Here were the malicious defrauders of the hungry warriors.  Down upon them flew the angry foragers.  Soon the pretty tranquil scene was ringing with the oaths of the plundering and the cries of the plundered; the cattle were being driven off, the houses and farm-yards rifled, blood was flowing, and what could not be carried off was burning.  The search for the Armagnac prisoner had, however, relaxed after the first inquiry, and Malcolm, surprised that this had been forgotten, suddenly bethought him of the distinction he should secure by sending a valuable prize to Esclairmonde’s feet.  He seized on an old man who had not been able to fly, and stood trembling and panting in a corner, and demanded where the sick man was.  The old man pointed to a farm-house, round which clouds of smoke were rolling, and Malcolm hurried into it, shouting, ’Dog of an Armagnac, come out!  Yield, ere thou be burnt!’

No answer; and he dashed forward.  In the lower room was a sight that opened his eyes with horror—­no other than the shield of Drummond, with the three wavy lines; ay, and with it the helmet and suit of armour, whereof he knew each buckle and brace!

‘Patie!  Patrick!  Patrick Drummond!’ he wildly shouted, ‘are you there?’

No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up.  There, in an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated perhaps by the smoke, but unmistakably his cousin!  He called to him, seized him, shook him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was no sign of animation.  The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm’s own breath was failing, and his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick’s almost giant form to the stairs were quite unavailing.  Wild with horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to call Halbert, whom he had left with his horse, but neither Halbert nor horse was in sight, nor indeed any of the party.  Not a man was in sight, except a few hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them.  He wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a troop of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head King James himself.  Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his angry exclamation with the cry, ’Help! help! he will burn!  Patrick!  Patie Drummond!  There!’

James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere, leaping from his horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes of burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds of smoke for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while Malcolm held the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till they had laid him under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of the house, which fell in almost instantly.

‘Does he live?’ gasped Malcolm.

‘He will not,’ said the King, ’if his nation be known here.  Keep out of his sight!  He must hear only French!’