thitherwards.

The grand old Priory of Coldingham, founded by King Edgar, son of Margaret the Saint, and of Malcolm Ceanmohr, in testimony of his gratitude for his recovery of his father’s throne from the usurper Donaldbane, was a Benedictine monastery under the dominion of the great central Abbey of Durham.

It had been a great favourite with the Scottish kings of that glorious dynasty which sprung from Margaret of Wessex, and had ample estates, which, when it was in good hands, enabled it to supply the manifold purposes of an ecclesiastical school, a model farm, a harbour for travellers, and a fortified castle.  At this period, the Prior, John de Akecliff, or Oakcliff, was an excellent man, a great friend of Sir David Drummond, and much disliked and persecuted by the House of Albany, so that there was little doubt that this would be the first refuge thought of by Sir David’s followers.

Accordingly Malcolm and his companions rode up to the chief gateway, a grand circular archway, with all the noble though grotesque mouldings, zigzag and cable, dog-tooth and parrot-beak, visages human and diabolic, wherewith the Norman builders loved to surround their doorways.  The doors were of solid oak, heavily guarded with iron, and from a little wicket in the midst peered out a cowled head, and instantly ensued the exclamation—

‘Benedicite!  Welcome, my Lord Malcolm!  Ah! but this will ease the heart of the Tutor of Glenuskie!’

‘Ah! then he is here?’ cried Malcolm.

‘Here, Sir, but in woful plight; borne in an hour syne by four carles who said you had been set upon by the Master of Albany, and sair harried, and they say the Tutor doth nought but wail for his bairns.  How won ye out of his hands, my Lord?’

‘Thanks to this good knight,’ said Malcolm; and the gate was opened, and the new-comers dismounted to pass under the archway, which taught humility.  A number of the brethren met them as they came forth into the first quadrangle, surrounded by a beautiful cloister, and containing what was called Edgar’s Walls, a house raised by the good founder, for his own lodging and that of visitors, within the monastery.  It was a narrow building, about thirty feet from the church, was perfectly familiar to Malcolm, who bent his steps at once thither, among the congratulations of the monks; and Lilias was not prevented from accompanying him thus far within the convent, but all beyond the nave of the church was forbidden ground to her sex, though the original monastery destroyed by the Danes had been one of the double foundations for monks and nuns.

Entering the building, the brother and sister hastily crossed a sort of outer hall to a chamber where Sir David lay on his bed, attended by the Prior Akecliff and the Infirmarer.  The glad tidings had already reached him, and he held out his hands, kissed and blessed his restored charges, and gave thanks with all his heart; but there was a strange wanness upon his face, and a spasm of severe pain crossed him more than once, though, as Lilias eagerly asked after his hurts, he called them nothing, since he had her safe again, and then bade Malcolm summon the captive knight that he might thank him.

Sir James Stewart had been left in the hall without, to the hospitality of the monks; he had laid aside his helmet, washed his face, and arranged his bright locks, and as he rose to follow Malcolm, his majestic stature and bearing seemed to befit the home of the old Scottish King.

As he entered the chamber, Sir David slightly raised himself on the pillow, and, with his eyes dilating into a bewildered gaze, exclaimed, ‘My liege, my dear master!’

‘He raves,’ sighed Lilias, clasping Malcolm’s hand in dire distress.

‘No,’ muttered the sick man, sinking back.  ‘Good King Robert has been in his grave many a day; his sons, woe is me!—Sir,’ recovering himself, ‘pardon the error of an old dying man, who owes you more than he can express.’

‘Then, Sir,’ said James Stewart, ‘grant me the favour of a few moments’ private speech with you.  I will not keep you long from him,’ he added to Malcolm and Lilias.

His manner was never one to be disputed, there was an atmosphere of obedience about the whole monastery, and the Prior added—

‘Yes, my children, it is but fitting that you should give thanks in the church for your unlooked-for deliverance.’

Malcolm was forced to lead Lilias away into the exquisite cross church, built in the loveliest Early English style, of which a few graceful remnants still exist.  The two young things knelt together hand in hand in the lornness of their approaching desolation, neither of them having dared to utter the foreboding upon their hearts, but feeling it all the more surely; and while the sister’s spirit longed fervently after him whose protection had been only just removed, the brother looked up to the sheltering vaults, lost in the tranquil twilight, and felt that here alone was his haven of peace, the refuge for the feeble and the fatherless.

Their devotions performed, they ventured back to the outer hall, and on their return being notified, they were again admitted.  Sir James, who had been seated on a stool by the sick man’s head, immediately rose and resigned his place to Lilias, but did not leave the room and Sir David thus spoke: ‘Bairns, God in His mercy hath raised you up the best of guardians in the stead of your ain poor Tutor.  Malcolm, laddie, you will ride the morn with this gentleman to the true head of your name, your ain King, whom God for ever bless!’  His voice quivered.  ‘And be it your study so to profit by his example and nurture, as to do your devoir by him for ever.’

‘Nay, father,’ cried Malcolm, ‘I cannot leave you and Lily.’

‘If you call me father, do my bidding,’ said Sir David.  ‘Lily can be safely bestowed with the good Sisters of St. Abbs, nor while you are out of Albany’s reach is the poor lassie worth his molesting; but when I am gone, your uncles of Albany and Athole become your tutors, and the Prior has no power to save you.  Only over the Border with the King is there safety from them, and your ruin is the ruin of your sister.’

‘And,’ added Sir James, ‘when the King is at liberty, or when you yourself are of age, you will return to resume the charge of your fair sister, unless some nearer protector be found.  Meantime,’ he laid one hand on Malcolm’s head, and with the other took out the relic which had had so great an effect upon Walter Stewart, ‘I swear on this holy Rood of St. Andrew, that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie shall be my charge, not merely as my kinsman, but as my young brother.’

‘You hear, Malcolm,’ said Sir David.  ‘You will strive to merit such goodness.’

‘Father,’ broke out the poor boy again, ‘you cannot mean to part us!  Let us abide as we have been till I am of age to take my vows!  I am not fit to serve the King.’

‘He is the best judge of that,’ returned Sir James.

‘And,’ added Sir David, ‘I tell you, lad, that I shall never be as I was before, and that were I a whole man and sain, riding back to Glenuskie the morn, I should still bless the saints and bid you gang.’

Rarely did the youth of the fifteenth century venture to question the authority of an elder, but Malcolm was only silenced for a moment, and though by no means understanding that his guardian believed his injuries mortal, he threw himself upon the advice of the Prior, whom he entreated to allow him to judge for himself, and to remain to protect his sister—he talked boldly of protecting her after this day’s exploit.  But Prior Akecliff gave him no more encouragement than did his uncle.  The Benedictine vows were out of the question till he should be eighteen, and the renunciation of the world they involved would be ruinous to Lilias, since she would become his heiress.  Moreover, the Prior himself was almost in a state of siege, for the Regent was endeavouring to intrude on the convent one Brother William Drake, or Drax, by his own nomination, instead of the canonical appointment emanating from Durham, and as national feeling went with the Regent’s nominee, it was by no means certain that the present Prior would be able to maintain his position.

‘Oh, go! yes, go, dear brother,’ entreated Lilias.  ‘I should be far happier to know you in safety.  They cannot hurt me while you are safe.’

‘But you, Lily!  What if this villain Drax have his way?’

‘He could not harm her in St. Ebba’s fold,’ returned the Prior.  ‘The Abbess herself could not yield her; and, as you have so often been told, my young Lord, your absence is a far greater protection to your sister than your presence.  Moreover, were the Tutor’s mind at rest, there would be far better hope of his recovery.’

There was no alternative, and Malcolm could not but submit.  Lilias was to be conducted before daybreak to the monastery of St. Abbs, about six miles off, whence she could be summoned at any time to be with her uncle in Coldingham; and Malcolm was to set off at daybreak with the captive knight, whose return to England could no longer be delayed.

Poor children! while Sir James Stewart was in the Prior’s chamber, they sat silent and mournful by the bedside where their guardian lay dozing, even till the bell for Matins summoned them in common with all the other inmates of the convent; they knelt on the floor of the candle-lit church, and held each other’s hands as they prayed; Lilias still the stronger and more hopeful, while Malcolm, as he looked up at those dear familiar vaultings, felt as if he were a bird driven from its calm peaceful nest to battle with the tossing winds and storms of ocean, without one near him whom he had learnt to love.

It was still dark when the service had ended, and Prior Akecliff came towards them.  ‘Daughter,’ he said to Lilias, ‘we deem it safer that you should ride to St. Abbs ere daylight.  Your palfrey is ready, the Mother Abbess is warned, and I will myself conduct you thither.’

Priors were not people to be kept waiting, and as it was reported that the Tutor of Glenuskie was still asleep, Lilias had to depart without taking leave of him.  With Malcolm the last words were spoken while crossing the court.  ‘Fear not, Lily; my heart will only weary till the Church owns me, and Patie has you.’

‘Nay, my Malcolm; mayhap, as the Prior tells me, your strength and manhood will come in the south country.’

‘Let them,’ said Malcolm; ‘I will neither cheat the Church nor Patie.’

‘It were no cheat.  There never was any compact.  Patie is winning his fortune by his own sword; he would scorn—’

‘Hush, Lily!  When the King sees what a weakling Sir James has brought him, he will be but too glad to exchange Patie for me, and leave me safe in these blessed walls.’

But here they were under the archway, and the convoy of armed men, whom the exigencies of the time forced the convent to maintain, were already mounted.  Sir James stood ready to assist the lady to her saddle, and with one long earnest embrace the brother and sister were parted, and Lilias rode away with the Prior by her side, letting the tears flow quietly down her cheeks in the darkness, and but half hearing the long arguments by which good Father Akecliff was proving to her that the decision was the best for both Malcolm and herself.

By and by the dawn began to appear, the air of the March night became sharper, and in the distance the murmur and plash of the tide was heard.  Then, standing heavy and dark against the clear pale eastern sky, there arose the dark mass of St. Ebba’s monastery, the parent of Coldingham, standing on the very verge of the cliff to which it has left the name of St. Abb’s Head, upon ground which has since been undermined by the waves, and has been devoured by them.  The sea, far below, calmly brightened with the brightening sky, and reflected the morning stars in a lucid track of light, strong enough to make the lights glisten red in the convent windows.  Lilias was expected, was a frequent guest, and had many friends there, and as the sweet sound of the Lauds came from the chapel, and while she dismounted in the court the concluding ‘Amen’ swelled and died away, she, though no convent bird, felt herself in a safe home and shelter under the wing of kind Abbess Annabel Drummond, and only mourned that Malcolm, so much tenderer and more shrinking than herself, should be driven into the unknown world that he dreaded so much more than she did.