Accordingly they pushed on, and in due time slept at Berwick, receiving civilities from the English governor that chafed Patrick’s blood, which became inflammable as soon as he neared the Border; and rising early the next morning, they passed the gates, and were on Scottish ground once more, their hearts bounding at the sense that it was their own land, and would soon be no more a land of misrule.  With their knowledge of King James and his intentions, well might they have unlimited hopes for the country over which he was about to reign.

They turned aside from Coldingham, and made for the sea, and at length the promontory of St. Abbs Head rose before them; they passed through the outer buildings intended as shelter for the attendants of ladies coming to the nunnery, and knocked at the gateway.

A wicket in the door was opened, and the portress looked out through a grating.

‘Benedicite, good Sister,’ said Malcolm.  ’Prithee tell the Mother Abbess that Malcolm Stewart of Glenuskie is here from the King, and craves to speak with her and the Lady Lilias.’

‘Lord Malcolm!  Lady Lilias!  St. Ebba’s good mercy!’ shrieked the affrighted portress.  They heard her rushing headlong across the court, and looked on one another in consternation.

Patrick betook himself to knocking as if he would beat down the door, and Malcolm leant against it with a foreboding that took away his breath—­dreading the moment when it should be opened.

The portress and her keys returned again, and parleyed a moment.  ’You are the Lord Malcolm in very deed—­in the flesh?’

‘Wherefore not?’ demanded Malcolm.

‘Nay, but we heard ye were slain, my lord,’ explained the portress—­letting him in, however, and leading them across the court, to where the Mother Abbess, Annabel Drummond, awaited them in the parlour.

‘Alas, Sirs, what grievous error has this been?’ was her exclamation; while Malcolm, scarcely waiting for salutation, demanded, ’Where is my sister?’

‘How?  In St. Hilda’s keeping at Whitby, whither the King sent for her,’ said the Abbess.

‘The King!’ cried Malcolm, ’we come from the King!  Oh, what treachery has been here?’

’And you, Lord Malcolm—­and you, my kinsman, Sir Patrick of the Braes, how do I see you here?  We had heard you both were dead.’

‘You heard a lying tale then, good Mother,’ said Patrick, gruffly, ’no doubt devised for the misery of the—­of my—­’ He could not finish the sentence, and Malcolm entreated the Abbess to tell the whole.