With considerable animation, he related his adventures among the hills and forests of Athole,--the capture of the great freebooter,--the sudden resistance offered by him and his followers at Perth,--and the conflict on the north Inch, without the city wall. To all this Gray listened with some impatience, nor did he begin to evince any interest until the lieutenant, at the conclusion of his narrative, detailed his sojourn at his castle of Raeberry, in Galloway. "What news bring you from that part of the country?" he asked. "The burden of the old song--rief and stouthrief, oppression, hamesücken, and outrage, on the part of the Douglases, who make all bow to their rule; so that no man, of whatsoever rank he be, or however strong his dwelling, can lie down to sleep with the certainty of being a live man at the dawn of day." "And what of dame Margaret?" "Well," replied MacLellan, holding a glass of red wine between him and the light, to watch the gossamer beeswing as it floated to and fro, "you have heard, of course, how loosely the wedding-ring hung on her fair finger?" "How--how?" asked Gray, impetuously. "Is it possible that you do not know?" asked MacLellan, with surprise. "What? I have heard nothing here." "That she is wedded to James, earl of Abercorn, who is also now of Douglas." "Wedded!" reiterated Gray, with unfeigned astonishment in his eyes and voice, as he now heard of this strange and formidable alliance for the first time; "wedded to the widow of his nephew?" "Exactly--the poor boy who lies below the castle wall without; and a strong alliance our regent and chancellor may find it prove." "But what says the church to this?" asked Gray, after a pause. "The Countess Margaret is heiress of Galloway, Wigton, Balvenie, Ormond, and Annandale--a good slice of braid Scotland," replied MacLellan, in a bantering tone, as he hated the Douglases; "James, umquhile only of Abercorn and Avondale, is a mighty lord; so the most reverend father in God, Alexander--by divine permission bishop of _Candida Casa_ (so run the pastorals to his pretty flock, the moss-troopers)--put a good round sum in gold nobles in his pouch, dozes away in his episcopal chair, and troubles not his mitred head about the matter; for is not Abbot John of Tongland, the keeper of the earl's conscience, a Douglas? By St. Paul, it is hardly wise or pleasant to call oneself by a different surname on the other side of the Nith, and I have some thoughts of getting permission from the king-of-arms, to call myself Archibald or Sholto Douglas--they are all one or other--as a surer warrant for a whole skin." "Truly, we live in strange times!" pondered Gray; "and Murielle--Lady Murielle--you have not spoken of her?" "Men say she is the same little moping, mooning nun, as ever." "Beloved Murielle!" thought Gray in his heart, "And say, kinsman, how does she look?"