"So cheerlessly I live on without hope or aim, a wedded nun, amid councils of fierce and stern men, whose meetings, debates, and thoughts are all for opposition, and revenge for the terrible deed of 1440." "In other words, Murielle, men who are ripe for treason and rebellion." "Why _will_ you speak or think so harshly of us?" she asked so imploringly that Gray kissed her tenderly as his only or best reply. "And that spiteful beauty your sister--what says she of me now?"----"That you are the king's liege man," was the cautious answer. "She is right, my beloved one--I am his till death----" "And our enemy!" said a sharp voice close by them, like the hiss of a snake. They turned and saw Margaret, the countess of Douglas, standing at the entrance of her bower-chamber, the tapestry covering the door of which she held back with one hand. She was clad entirely in black, with a long veil of fine lace depending from the apex of her lofty head-dress, enveloping her haughty head and handsome white shoulders. She was somewhat changed since Gray had seen her last, for angry passions were lining her young face prematurely; her marvellous beauty remained in all its striking power; but it was the beauty of a devil--_diavolessa_, an Italian would term it. Ten years of feud and anxious hostility to the crown and its adherents had imparted a sternness to her fine brow, a keen boldness to her black eyes, and a sneering scorn to her lovely lip that made her seem a tragedy queen. "And so another errand than the king's message, anent his minion's life or death, has brought you hither, scurvy patch!" said she scornfully; "but by St. Bryde I shall rid our house and my sister of such intrusive visitors!" "Madame," Gray began, with anger. "Varlet--would you dare to threaten me?" she exclaimed, holding up a clenched hand, which was white, small, and singularly beautiful; "but, my gay moth, you will flutter about that poor candle until your wings are burnt. I have but to say one word to Douglas of this clandestine meeting and he will hang you in your boots and tabard above our gate, where Herbert of Teregles and many a better man has hung." "Oh, sister Margaret," urged Murielle, trembling like an aspen-leaf. "Ha--to speak that word would remove the only barrier to your being duchess of Albany--and why should I _not_ speak it?" she continued fiercely and with flashing eyes; "Why should I not speak it?" "Because, dear Maggie, you have still some gentle mercy left, and Heaven forbids you," said Murielle, clinging to her pitiless sister. "Begone, madam," said the latter imperiously; "your instant obedience alone purchases my silence. But here comes Sir Alan Lauder."