"Sir Fulke sails for the French coast to-morrow night," the boy went on, in tremulous haste. "He was left for dead--our men ran one way, and Argyll's men the other--on the field of Sheriff-Muir; and sure if he had not been strong indeed, he would have died that awful night, untended, on the bleak moor, with the winds roaring round him, and his life ebbing away. He was not one of those who _fled_; you know that of him if you know aught. We got him away before dawn, Donald and I, and hid him in a shieling; he was in the fever then, and knew nothing that was done to him, only he kept that bit of lace in his hand for weeks and weeks, and would not let us stir it from his grasp. What magic there was in it we wondered often, but 'twas a magic, mayhap, that got him well at last; it was an even chance but that he'd died, God bless him! though we did what best we could. We've been wandering in the Highlands all the year, hiding here and tarrying there. Sir Fulke sets no count upon his life. Sure I think he thanks us little for getting him through the fever of the wounds, but he could not have borne to be pinioned, you know, lady, like a thief, and hung up by the brutes of Whigs, as a butcher hangs sheep in the shambles! The worst of the danger's over--they've had their fill of the slaughter; but we sail to-morrow night for the French coast--England's no place for my master." Cecil Castlemaine let go her hold upon the boy, and her hand closed convulsively upon the dainty handkerchief--her gage sent so faithfully back to her! The child looked upon her face; perchance, in his master's delirium, he had caught some knowledge of the story that hung to that broidered toy. "If you _are_ his friend, madame, doubtless you have some last word to send him?" Cecil Castlemaine, whom nothing moved, whom nothing softened, bowed her head at the simple question, her heart wrestling sorely, her lips set together in unswerving pride, a mist before her haughty eyes, the broidered shield upon her handkerchief--the shield of her stately and unyielding race--pressed close against her breast. "You have no word for him, lady?" Her lips parted; she signed him away. Was this child to see her yielding to such weakness? Had she, Countess of Castlemaine, no better pride, no better strength, no better power of resolve, than this? The boy lingered. "I will tell Sir Fulke then, lady, that the ruined have no friends?" Whiter and prouder still grew the delicate beauty of her face; she raised her stately head, haughtily as she had used to glance over a glittering Court, where each voice murmured praise of her loveliness and reproach of her coldness; and placed the fragile toy of lace back in the boy's hands. "Go, seek your master, and give him this in gage that their calamity makes friends more dear to us than their success. Go, he will know its meaning!" * * * * *