"You would undo all the past, by making me the wife of the exiled Albany, that your husband's terrible aims and ends may be furthered, his feudal power and splendour increased." "By raising you, perhaps, to"--the countess paused--"to a throne, little fool!" "A throne?" reiterated Murielle, in absolute bewilderment. "Yes, a throne," said Margaret, in a low voice, as she bent her black flashing eyes close to her startled sister's face; "where can all this leaguing and combination with Henry of England, Christian of Oldenburg, John of the Isles, and with so many discontented barons, end, but in the destruction of Livingstone, of Crichton, and of that boy-king, in whose name they slew the earl of Douglas?" "Saint Mary keep us, sister; but this is murder, treason, regicide!" said Murielle, in terror and incredulity. "I am speaking in our castle of Thrave," said the countess, significantly, as she patted the strong rampart with her white jewelled hand; "but I am unwise in talking to you of schemes, the magnitude of which you cannot comprehend, and the daring of which appals you." "Oh, Maggie, all this can end but in one way." "How?" "Destruction, forfeiture, and death!" "We shall see," replied the countess, calmly smoothing back her silky hair; "but to resume about this Patrick Gray--_who_ is he, that he should aspire to love my sister, the daughter of a line of powerful earls?" "He is a gentleman of stainless reputation, the trusted subject of the late king and of his son; a loyal soldier, whom, if I choose, I might marry to-morrow, and defy you all!" said Murielle, angrily. Margaret now laughed in good earnest at her sister. "Defy us?" she exclaimed; "lassie, you have gone crazy! I speak not of Ormond, of Pompherston, of Glendoning; but know you not that the smallest laird who bears our name could muster lances enough to harry his father's nest at Foulis, level his tower to the ground-stone, and swing his whole generation on the nearest tree?" Murielle knew fully the truth of this, but she felt an increasing emotion of anger at the injustice and control to which she was so bluntly subjected, and now her haughty sister spoke again. "Bear this in mind, that thrice has Earl James sworn by his most sacred oath, God, and his father's bones 'that our heather lintie, Murielle, shall be the bride of Albany, and sib to the throne, if not one day _upon_ it;' so cease to think more of this lover of yours, who, by the bye, I believe, once loved _me_." "Loved you!" exclaimed Murielle, in a breathless voice; "_you_, Margaret?" "Yes," continued the imperious beauty, with confidence. "He ever admired you, and as _my_ sister, felt a friendship for you; but be assured that his dear heart never wandered from me," was the equally confident reply. "You are a child!" retorted the countess. "Perhaps I am, to endure all this petty tyranny; but a day may come--there are times when even a poor worm may turn."