The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. Vol. 1Aguilar, Grace
History
The Days of Bruce: A Story from Scottish History. Vol. 1
Aguilar, Grace
Robert I, King of Scots, 1274-1329 -- Fiction; Scotland -- History -- Robert I, 1306-1329 -- Fiction
"Give this to my poor Agnes, with her mother's blessing, and bid her
take comfort, bid her not weep and mourn for me. A prison, even death is
preferable now to life, for she is cared for. I trust her to Sir Nigel's
love; I know that he will tend her as a brother till a happier hour
makes her all his own. Commend me to my sovereign, and tell him, might I
choose my path again, despite its anguish, 'twould be that which I have
trod. And now farewell, young lord, I bless thee for this meeting."
"Dominus vobiscum mea filia, et vale," responded the supposed monk, in a
loud voice, for he had only time to assure the countess by a look of
deep sympathy of his willingness to execute her simplest wish, and hide
the ringlet in his bosom, ere Hereford turned towards him, with a gaze
of stern inquiry. Ably concealing alike his emotion and the expression
of his countenance, Douglas evaded discovery, and even obtained
permission to follow the litter to the environs of the town. He did so,
but the countess addressed him not again; and it was with a
heart-sinking despondency he had turned to the mountains, when the
cavalcade disappeared from his view. He retained his monkish garb till
he entered the mountain district, where he fell in with his two
companions, and they proceeded, as we have seen, to the quarters of
their king.
A pause of horror followed his narrative, told more forcibly and briefly
by the lips of Douglas than through the cooler medium of the historian's
pen. Stunned, overwhelmed, as if incapable of movement or speech, though
sense remained, Agnes stood insensible, even to the voice of Nigel,
whose soothing accents strove to whisper peace; but when Douglas placed
in her cold hand the raven curls she knew so well, when tenderly yet
earnestly he repeated her mother's words, the poor girl repeatedly
pressed the hair to her parched lips, and laid it in her bosom; and then
perceiving the sad and anxious face of her beloved, she passed her hand
hurriedly over her brow, and burying her head on his breast, sense was
preserved by an agony of tears.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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