"Ay, to root the English faction and all Baliol's people out of Scotland. Comyn hath known of this project long, and duly gives King John and King Edward notice of its progress; thus Bruce ere long must perish amid his own plots and follies." "And without waiting for our boy's arrival from Perth, without even bidding me adieu, Comyn has gone to confer with him? 'Tis well--I wish him speed on his journey. But there is _a prophecy concerning him_; so let him beware lest he perish by a violent death like his kinsman who died at Craigie, and who had no other grave than his own girdle." "Now, grace me guide, lady, talk not thus," replied Sir Alexander, growing pale at her words, which referred to a terrible tale; for it came to pass in the days of King Alexander III., that it was foretold by Thomas the Rhymer, that Comyn Earl of Buchan, who was ranger of the royal hunting forests of Plater, would die by a violent death; so he mocked the seer, saying-- "Thou art Sir Thomas the Liar, rather than the Rhymer." But the aged chief replied solemnly in verse, as was his wont when inspired by his mysterious power-- "Though _Thomas the Liar_ thou callest me, The sooth, Lord Earl, I tell to thee! By Aikeyside, Thy horse shall ride; He shall stumble and thou shalt fa', Thy neckbane shall be broken in twa, And the hunting dogs thy bones shall gnaw! There, maugre all thy kin and thee, Thine own belt thy bier shall be!" And so it came to pass soon after, for when the earl was hunting in the gloomy Den of Howie, as he galloped over the green hill of Arkeybrae, his horse became dazzled by the setting sun, and threw him with such violence that his brains were dashed out by some blocks of grey stone, which to this day are named Comyn's Craigie, and there his bones were found after his hounds had gnawed and torn them asunder. "So, for God's love, dear lady," resumed the Lord of Cavers with a shudder, "refer no more to these dark and terrible predictions." The white lips of the haughty lady smiled, but a wild expression of rage and sorrow filled her eyes, and the glance she gave her kinsman was to him inexplicable, as she had not a doubt that this sudden journey was all a device of her husband to meet, or perhaps to elope, with Yolande. Dark and terrible were the silent thoughts of Gwendoleyne as the evening drew on. The old prophecy that like the Black Comyn, the Red one would _die by a violent death_, seemed ever before her in letters of fire; and she thought that now the time had come. "How was I ever weak enough to expect that a fair-haired man could be true to me?" she muttered; "in all old Scripture tapestries are not Cain and Judas represented with large yellow beards, or red ones, like that of my husband Comyn! Oh, woe is me! and cursed be the hour I forsook Sir John the Grahame to become the wife of his home and the mother of his children!"