flushed crimson, his nostrils distended, for his soul was moved with a mightier, darker passion than had ever stirred its depths before.  The soldiers of both parties, joined, too, by some from the castle—­for a party headed by the Earl of Berwick himself had attended to give countenance to the proclamation—­rushed forward, but involuntarily fell back, awed for the moment by the mighty spirit of one man; the knights, roused from their sullen posture, looked much as if they would, if they dared, have left the herald to his fate.  Hereford and Berwick at the same instant spurred forward their steeds, the one exclaiming, “Madman, let go your hold—­you are tempting your own fate!  Nigel, for the love of heaven! for the sake of those that love you, be not so rash!” the other thundering forth, “Cut down the traitor, an he will not loose his hold.  Forward, cowardly knaves! will ye hear your king insulted, and not revenge it?—­forward, I say! fear ye a single man?”

And numbers, spurred on by his words, dashed forward to obey him, but fearlessly Sir Nigel Bruce retained his hold with his left hand, and with his right grasped tighter his sword, and stood, with the fierce undaunted port of a lion lashed into fury, gazing on his foes; but ere he had crossed with the foremost weapons, a slight lad burst through the gathering crowd, and with a piercing shriek threw himself at his master’s feet, and grasping his knees, seemed by his pleading looks, for his words were inaudible, imploring him to desist from his rashness.  At the same moment another form pressed through the soldiers, her look, her mien compelling them involuntarily to open their ranks and give her passage.  The sword of Nigel was in the act of falling on a second foe, the first lay at his feet, when his arm was caught in its descent, and Isabella of Buchan stood at his side.

“Forbear!” she said, in those rich impressive tones that ever forced obedience.  “Nigel Bruce, brother of my sovereign, friend of my son, forbear! strike not one blow for me.  Mine honor needs no defence by those that love me; my country will acquit me; the words of England’s monarch, angered at a woman’s defiance of his power, affect me not!  Noble Nigel, excite not further wrath against thyself by this vain struggle for my sake; put up thy sword, ere it is forced from thee.  Let go thy hold; this man is but an instrument, why wreak thy wrath on him?  Must I speak, implore in vain?  Nay, then, I do command thee!”

And those who gazed on her, as she drew that stately form to its full height, as they heard those accents of imperative command, scarce marvelled that Edward should dread her influence, woman as she was.  Despite the increasing wrath on the Earl of Berwick’s brow, the men waited to see the effect of these words.  There was still an expression of ill-controlled passion on Nigel’s features.  He waited one moment when she ceased to speak, then slowly and deliberately shook the herald by the collar, and hurled him from his hold; snapped his sword in twain, and flinging it from him, folded his arms on his breast, and calmly uttering, “Pardon me, noble lady, mine honor were impugned had I suffered that dastardly villain to pass hence unpunished—­let Edward act as he lists, it matters little now,” waited with impenetrable resolve the rage he had provoked.