e, and went up to him.
She laid her hand on his arm and looked into his eyes.

"O Walter, my boy, go not forth to-night"--(here I declare to God the
proud woman knelt to her own son)--"See, I have put off my pride, and I
pray you not to go for my sake--for your mother's sake, that never
denied you anything. There is evil boding in the air."

She shuddered and, in rising, threw an arm over his shoulder, as though
she had been his sweetheart and were fleeching with him.

For a moment I saw Wat Gordon waver. Then he took her hand gently and
drew it down from his shoulder.

"Mother, for you I would do all, save set a stain upon my honour. But
this thing I cannot, for I have plighted my word deep and fast, and go I
must to-night."

"Tell me," said my aunt, "is it a matter of treason to the King?"

Her eyes were eager, expectant. And for very pity of her I hoped that
Walter could give her satisfaction on the point. But it was not as I
thought, for who can track a woman's heart?

"God forbid," said Wat Gordon heartily, as one that is most mightily
relieved.

But his mother fell back and her hands dropped to her side.

"Then," she said, "it is my Lady Wellwood!--I had rather a thousand
times it had been treason and rebellion--aye, though it had set your
head on high beside your father's."

"Lady Wellwood or another!" cried Wat, "nor heaven nor hell shall gar me
break my tryst this nicht!"

And without another word Walter Gordon went down the stairs as one that
runs defiantly to death, daring both God and man--and, alas! the mother
also that bore him.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE THING THAT FELL FROM TRAITOR'S GATE.

The Lady Lochinvar stood a moment still by the fire, listening, her hand
raised as if to command silence. Then she ran to the door like a young
lass, with a light foot and her hand on her heart. The steps came
fainter up the stair, and in another moment we heard the clang of the
outer door.

My lady turned to me.

"Have you your pistols by you?" she whispered in a hoarse and angry
voice, clutching me by the lapels of my coat. "Go, man! Go, follow him!
He rushes to his death. And he is all that I have. Go and save him!"

She that had fleeched with her son, like a dove succouring its young,
laid harshly her commands upon me.

"I am no fighter, aunt," I said. "What protection can I be to Walter
Gordon, the best sworder in Edinburgh town this night from Holyrood to
the Castle?"

My lady looked ab