The apartment in which he stood, though shorn of much of that splendor which, ere the usurping invasion of Edward of England, had distinguished it, still bore evidence of being a chamber of some state.  The hangings were of dark-green velvet embroidered, and with a very broad fringe of gold; drapery of the same costly material adorned the broad casements, which stood in heavy frames of oak, black as ebony.  Large folding-doors, with panels of the same beautiful material, richly carved, opened into an ante-chamber, and thence to the grand staircase and more public parts of the building.  In this ante-chamber were now assembled pages, esquires, and other officers bespeaking a royal household, though much less numerous than is generally the case.

“Sir Edward and the young Lord of Douglas have not returned, sayest thou, good Athelbert?  Knowest thou when and for what went they forth?” were the words which were spoken by the noble we have described, as the abbot entered, unperceived at first, from his having avoided the public entrance to the state rooms; they were addressed to an esquire, who, with cap in hand and head somewhat lowered, respectfully awaited the commands of his master.

“They said not the direction of their course, my liege; ’tis thought to reconnoitre either the movements of the English, or to ascertain the cause of the delay of the Lord of Fife.  They departed at sunrise, with but few followers.”

“On but a useless errand, good Athelbert, methinks, an they hope to greet Earl Duncan, save with a host of English at his back.  Bid Sir Edward hither, should he return ere nightfall, and see to the instant delivery of those papers; I fear me, the good lord bishop has waited for them; and stay—­Sir Robert Keith, hath he not yet returned?”

“No, good my lord.”

“Ha! he tarrieth long,” answered the noble, musingly.  “Now heaven forefend no evil hath befallen him; but to thy mission, Athelbert, I must not detain thee with doubts and cavil.  Ha! reverend father, right welcome,” he added, perceiving him as he turned again to the table, on the esquire reverentially withdrawing from his presence, and bending his head humbly in acknowledgment of the abbot’s benediction.  “Thou findest me busied as usual.  Seest thou,” he pointed to a rough map of Scotland lying before him, curiously intersected with mystic lines and crosses, “Edinburgh, Berwick, Roxburgh, Lanark, Stirling, Dumbarton, in the power of, nay peopled, by English.  Argyle on the west, Elgin, Aberdeen, with Banff eastward, teeming with proud, false Scots, hereditary foes to the Bruce, false traitors to their land; the north—­why, ’tis the same foul tale; and yet I dare to raise my banner, dare to wear the crown, and fling defiance in the teeth of all.  What sayest thou, father—­is’t not a madman’s deed?”

All appearance of gravity vanished from his features as he spoke.  His eye, seemingly so mild, flashed till its very color could not have been distinguished, his cheek glowed, his lip curled, and his voice, ever peculiarly rich and sonorous, deepened with the excitement of soul.