ion, but
as the Prioress of St. Abbs was herself a Drummond, and no one durst
interfere with her, he had no alarms for her safety. But he advised the
two gentlemen to go straight to St. Abbs, without showing themselves at
Coldingham, lest Prior Drax, being in the Albany interest, should make
any demur at giving her up to the care of the brother, who still wanted
some months of his twenty-first year.

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 A