Thus in one moment came the three MacKims to the door-step of Thrieve.

The clatter and cry of their arrival brought a pour of torches from every side of the isle and from within the castle keep.

“Have you found them—­where are they?” came from every side.  But Laurence seemed neither to hear nor see.

“Where is my lady?” he cried in a hoarse man’s voice; and again, “Instantly I must see my lady.”

Sholto stood aside, for he knew that these two brought later tidings than he.  Presently he went over to his father, who was leaning panting upon a stone post, and asked him what were the news.  But Malise thrust him back apparently without recognising him.

“My lady,” he gasped, “I would see my lady!”

Then through the torches clustered about the steps of the castle came the tall, erect figure of the Earl’s mother, the Countess of Douglas.  She stood with her head erect, looking down upon the MacKims and upon the dropped heads and heaving shoulders of their horses.  Above and around the torches flared, and their reek blew thwartwise across the strange scene.

“I am here,” she said, speaking clearly and naturally; “what would ye with the Lady of Douglas?”

Thrice Laurence essayed to speak, but his ready tongue availed him not now.  He caught at his horse’s bridle to steady him and turned weakly to his father.

“Do you speak to my lady—­I cannot!” he gasped.

A terrible figure was Malise MacKim, the strong man of Galloway, as he came forward.  Stained with the black peat of the morasses, his armour cast off piecemeal that he might run the easier, his under-apparel torn almost from his great body, his hair matted with the blood which still oozed from an unwashed wound above his brow.

“My lady,” he said hoarsely, his words whistling in his throat, “I have strange things to tell.  Can you bear to hear them?”

“If you have found my daughter dead or dying, speak and fear not!”

“I have things more terrible than the death of many daughters to tell you!”

“Speak and fear not—­an it touch the lives of my sons, speak freely.  The mother of the Douglases has learned the Douglas lesson.”

“Then,” said Malise, sinking his head upon his breast, “God help you, lady, your two sons are dead!”

“Is David dead also?” said the Lady of Douglas.

“He is dead,” replied Malise.

The lady tottered a little as she stood on the topmost step of the ascent to Thrieve.  One or two of the torch-bearers ran to support her.  But she commanded herself and waved them aside.

“God—­He is the God,” she said, looking upwards into the black night.  “In one day He has made me a woman solitary and without children.  Sons and daughter He has taken from me.  But He shall not break my heart.  No, not even He.  Stand up, Malise MacKim, and tell me how these things came to pass.”