He lay a space, becoming conscious of a pain in his heart—­the overnight pain of a great disaster not yet realised.  For a little he knew not what it was.  Then he saw himself lying at Maud’s open door, and he remembered—­first the death of his masters, then the loss of the little maid, and lastly that of Maud, his own winsome sweetheart Maud.  In another moment he had leaped to his feet, buckled his sword-belt tighter, slung his cloak into a corner, and run downstairs.

The house guard which had ridden to Crichton and Edinburgh had been replaced from the younger yeomen of the Kelton and Balmaghie levies, even as the Earl had arranged before his departure.  But of these only a score remained on duty.  All who could be spared had gone to join the march on Edinburgh, for Galloway was set on having vengeance on the Chancellor and had sworn to lay the capital itself in ashes in revenge for the Black Dinner of the castle banqueting-hall.

The rest of the guard was out searching for the bonny maids of Thrieve, as through all the countryside Margaret Douglas and Maud Lindesay were named.

Eager as Sholto was to accompany the searchers, and though he knew well that no foe was south of the Forth to assault such a strong place as Thrieve, he did not leave the castle till he had set all in order so far as he could.  He appointed Andro the Penman and his brother John officers of the garrison during his absence.

Then, having seen to his accoutrement and providing, for he did not mean to return till he had found the maids, he went lastly to the chamber door of the Lady of Douglas to ask her leave to depart.

At the first knock he heard a foot come slowly across the floor.  It was my lady, who opened the latch herself and stood before Sholto in the habit she had worn when at the castle gateway Malise had told his news.  Her couch was unpressed.  Her window stood open towards the south.  A candle still glimmered upon a little altar in an angle of the wall.  She had been kneeling all night before the image of the Virgin, with her lips upon the feet of her who also was a woman, and who by treachery had lost a son.

“I would have your permission to depart, my Lady Countess,” said Sholto, bowing his head upon his breast that he might not intrude upon her eyes of grief; “the castle is safe, and I can be well spared.  By God’s grace I shall not return till I bring either the maids themselves or settled news of them.  Have I your leave to go?”

The Lady of Douglas looked at him a moment without speech.

“Surely you are not the same who rode away behind my son William.  You went out light and gay as David, my other young son.  There is now a look of Earl William himself in your face—­his mother tells you so.  Well, you were suckled at the same breast as he.  May a double portion of his spirit rest on you!  That lowering regard is the Douglas mark.  Follow on and turn not back till you find.  Strike and cease not, till all be avenged.  I have now no son left to save or to strike.  Go, Sholto MacKim.  He who is dead loved you and made you knight.  I said at the time that you were too young and would have dissuaded him.  But when did a Douglas listen to woman’s advice—­his mother’s or his wife’s?  Foster brother you are—­brother you shall be.  By this kiss I make you even as my son.”