About two hours before noon the Bruce and his companions departed, desiring Sir Alan not to expect their return till near midnight, as they intended penetrating a part of the country which had not yet been explored; they might be a few hours sooner, but they scarcely expected it.  It was afterwards remembered that a peculiar expression of sadness overclouded the countenance of the countess, as for a moment she fixed her speaking eyes on the king’s face when he cheerfully bade her farewell, and said, in a low emphatic voice—­

“Farewell, sire!  It may be the hour of meeting is longer deferred than we either of us now believe.  Fain would I beseech your grace to grant me one boon, make me but one promise ere you depart.”

“Any boon, any promise that our faithful friend and subject can demand, is granted ere ’tis asked,” answered the king, without a moment’s pause, though startled alike at the expression of her features and the sadness of her voice.  “Gladly would we give any pledge that could in any way bespeak our warm sense of thy true merit, lady, therefore speak, and fear not.”

“’Tis simply this, sire,” she said, and her voice was still mournful, despite her every effort to prevent its being so.  “Should unforeseen evil befall me, captivity, danger of death, or aught undreamed of now, give me your royal word as a knight and king, that you will not peril your sacred person, and with it the weal and liberty of our unhappy country, for my sake, but leave me to my fate; ’tis a strange and fanciful boon, yet, gracious sovereign, refuse it not.  I mean not treachery such as we have encountered, where your grace’s noble gallantry rescued me with little peril to yourself.  No; I mean other and greater danger; where I well know that rather than leave me exposed to the wrath of my husband and Edward of England, you would risk your own precious life, and with it the liberty of Scotland.  Grant me this boon, my liege, and perchance this heavy weight upon my spirit will pass and leave me free.”

“Nay, ’tis such a strange and unknightly promise, lady, how may I pledge my word to its fulfilment?” answered Robert, gravely and sadly.  “You bid me pledge mine honor to a deed that will stain my name with an everlasting infamy, that even the liberty of Scotland will not wash away.  How may I do this thing?  You press me sorely, lady.  Even for thee, good and faithful as thou art, how may I hurt my knightly fame?”

“Sire, thou wilt not,” she returned, still more entreatingly; “thy brilliant fame, thy noble name, will never—­can never, receive a stain.  I do but ask a promise whose fulfilment may never be demanded.  I do but bid thee remember thou art not only a knight, a noble, a king, but one by whom the preservation, the independence of our country can alone be achieved—­one on whose safety and freedom depends the welfare of a nation, the unchained glory of her sons.  Were death thy portion, Scotland lies a slave forever at the feet of England, and therefore