He turned a little aside that he might not see his brother die, and even as he did so he saw the Lady Sybilla lean upon the balcony paler than the dead.

Then when it came to his turn they offered the Earl William also the heading cup filled with the rich wine of Touraine, his own fair province that he was never to see.

He lifted the cup high in his right hand with a knightly and courtly gesture.  Looking towards the balcony whereon stood the Lady Sybilla, he bowed to her.

“I drink to you, my lady and my love,” he cried, in a voice loud and clear.

Then, touching but the rim of the goblet with his lips, he poured out the red wine upon the ground.

* * * * *

And thus passed the gallantest gentleman and truest lover in whom God ever put heart of grace to live courteously and die greatly, keeping his faith in his lady even against herself, and holding death itself sweet because that in death she loved him.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE RISING OF THE DOUGLASES

It was upon the Earl’s own charger, Black Darnaway, that Sholto rode southward to raise to their chief’s assistance the greatest and compactest clan that ever, even in Scotland, had done the bidding of one man.

The young man’s heart was high and hopeful within him.  The King’s guardians dared not, so he told himself, let aught befall the puissant Douglases in the Castle of Edinburgh, without trial and under cover of the most courteous hospitality.

“Try the Earl of Douglas!” so Sholto thought within him.  He laughed at the notion.  “Why, Earl William could by a word bring a hundred thousand men of Galloway and the Marches to make a fitting jury.”

So he meditated, his thoughts running fast and fiery to the beating of Black Darnaway’s feet as he climbed the heathery slopes which led towards Douglasdale.  Day was breaking as he rode down to the town of Lanark yet asleep and smokeless in the caller airs of the morn.  At the gates of this frontier town he delivered his first summons of feudality.  For the burghers of Lanark were liegemen of the Douglases of Douglasdale, and were (though not with much good-will) bound to furnish service at call.

Sholto had some difficulty in making himself heard athwart the ponderous wooden gates, bossed with leather and studded with iron.  At first he shouted angrily to the silences, but presently nearer and nearer came a bellow as of a brazen bull, thunderous and far echoing.

“Fower o’ the clock and a braw, braw morning.”

It was Grice Elshioner, watchman of the town of Lanark, evidencing to the magistrates and lieges thereof that he was earning his three shillings in the week—­a handsome wage in these hard times, and one well able to provide belly-timber for himself and also for the wife and weans who, dwelling in a close off the High-street, were called by his name.