swords ready to defend his throne," said the young heir of Buchan, as he
brandished his own weapon above his head, and then rested his arms upon
its broad hilt, despondingly. "But where is that king? Men speak of my
most gentle kinsman Sir John Comyn, called the Red--bah! The sceptre
were the same jewelled bauble in his impotent hand as in his sapient
uncle's; a gem, a toy, forsooth, the loan of crafty Edward. No! the Red
Comyn is no king for Scotland; and who is there besides? The rightful
heir--a cold, dull-blooded neutral--a wild and wavering changeling. I
pray thee be not angered, Nigel; it cannot be gainsaid, e'en though he
is thy brother."

"I know it Alan; know it but too well," answered Nigel, sadly, though
the dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow. "Yet Robert's blood is hot
enough. His deeds are plunged in mystery--his words not less so; yet I
cannot look on him as thou dost, as, alas! too many do. It may be that I
love him all too well; that dearer even than Edward, than all the rest,
has Robert ever been to me. He knows it not; for, sixteen years my
senior, he has ever held me as a child taking little heed of his wayward
course; and yet my heart has throbbed beneath his word, his look, as if
he were not what he seemed, but would--but must be something more."

"I ever thought thee but a wild enthusiast, gentle Nigel, and this
confirms it. Mystery, aye, such mystery as ever springs from actions at
variance with reason, judgment, valor--with all that frames the patriot.
Would that thou wert the representative of thy royal line; wert thou in
Earl Robert's place, thus, thus would Alan kneel to thee and hail thee
king!"

"Peace, peace, thou foolish boy, the crown and sceptre have no charm for
me; let me but see my country free, the tyrant humbled, my brother as my