“Hold!” cried Home, and the dreary hall echoed with his voice.  “No more!” he continued; and he paced hurriedly for a few minutes across the apartment, casting a rapid glance upon the portraits of his ancestors.  “By heavens! they chide me,” he exclaimed, “that my sword sleeps in the scabbard, while the enemies of the house of Home triumph.”  He drew his sword, and approaching the picture of his father, he pressed the weapon to his lips, and continued, “By the soul of my ancestors, I swear upon this blade, that the proud Albany and his creatures shall feel that one Home still lives!” He dashed the weapon back into its sheath, and approaching the stranger, drew him towards the lamp, and said, “Ye are Trotter, who was my cousin’s henchman, are ye not?”

“The same,” replied the messenger.

“And ye come to rouse me to revenge?” added Sir David.  “Ye shall have it, man—­revenge that shall make the Regent weep—­revenge that the four corners of the earth shall hear of, and history record.  Ye come to remind me that my father and my brother fell on the field of Flodden, in defence of a foolish king, and that I, too, bled there—­that there also lie the bones of my kinsman, Cuthbert of Fastcastle, of my brother Cockburn and his son, and the father and brother of my Alison.  Ye come to remind me of this; and that, as a reward for the shedding of our blood, the head of the chief of our house has been fixed upon the gate of Edinburgh as food for the carrion crow and the night owl!  Go, get thee refreshment, Trotter; then go to rest, and dream of other heads exalted, as your late master’s is, and I will be the interpreter of your visions.”

Trotter bowed and withdrew, and Lady Alison entered the apartment.

“Ye are agitated, husband,” said the gentle lady, laying her hand upon his; “hath the man brought evil tidings?”

“Can good tidings come to a Home,” answered Sir David, “while the tyrant Albany rides rough-shod over the nobility of Scotland, and, like a viper, stings the bosom that nursed him?  Away to thy chamber, Alison; leave me, it is no tale for woman’s ears.”

“Nay, if you love me, tell me,” she replied, laying her hand upon his brow, “for since your return from the field of Flodden, I have not seen you look thus.”

“This is no time to talk of love, Aley,” added he.  “But come, leave me, silly one, it concerns not thee; no evil hath overtaken the house of Blackadder, but the Homes have become a mark for the arrows of desolation, and their necks a footstool for tyrants.  Away, Alison; to-night I can think of but one word, and that is—­vengeance!”

Lady Alison wept, and withdrew in silence; and Wedderburn paced the floor of the gloomy hall, meditating in what manner he should most effectually resent the death of his kinsman.