She was the daughter of a proud English baron, who had wide dominions near the great city of York.  Twenty years before, Earl Hamish of Bute had been sent with other wise counsellors by King Alexander the Second on a mission to the court of the English king, Henry the Third, concerning the great treaty of peace between England and Scotland, and also to consider the proposal of a marriage between the daughter of the King of England and the son of the King of Scots.  The treaty established a peace which had not yet been broken, and the Princess Margaret of England was now the Queen of Scotland.  But while on that embassy to York Earl Hamish of Bute won more than the gratitude of his sovereign, for he won the heart of the Lady Adela Warwick, and, making her his wife, he brought her to his castle of Rothesay, where she had lived happily ever since.

She was thinking of these matters as she heard Earl Roderic’s story of his great unhappiness, and her eyes were fixed dreamily before her.

Now Roderic, to whom the presence of this sweet and beautiful lady was a new experience, observed her pensiveness and wondered thereat.  His roving glance presently fell upon her plate.

“Ah!” said he, “you have no salt, my lady.”

And thereupon he took her knife and dug its point into the salt horn.

“Nay, nay!” she cried in alarm; and she grasped his wrist so that he spilled the salt upon the table.

“What have you done?” he exclaimed.  “This is the most unlucky thing that could have happened!  Alas, alas!”

“Would you, then, have helped my lady to sorrow?” cried Sir Oscar Redmain, rising wrathfully.  “By the rood, but you are a thoughtless loon!”

Earl Hamish at the head of the board, hearing his lady’s cry, rose hastily and approached her, and saw that she was very pale.

“I will retire,” said she, “for the hall is over warm.  I am faint and uneasy.”

Earl Hamish led her to the door.  There he kissed her fondly on her white brow and she went to her chamber.

CHAPTER IV.  THE DARKENING HALL.

The lord of Bute sat not down again, for the feast was at an end.  Sir Oscar Redmain, minding that he had to travel all the way to Kilmory that night, went to his master and spoke with him aside.  While the earl and his steward were thus engaged, a tall seneschal with his serving men came into the hall to clear away the remains of the banquet; and as the old minstrel left his place at the fireside to continue his harping in the supping room of the guards, the two lads, Alpin of Bute and Allan Redmain, stepped to the hearth to hold converse with the three guests.

Alpin and his young friend were both about nineteen years of age.  They were almost full grown, and manly exercise had made them strong.  They wore their rough hunting clothes —­ loose vests of leather, homespun kilts, and untanned buskins.  They carried no weapons, for it was held in custom that none should sit armed at table in the presence of strangers.