hands, I know too well will be thine own.  I dare not promise sure defence from his o’erwhelming hosts:  on every side they compass me.  I see sorrow and death for all I love, all who swear fealty to me.  I shall succeed in the end, for heaven, just heaven will favor the righteous cause; but trouble and anguish must be my lot ere then, and I would save those I can.  Remain with us an thou wilt, gratefully I accept the homage so nobly and unhesitatingly tendered; but still I beseech thee, lady, expose not thy noble self to the blind wrath of Edward, as thou surely wilt, if from thy hand I receive my country’s crown.”

“My liege,” answered the countess, in that same calm, quiet tone, “I have heard thee with a deep grateful sense of the noble feeling, the kindly care which dictates thy words; yet pardon me, if they fail to shake my resolution—­a resolution not lightly formed, not the mere excitement of a patriotic moment, but one based on the principles of years, on the firm, solemn conviction, that in taking this sacred office on myself, the voice of the dead is obeyed, the memory of the dead, the noble dead, preserved from stain, inviolate and pure.  Would my father have kept aloof in such an hour—­refused to place on the brow of Scotland’s patriot king the diadem of his forefathers—­held back in fear of Edward?  Oh! would that his iron hand and loyal heart were here instead of mine; gladly would I lay me down in his cold home and place him at thy side, might such things be:  but as it is, my liege, I do beseech thee, cease to urge me.  I have but a woman’s frame, a woman’s heart, and yet death hath no fear for me.  Let Edward work his will, if heaven ordain I fall into his ruthless hands; death comes but once, ’tis but a momentary pang, and rest and bliss shall follow.  My father’s spirit breathes within me, and as he would, so let his daughter do.  ’Tis not now a time to depart from ancient forms, my gracious sovereign, and there are those in Scotland who scarce would deem thee crowned, did not the blood of Fife perform that holy office.”

“And this, then, noble lady, is thy firm resolve—­I may not hope to change it?”

“’Tis firm as the ocean rock, my liege.  I do not sue thee to permit my will; the blood of Macduff, which rushes in my veins, doth mark it as my right, and as my right I do demand it.”  She stood in her majestic beauty, proudly and firmly before him, and unconsciously the king acknowledged and revered the dauntless spirit that lovely form enshrined.

“Lady,” he said, raising her hand with reverence to his lips, “do as thou wilt:  a weaker spirit would have shrunk at once in terror from the very thought of such open defiance to King Edward.  I should have known the mind that framed such daring purpose would never shrink from its fulfilment, however danger threatened; enough, we know thy faithfulness and worth, and where to seek for brave and noble counsel in the hour of need.  And now, may it be our privilege to present thee to our queen, sweet lady?  We shall rejoice to see thee ever near her person.”