“You do not speak like the folk of the south,” she said to the Lord James.  “Neither are you Northmen nor of the Midi.  From what country may you come?” The question dropped casually as to fill up the time.

“We are poor Scots who have lived under the protection of your good King Charles, the seventh of that name, and having been restored to our possessions after the turning out of the English, we are making a pilgrimage in order to visit our friends and also to lay our thanks upon the altar of the blessed Saint Andrew in his own town in Scotland.”

The old woman listened, approvingly nodding her head as the Lord James reeled off this new and original narrative.  But at the mention of the land of the Scots La Meffraye pricked her ears.

“Scots,” she said meditatively; “that will surely interest my lord, who hath but recently returned from that country, whither they say he hath been upon a very confidential embassy from the King.”

It was the Lord James who asked the next question.

“Have you heard whether any of our nation returned with him from our country?  We would gladly meet with any such, that we might hear again the tongue of our nativity, which is ever sweet in a strange land—­and also, if it might be, take back tidings of them to their folk in Scotland.”

“Nay,” answered La Meffraye, standing before them with her eyes shrewdly fixed upon the face of the speaker, “I have heard of none such.  Yet it may well be, for the marshal is very fond of the society of the young, even as I am myself.  He has many boy singers in his choir, maidens also for his religious processions.  Indeed, never do I visit Machecoul without finding a pretty boy or a stripling girl passing so innocently in and out of his study, that it is a pleasure to behold.”

“Is his lordship even now at Machecoul?” asked James Douglas, bluntly.  The Lord James prided himself upon his tact, but when he set out to manifest it, Sholto groaned inwardly.  He was never certain from one moment to another what the reckless young Lord might do or say next.

“I do not even know whether the marshal is now at Machecoul.  The rich and great, they come and go, and we poor folk understand it no more than the passing of the wind or the flight of the birds.  But let us get to our couches.  The morn will soon be here, and it must not find our bodies unrested or our eyes unrefreshed.”

La Meffraye showed her guests where to make their beds in the outer room of the cottage, which they did by moving the bench back and stretching themselves with their heads to the wall and their feet to the fire.  Sholto lay on the side furthest from the entrance of the room to which La Meffraye had retired with her husband.  Malise was on the other side, and Lord James lay in the midst, as befitted his rank.

These last were instantly asleep, being tired with their journey and heavy with the meal of which they had partaken.  But every sense in Sholto’s body was keenly awake.  A vague inexpressible fear possessed him.  He lay watching the red unequal glow thrown upwards from the embers, and through the wide opening in the roof he could discern the twinkling of a star.