There was a dauntless firmness in each baron’s look, in his manly carriage and unwavering step, as one by one he traversed the space between him and the throne, seeming to proclaim that in himself he held indeed a host.  To adhere to the usual custom of paying homage to the suzerain bareheaded, barefooted, and unarmed, the embroidered slipper had been adopted by all instead of the iron boot; and as he knelt before the throne, the Earl of Lennox, for, first in rank, he first approached his sovereign, unbuckling his trusty sword, laid it, together with his dagger, at Robert’s feet, and placing his clasped hands between those of the king, repeated, in a deep sonorous voice, the solemn vow—­to live and die with him against all manner of men.  Athol, Fraser, Seaton, Douglas, Hay, gladly and willingly followed his example; and it was curious to mark the character of each man, proclaimed in his mien and hurried step.

The calm, controlled, and somewhat thoughtful manner of those grown wise in war, their bold spirits feeling to the inmost soul the whole extent of the risk they run, scarcely daring to anticipate the freedom of their country, the emancipation of their king from the heavy yoke that threatened him, and yet so firm in the oath they pledged, that had destruction yawned before them ere they reached the throne, they would have dared it rather than turned back—­and then again those hot and eager youths, feeling, knowing but the excitement of the hour, believing but as they hoped, seeing but a king, a free and independent king, bounding from their seats to the monarch’s feet, regardless of the solemn ceremonial in which they took a part, desirous only, in the words of their oath, to live and die for him—­caused a brighter flush to mantle on King Robert’s cheek, and his eyes to shine with new and radiant light.  None knew better than himself the perils that encircled him, yet there was a momentary glow of exultation in his heart as he looked on the noble warriors, the faithful friends around him, and felt that they, even they, representatives of the oldest, the noblest houses in Scotland—­men famed not alone for their gallant bearing in war, but their fidelity and wisdom, and unstained honor and virtue in peace—­even they acknowledged him their king, and vowed him that allegiance which was never known to fail.

Alan of Buchan was the last of that small yet noble train who approached his sovereign.  There was a hot flush of impetuous feeling on the boy’s cheek, an indignant tear trembled in his dark flashing eye, and his voice, sweet, thrilling as it was, quivered with the vain effort to restrain his emotion.

“Sovereign of Scotland,” he exclaimed, “descendant of that glorious line of kings to whom my ancestors have until this dark day vowed homage and allegiance; sovereign of all good and faithful men, on whose inmost souls the name of Scotland is so indelibly writ, that even in death it may there be found, refuse not thou my homage.  I have but my sword, not e’en a name of which to boast, yet hear me swear,” he raised his clasped hands towards heaven, “swear that for thee, for my country, for thee alone, will I draw it, alone shall my life be spent, my blood be shed.  Reject me not because my name is Comyn, because I alone am here of that once loyal house.  Oh! condemn me not; reject not untried a loyal heart and trusty sword.”