“But is it wise, is it well, my best beloved? think, if in the deep anguish of to-morrow thy disguise be penetrated, thy sex discovered, and thy cruel father claim thee, dragging thee even from the protection of the princess—­oh, the bitterness of death were doubled then!  Thou thinkest but of me, mine own, but thy safety, thy future peace is all now left for me.”

“Safety, peace—­oh, do not, do not mock me, Nigel—­where are they for poor Agnes, save in her husband’s grave?  What is life now, that thou shouldst seek to guard it? no, no, I will abide by thee, thou shalt not send me hence.”

“But to-morrow, lady, to-morrow,” interposed Gloucester, with deep commiseration.  “I would not, from any selfish fear, shorten by one minute the few sad hours ye may yet pass together, but bethink ye, I dare not promise to shield thee from the horrors of to-morrow, for I cannot.  Fearful scenes and sounds may pass before thee; thou mayest come in contact with men from whom thou wilt shrink in horror, and though thine own safety be of little worth, remember the betrayal of thy sex and rank may hurl down the royal vengeance on the head of thy protectress, daughter of Edward though she be.  Canst thou be firm—­wilt thou, canst thou await the morrow?”

“Yes,” answered Agnes, the wildness of her former accents subsiding into almost solemnity; “the safety of thy noble countess shall not be hazarded through me.  Leave me with my husband, add but this last mercy to the many thou hast showered on me, and the blessing of God will rest on thee and thy noble wife forever.”

She raised his hand to her lips, and Gloucester, much affected, placed hers in her husband’s, and wrung them convulsively together.  “We shall meet again,” was all he trusted his voice to utter, and departed.

The hours waned, each one finding no change in the position of those loving ones.  The arm of Agnes twined around the neck of her beloved, her brow leaned against his bosom, her left hand clasped his right, and his left arm, though fettered, could yet fold that slender waist, could yet draw her closer to him, with an almost unconscious pressure; his lips repeatedly pressed that pale brow, which only moved from its position to lift up her eyes at his entreaty in his face, and he would look on those features, lovely still, despite their attenuation and deep sorrow, gaze at them with an expression that, spite of his words of consoling love, betrayed that the dream of earth yet lingered; he could not close his eyes on her without a thrill of agony, sharper than the pang of death.  But the enthusiast and the patriot spoke not at that hour only of himself, or that dearer self, the only being he had loved.  He spoke of his country, aye, and less deplored the chains which bound her then, than with that prophetic spirit sometimes granted to the departing, dilated on her future glory.  He conjured Agnes, for his sake, to struggle on and live; to seek his brother and tell him that, save herself, Nigel’s last thought, last prayer was his; that standing on the brink of eternity, the mists of the present had rolled away, he saw but the future—­Scotland free, and Robert her beloved and mighty king.