With a muttered oath Sir Edward had strode away at the abbot’s first words, but the cloud passed from his brow as he concluded, and slightly, yet with something of reverence, he bowed his head.

“And whither didst thou wend thy way, my fiery brother?” demanded Robert.  “Bringest thou aught of news, or didst thou and Douglas but set foot in stirrup and hand on rein simply from weariness of quiet?”

“In sober truth, ’twas even so; partly to mark the movements of the English, an they make a movement, which, till Pembroke come, they are all too much amazed to do; partly to see if in truth that poltroon Duncan of Fife yet hangs back and still persists in forswearing the loyalty of his ancestors, and leaving to better hands the proud task of placing the crown of Scotland on thy head.”

“And thou art convinced at last that such and such only is his intention?” The knight nodded assent, and Bruce continued, jestingly, “And so thou mightst have been long ago, my sage brother, hadst thou listened to me.  I tell thee Earl Duncan hath a spite against me, not for daring to raise the standard of freedom and proclaim myself a king, but for very hatred of myself.  Nay, hast thou not seen it thyself, when, fellow-soldiers, fellow-seekers of the banquet, tournay, or ball, he hath avoided, shunned me? and why should he seek me now?”

“Why? does not Scotland call him, Scotland bid him gird his sword and don his mail?  Will not the dim spectres of his loyal line start from their very tombs to call him to thy side, or brand him traitor and poltroon, with naught of Duff about him but the name?  Thou smilest.”

“At thy violence, good brother.  Duncan of Fife loves better the silken cords of peace and pleasure, e’en though those silken threads hide chains, than the trumpet’s voice and weight of mail.  In England bred, courted, flattered by her king, ’twere much too sore a trouble to excite his anger and lose his favor; and for whom, for what?—­to crown the man he hateth from his soul?”

“And knowest thou wherefore, good my son, in what thou hast offended?”

“Offended, holy father?  Nay, in naught unless perchance a service rendered when a boy—­a simple service, merely that of saving life—­hath rendered him the touchy fool he is.  But hark! who comes?”

The tramping of many horses, mingled with the eager voices of men, resounded from the courtyard as he spoke, and Sir Edward strode hastily to the casement.  “Sir Robert Keith returned!” he exclaimed, joyfully; “and seemingly right well attended.  Litters too—­bah! we want no more women.  ’Tis somewhat new for Keith to be a squire of dames.  Why, what banner is this?  The black bear of Buchan—­impossible! the earl is a foul Comyn.  I’ll to the court, for this passes my poor wits.”  He turned hastily to quit the chamber, as a youth entered, not without some opposition, it appeared, from the attendants without, but eagerly he had burst through them, and flung his plumed helmet from his beautiful brow, and, after glancing hastily round the room, bounded to the side of Robert, knelt at his feet, and clasped his knees without uttering a syllable, voiceless from an emotion whose index was stamped upon his glowing features.