“Never fear, my boy.  Let but the king stand forth, and there will be Scottish men enow and willing to convert an iron buckler into a goodly crown;” and as Sir Nigel spoke his eyes flashed, and his whole countenance irradiated with a spirit that might not have been suspected when in the act of reading, but which evidently only slept till awakened by an all-sufficient call.  “Let the tyrant Edward exult in the possession of our country’s crown and sceptre—­he may find we need not them to make a king; aye, and a king to snatch the regal diadem from the proud usurper’s brow—­the Scottish sceptre from his blood-stained hands!”

“Thou talkest wildly, Nigel,” answered the lad, sorrowfully, his features assuming an expression of judgment and feeling beyond his years.  “Who is there in Scotland will do this thing? who will dare again the tyrant’s rage?  Is not this unhappy country divided within itself, and how may it resist the foreign foe?”

“Wallace! think of Wallace!  Did he not well-nigh wrest our country from the tyrant’s hands?  And is there not one to follow in the path he trod—­no noble heart to do what he hath done?”

“Nigel, yes.  Let but the rightful king stand forth, and were there none other, I—­even I, stripling as I am, with my good sword and single arm, even with the dark blood of Comyn in my veins, Alan of Buchan, would join him, aye, and die for him!”

“There spoke the blood of Duff, and not of Comyn!” burst impetuously from the lips of Nigel, as he grasped the stripling’s ready hand; “and doubt not, noble boy, there are other hearts in Scotland bold and true as thine; and even as Wallace, one will yet arise to wake them from their stagnant sleep, and give them freedom.”

“Wallace,” said the maiden, fearfully; “ye talk of Wallace, of his bold deeds and bolder heart, but bethink ye of his fate.  Oh, were it not better to be still than follow in his steps unto the scaffold?”

“Dearest, no; better the scaffold and the axe, aye, even the iron chains and hangman’s cord, than the gilded fetters of a tyrant’s yoke.  Shame on thee, sweet Agnes, to counsel thoughts as these, and thou a Scottish maiden.”  Yet even as he spoke chidingly, the voice of Nigel became soft and thrilling, even as it had before been bold and daring.

“I fear me, Nigel, I have but little of my mother’s blood within my veins.  I cannot bid them throb and bound as hers with patriotic love and warrior fire.  A lowly cot with him I loved were happiness for me.”

“But that cot must rest upon a soil unchained, sweet Agnes, or joy could have no resting there.  Wherefore did Scotland rise against her tyrant—­why struggle as she hath to fling aside her chains?  Was it her noble sons?  Alas, alas! degenerate and base, they sought chivalric fame; forgetful of their country, they asked for knighthood from proud Edward’s hand, regardless that that hand had crowded fetters on their fatherland, and would enslave