s, Isabella, patriotic as it may be."

"Oh, do not say so, Mary. Has he not some noble barons already by his
side? will not, nay, is not Scotland rising to support him? hath he not
the hearts, the prayers, the swords of all whose mountain homes and
freeborn rights are dearer than the yoke of Edward? and hath he not, if
rumor speaks aright, within himself a host--not mere valor alone, but
prudence, foresight, military skill--all, all that marks a general?"

"As rumor speaks. Thou dost not know him then?" inquired Lady Campbell.

"How could I, dearest? Hast thou forgotten thy anxiety that we should
meet, when we were last together, holding at naught, in thy merry mood,
my betrothment to Lord John--that I should turn him from his wandering
ways, and make him patriotic as myself? Thou seest, Mary, thy brother
needed not such influence."

"Of a truth, no," answered her friend; "for his present partner is a
very contrast to thyself, and would rather, by her weak and trembling
fears, dissuade him from his purpose than inspire and encourage it. Well
do I remember that fancy of my happy childhood, and still I wish it had
been so, all idle as it seems--strange that ye never met."

"Nay, save thyself, Mary, thy family resided more in England than in
Scotland, and for the last seventeen years the territory of Buchan has
been my only home, with little interruption to my solitude; yet I have
heard much of late of the Earl of Carrick, and from whom thinkest
thou?--thou canst not guess--even from thy noble brother Nigel."

"Nigel!" repeated Lady Mary, much surprised.

"Even so, sweet sister, learning dearer lore and lovelier tales than
even Provence could instil; 'tis not the land, it is the _heart_ where
poesie dwells," rejoined Nigel Bruce, gayly, advancing from the side of
Agnes, where he had been lingering the greater part of the dialogue
between his sister and the countess, and now joined them. "Aye, Mary,"
he continued, tenderly, "my own land is dearer than the land of song."

"And dear art thou to Scotland, Nigel; but I knew not thy fond dreams
and wild visions could find resting amid the desert crags and barren
plains of Buchan."

"Yet have we not been idle. Dearest Agnes, wilt thou not speak for me?
the viol hath not been mute, nor the fond harp unstrung; and deeper,
dearer lessons have thy lips instilled, than could have flowed from
fairest lips and sweetest songs of Provence. Nay, blush not, dearest.
Mary, thou must