"Come this way apart," replied the other, drawing Abercorn aside from the throng, while his voice and expression became more sad, his lips more pale, and his manner more excited. "Listen. Last night I was in my chamber disrobing for bed; my mind was full of the doubts and misgivings that have oppressed me since we left the walls and shelter of Thrave; and just as Silver Mary--that great bell which hangs in the tower of St. Giles--tolled the last stroke of the hour of twelve, I heard a deep sigh near me." "A sigh!" repeated the earl, becoming interested in spite of himself; "was it not the wind in an arrow-hole?" "A sigh, loud almost as a sob! I turned--there was no one near me; but the old and gloomy arras which covered the walls was violently agitated and shaken, so that the brown moths flew out of it. The sigh was repeated; and though I know myself to be brave as most men, I felt--yet knew not why--the life-blood curdling in my heart, and, as the Scripture hath it, the hair of my flesh stood up. Then an emotion which I could not resist, like the strong power we obey in a dream, led me on. I raised the old mouldy arras--and then--then--oh what a sight saw I there!" "What?" asked the earl, in a low voice. The perspiration rolled in bead-like drops from the pale forehead of the old baron upon his white beard and polished cuirass, as he replied in a solemn and husky whisper, "As I live by bread which the blessed God yields, and hope to die in the faith of our fathers, I beheld a decapitated corpse, the head of which rolled past me, with winking eyes, with chattering teeth, and with features livid and convulsed, as when the headsman's axe has just severed the neck! I knew those ghastly features--knew that curly hair--I knew that comely form----" "And," said Abercorn, growing very pale in spite of himself; "and this head was----" "Your kinsman's--the earl of Douglas!" "Pho!" replied Abercorn, seeming suddenly to experience great relief; "by St. Bryde, I thought you were about to say 'twas _mine_. Did this grim vision speak to you!" "No--but straightway vanished--melted away, and I was left in the chamber to solitude, to fears and prayers, but not to sleep." "'Tis well you did not see any _more_ heads roll past in this odd fashion," said Abercorn, jibingly. "Lord James of Abercorn," said Fleming, solemnly, "I was long your father's comrade and most trusted friend. For forty long but stirring years there came no jar between us, though ever engaged in war and tumult. Together we were wounded and taken prisoners at Homildon; together we defended this castle of Edinburgh against Henry IV. of England, and repulsed him; together we fought in France, and fell wounded side by side at Verneuil--but he, alas! mortally, when attempting to save _me_, and now he sleeps the sleep of death in St. Gratians of Tournay--for there I closed his eyes, and laid his well-notched sword beside him----"