Suddenly he heard a light step and the rustling of a dress; a small hand drew rapidly aside the arras which covered a door, and Murielle, with bloodshot eyes and her sweet little face pale with tears and loss of sleep, rushed towards him. "Oh, Patrick Gray, Patrick Gray!" she exclaimed, throwing herself in all the abandonment of grief into his arms, and laying her cold cheek upon his breast; "Oh my love, my heart--what new miseries, what new crimes and dangers, are these that come to cast their gloom and horror upon us?" He endeavoured to calm and soothe her; but suddenly quitting him, she besought him to leave her, and return instantly to the castle. "Leave you, Murielle?" he reiterated, "think of the time that has elapsed since I have seen you, conversed with you--since I have been with you alone; and think of the time that may elapse ere we meet again." "Yet go--go," she added, clasping her hands, "if you love me, go!" "_If_--ah! Murielle----" "Leave me--shun me! this love will end in your destruction," she exclaimed with wild energy. "I am almost inclined to stay, Murielle, and risk everything, were it but to prove how much I do love you." "By making me miserable for ever, by seeing you perish before me--oh, even as my poor kinsmen perished!" she added in a piercing accent, while wringing her pretty hands, and half withdrawing from him. "You are right, dear Murielle," replied the soldier gloomily: "I am in the king's service. To brave a useless danger and inevitable fate, would serve no end; yet, dearest Murielle, this interview may be our last." "It may be--I know it in my aching heart; yet go--go, for the love of God and St. Bryde, lest some fresh crime be committed, and here. Alas! you know not Hugh of Ormond, or James of Abercorn, as I do. But why were our beloved William and David slain?" "Blame not me, dear Murielle," said Gray, kissing her pale cheek with affectionate sorrow. "Oh, Patrick, I do not blame you," replied Murielle, in a tone of misery. "Indeed! Yet you see him before you, and clasp him to your heart like a wanton, while he has on his hands the blood of my husband!" exclaimed a clear and ringing voice. It was that of the scornful, the lovely and revengeful, yet superb Margaret, as she burst upon them through the parted arras, her pale cheek flushing and her dark eyes sparkling, but with more of anger than grief. "Vile assassin! come you here, stained with the blood of my Douglas--my brave, young, handsome lord and kinsman--of his poor boy-brother, and that hoary-headed baron, old Malcolm Fleming, whose sword was never idle when Scotland or her king required its service! Did it require three such heads to glut the hatred ye bear to the house of Douglas and Galloway? Speak!" she added, stamping her pretty foot imperiously on the rush-covered floor; "speak, thou king's minion and Falkland-bred loon!" "Peace, sister," moaned Murielle, "oh peace----"