"'A sorry thing to hide my head
In castle, like a fearful maid,
When such a field is near!
Needs must I see this battle-day:
Death to my fame if such a fray
Were fought, and Marmion away!
The Douglas, too, I wot not why,
Hath 'bated of his courtesy:
No longer in his halls I'll stay."



CHAPTER VII.


Each hour brought a different tale. Marmion fretted like the impatient
charger that "snuffs the battle from afar." It was true that Douglas had
changed in his demeanor, had grown cold and silent. The dejected Clare
sought retirement. Courteous she was to Lady Angus, shared in ceaseless
prayers for the safe return of Scotch liege and lord, but borne down
with sorrow, she loved best to find some lonely spot, turret, tower, or
parapet, where she might retire alone to listen to the wailing waters,
to hear the sea-bird's cry, to recall her life at the Convent of Whitby,
and to regret the loss of the loved garb of the nun. At the command of
her kinsman, the Benedictine dress, the hood and veil, so much in
harmony with her life, had been denied her, and she had been made to
assume the costume of the world.

Her sunny locks were again unbound, and rich garments were provided,