and cautiously the bale grew taller, then the unfolding carpet fell, and a short, well-knit, muscular form appeared.  He was clothed in those padded jerkins and hose, plaited with steel, which are usual to those of his rank; the steel, however, this night was covered with thin, black stuff, evidently to assist concealment.  He looked cautiously around him.  I had creeped noiselessly, and on all fours, within the shadow of the king’s couch, where I could observe the villain’s movements myself unseen.  I saw a gleam of triumph twinkle in his eye, so sure he seemed of his intended victim.  He advanced; his dagger flashed above the Bruce.  With one bound, one shout, I sprang on the murderous wretch, wrenched the dagger from his grasp, and dashed him to the earth.  He struggled, but in vain; the king started from that deep slumber, one moment gazed around him bewildered, the next was on his feet, and by my side.  The soldiers rushed into the tent, and confusion for the moment waxed loud and warm; but the king quelled it with a word.  The villain was raised, pinioned, brought before the Bruce, who sternly demanded what was his intent, and who was his employer.  Awhile the miscreant paused, but then, as if spell-bound by the flashing orb upon him, confessed the whole, aye, and more; that his master, the Earl of Buchan, had sworn a deep and deadly oath to relax not in his hot pursuit till the life-blood of the Bruce had avenged the death of the Red Comyn, and that, though he had escaped now, he must fall at length, for the whole race of Comyn had joined hands upon their chieftain’s oath.  The brow of the king grew dark, terrible wrath beamed from his eyes, and it seemed for the moment as if he would deliver up the murderous villain into the hands that yearned to tear him piecemeal.  There was a struggle, brief yet terrible, then he spoke, and calmly, yet with a bitter stinging scorn.

“‘And this is Buchan’s oath,’ he said.  ’Ha! doth he not bravely, my friends, to fly the battle-field, to shun us there, that hireling hands may do a deed he dares not?  For this poor fool, what shall we do with him?’

“’Death, death—­torture and death! what else befits the sacrilegious traitor?’ burst from many voices, pressing forward to seize and bear him from the tent; but the king signed them to forbear, and oh, what a smile took the place of his previous scorn!

“‘And I say neither torture nor death, my friends,’ he tried.  ’What, are we sunk so low, as to revenge this insult on a mere tool, the instrument of a villainous master?  No, no! let him go free, and tell his lord how little the Bruce heeds him; that guarded as he is by a free people’s love, were the race of Comyn as powerful and numerous as England’s self, their oath would avail them nothing.  Let the poor fool go free!’

“A deep wild murmur ran through the now crowded tent, and so mingled were the tones of applause and execration, we knew not which the most prevailed.