"I have forgotten it," said she, turning to the window. "Do you remember when last you sang it?" asked Maud Douglas kindly, in a low voice. "Oh yes, dear Maud," said Murielle, as her soft eyes filled with tears at the recollection of that night in the house of the abbot at Edinburgh, where--outwardly, at least--they all seemed so happy, and where her lover hung over her, as she played and sang _for him_, and him only. The impetuous young countess, a little despot in her own household, grew weary of her sister's silence and reserve, for Murielle's attachment was no secret to the family; she tossed aside the tapestry, and desired Mariota, the _Caillean Rua_, to summon her pages and a musician, that they might dance and practise the _pavan_, which was a slow and stately measure then in fashion, and which took its name from the peacock, because it was danced by knights in their mantles and ladies in their trains; but Murielle said gently, but firmly, as she withdrew to a corbelled stone balcony, upon which the windows of the bower-chamber opened,-- "Excuse me, dear Maggie, I pray you; but I am not in the mood either to dance or sing." Irritated still more by this, Margaret followed, and found her with her face bowed upon the parapet, and weeping bitterly. CHAPTER XVIII. THE BALCONY. The nymph must lose her female friend, If more admired than she; But where will fierce contention end, If flowers can disagree?--COWPER. "Is it so with you?" said the countess, roughly grasping her arm; "is it so--still mourning for that scurvy captain of the king's morris-pikes?" "Morris-pikes! Oh, sister, can you compare to mummers, the men who formed the van at Piperden?" "Ay, where a Douglas routed Piercy--a service, like others, committed to oblivion now," was the bitter response. Murielle wept in silence, while her haughty sister continued to regard her with an expression in her eyes very much akin to disdain. The poor girl had frequently been fretted and galled by hearing a much-loved name--alas! it might only be a much-revered _memory_--reviled; yet she bore it meekly, hoping daily for a change. But weeks became months, and months became seasons, yet no change came in the bearing of her sister; which, always haughty, turned at times violent and tempestuous. The proud Margaret felt that she had done a wrong action by her second espousal, which had raised doubts in her mind that even the papal dispensation might fail to dispel; and while she writhed under this conviction, and longed for vengeance on the slayers of that handsome lover and boy-husband--whom she secretly mourned, even when in the arms of the subtle Earl James, she felt--she knew not why--irritated, and at times exasperated, by the meek, quiet, and passive tenor of Murielle's existence. "Tears still," she resumed, "always tears; but beware how the earl finds you thus." "Oh, Margaret, I have studied to conceal my living sorrow from him--from you--from all."