“Hearest thou no step?” she said, in a low, piercing whisper, and laying a cold and trembling hand on Isoline’s arm.  “It is, it is his—­it is Nigel’s; he has not fallen—­he is spared!” and she started up, a bright flush on her cheek, her hands pressed convulsively on her heart.

“Nay, Agnes, there is no sound, ’tis but a fancy,” but even while she spoke, a rapid step was heard along the corridor, and a shadow darkened the doorway—­but was that Nigel?  There was no plume, no proud crest on his helmet; its vizor was still closely barred, and a surcoat of coarse black stuff was thrown over his armor, without any decoration to display or betray the rank of the wearer.  A faint cry of alarm broke from the queen and many of her friends, but with one bound Agnes sprang to the intruder, whose arms were open to receive her, and wildly uttering “Nigel!” fainted on his bosom.

“And didst thou know me even thus, beloved?” he murmured, rapidly unclasping his helmet and dashing it from him, to imprint repeated kisses on her cheek.  “Wake, Agnes, best beloved, my own sweet love; what hadst thou heard that thou art thus?  Oh, wake, smile, speak to me:  ’tis thine own Nigel calls.”

And vainly, till that face smiled again on him in consciousness, would the anxious inmates of that room have sought and received intelligence, had he not been followed by Lord Douglas, Fitz-Alan, and others, their armor and rank concealed as was Nigel’s, who gave the required information as eagerly as it was desired.

“Robert—­my king, my husband—­where is he—­why is he not here?” reiterated Margaret, vainly seeking to distinguish his figure amid the others, obscured as they were by the rapidly-increasing darkness.  “Why is he not with ye—­why is he not here?”

“And he is here, Meg; here to chide thy love as less penetrating, less able to read disguise or concealment than our gentle Agnes there.  Nay, weep not, dearest; my hopes are as strong, my purpose as unchanged, my trust in heaven as fervent as it was when I went forth to battle.  Trial and suffering must be mine a while, I have called it on my own head; but still, oh, still thy Robert shall deliver Scotland—­shall cast aside her chains.”

The deep, manly voice of the king acted like magic on the depressed spirits of those around him; and though there was grief, bitter, bitter grief to tell, though many a heart’s last lingering hopes were crushed ’neath that fell certainty, which they thought to have pictured during the hours of suspense, and deemed themselves strengthened to endure, yet still ’twas a grief that found vent in tears—­grief that admitted of soothing, of sympathy—­grief time might heal, not the harrowing agony of grief half told—­hopes rising to be crushed.