“I thank you, my lord,” said his son, “but we will not sit down.  We are no longer of one family.  We may be your sons in the eye of the law and in natural fact.  But from this day no one of us will break bread, speak word, hold intimacy or converse with you.  So far as in us lies we will renounce you as our father.  We will not, because of the commandment, rise in rebellion against you.  You are Earl of Douglas, and while you live must rule your own.  But for me and my brothers we will never be your children to honour, your sons to succour, nor your liegemen to fight for you.  We go to offer our services to our cousin Margaret, the little Maid of Galloway.  We will keep her province with our swords as the last stronghold of the true Douglases of the Black.  I have spoken.  Fare you well, my lord!”

During his son’s speech the countenance of the newly made Earl of Douglas grew white and mottled, tallowy white and dull red in turns showing upon it, like the flesh of a drained ox.  He rose unsteadily to his feet, moving one hand deprecatingly before him, like a helpless man unexpectedly stricken.  His nether lip quivered, pendulous and piteous, in the midst of his grey beard, and for a moment he strove in vain with his utterance.

His eyes fell abashed from the cold sternness of his eldest son’s glance, and he seemed to scan the countenances of the younger four for any token of milder mood.

“James,” he said, “ye hear William.  Surely ye do not hold with him?  Remember I am your father, and I was aye particular fond o’ you, Jamie.  I mind when ye wad rin to sit astride my shoulder.  And ye used to like that fine!”

There were tears in the eyes of the weak, cunning, treacherous-hearted man.  The lips of James Douglas quivered a little, and his voice failed him, as he strove to answer his father.  What he would have said none knows, but ere he could voice a word, the eyes of his brother, stern as the law given to Moses on the mount, were bent upon him.  He straightened himself up, and, with a look carefully averted from the palsied man before him, he said, in a steady tone, “What my brother William says, I say.”

His father looked at him again, as if still hoping against hope for some kinder word.  Then he turned to his younger sons.

“Archie, Hugh, little Jockie, ye willna take part against your ain faither?”

“We hold with our brothers!” said the three, speaking at once.

At this moment there came running in at the door of the tent a lad of ten—­Henry, the youngest of the Avondale brothers.  He stopped short in the midst, glancing wonderingly from one to the other.  His little sword with which he had been playing dropped from his hand.  James the Gross looked at him.

“Harry,” he said, “thy brothers are a’ for leavin’ me.  Will ye gang wi’ them, or bide wi’ your faither?”

“Father,” said the boy, “I will go with you, if ye will let me help to kill Livingston and the Chancellor!”