“I think it is very ill-done of you not to come to Scotland with us,” she said petulantly, “when we would have been so good to you!”

“Too good, too kind,” said the Lady Sybilla, very gently; “such kindness is not for such as I am.  But if I may, while I live I will keep the golden cross you lent me—­the crucifix your brother gave to you on your birthday!”

“Keep it—­it is yours!  I do not want it!” cried Margaret, glad to have found some way of evidencing her gratitude.

“I thank you,” said Sybilla de Thouars; “some day I may come to Scotland.  And if I do, you shall come out from Thrieve and meet me by the white thorns of the Carlinwark at the hour when the little children sing!”

And so, without other farewell, she turned and rode slowly away down the avenues of fallen leaves, till the folding woodlands hid her from the sight of those two who watched her with tear-blurred eyes and hearts strangely stirred with pity for the fate of her whom they had once hated with such good cause.

CHAPTER LXI

LEAP YEAR IN GALLOWAY

Morning dawned fair over the wide strath of Dee.  Cairnsmuir and Ben Gairn stood out south and north like blue, round-shouldered sentinels.  Castle Thrieve rose grey in the midst of the water-meadows, massive and sombre in the early sunrise.

Andro the Penman and his brother John, with the taciturnity natural to early risers, were silently hoisting the flag which denoted the presence of the noble young chatelaine of the great fortress.

Sholto also was early astir, for the affairs of the castle and of the host were in his hand, and there was much business to be despatched that morning.  The young Avondale Douglases were riding away from Thrieve, for word had come that James the Gross, seventh Earl of Douglas, was surely at death’s door.

“Besides,” said William Douglas, “wherefore should we stay—­our work is done.  No one will molest our cousin in her heritages now!  We five have stood about her while there was need.  But for the present Sir Sholto and his men can keep count and reckoning with any from the back-shore of Leswalt to Berwick bound.”

“Aye, indeed,” cried James Douglas, “we will go till the time come when the suitors gather, like corbies about a dead lamb!”

“That is not a savoury comparison,” cried Margaret of Douglas, now grown older, and already giving more than a mere promise of that wondrous beauty which afterwards made her celebrated in all lands, “but after all, you, cousin James, have some right to make it.  For, but for you and our good Sholto there, this little ewe lamb would have been carrion indeed!”

“Good-by!” cried James of Avondale.  “Haste thee and grow up, sweet coz.  Then will I come back with the rest of the corbies and take my chance of the feast.  I will keep myself for that day.”

But William Douglas sat square and silent on his charger.