“Sir Robert Keith informs me, noble lady,” said the king, again addressing Isabella, “that it is your determination to represent, in your own proper person, the ancient line of Duff at the approaching ceremony, and demand from our hands, as such representative, the privilege granted by King Malcolm to your noble ancestor and his descendants, of placing on the sovereign’s brow the coronet of Scotland.  Is it not so?”

“I do indeed most earnestly demand this privilege, my gracious liege,” answered the countess, firmly; “demand it as a right, a glorious right, made mine by the weak and fickle conduct of my brother.  Alas! the only male descendant of that line which until now hath never known a traitor.”

“But hast thou well considered, lady?  There is danger in this act, danger even to thyself.”

“My liege, that there is danger threatening all the patriots of Scotland, monarch or serf, male or female, I well know; yet in what does it threaten me more in this act, than in the mere acknowledgment of the Earl of Carrick as my sovereign?”

“It will excite the rage of Edward of England against thyself individually, lady; I know him well, only too well.  All who join in giving countenance and aid to my inauguration will be proclaimed, hunted, placed under the ban of traitors, and, if unfortunately taken, will in all probability share the fate of Wallace.”  His voice became husky with strong emotion.  “There is no exception in his sweeping tyranny; youth and age, noble and serf, of either sex, of either land, if they raise the sword for Bruce and freedom, will fall by the hangman’s cord or headsman’s axe; and I, alas! must look on and bear, for I have neither men nor power to avert such fate; and that hand which places on my head the crown, death, death, a cruel death, will be the doom of its patriot owner.  Think, think on this, and oh, retract thy noble resolution, ere it be too late.”

“Is she who gives the crown in greater danger, good my liege, than he who wears it?” demanded the countess, with a calm and quiet smile.

“Nay,” he answered, smiling likewise for the moment, “but I were worse than traitor, did I shrink from Scotland in her need, and refuse her diadem, in fear, forsooth, of death at Edward’s hands.  No!  I have held back too long, and now will I not turn back till Scotland’s freedom is achieved, or Robert Bruce lies with the slain.  Repentance for the past, hope, ambition for the future; a firm heart and iron frame, a steady arm and sober mood, to meet the present—­I have these, sweet lady, to fit and nerve me for the task, but not such hast thou.  I doubt not thy patriot soul; perchance ’twas thy lip that first awoke the slumbering fire within my own breast, and though a while forgotten, recalled, when again I looked on thee, after Falkirk’s fatal battle, with the charge, the solemn charge of Wallace yet ringing in mine ears.  Yet, lady, noble lady, tempt not the fearful fate which, shouldst thou fall into Edward’s