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
barely power even in his summer splendor, to penetrate the dusky panes.
In this keep was the great hall of audience, and for the banquet, at the
upper end of which the dais was invariably found, and dark and loathsome
dungeons formed its basement.
The roof of Kildrummie keep was flatter than the generality of Norman
castles, its four angles being surmounted more by the appearance than
the reality of turrets; but one rose from the centre, round, and pierced
by loopholes, turreted at the top, and commanding an extensive view of
the adjoining country: from this tower the banner of the baron always
waved, and its non-appearance excited some indignation in the breast of
Nigel Bruce, for his warrior spirit had no sympathy with that timorous
excuse, that did it wave at such a time it might excite the attention of
the English, whereas did it elevate no symbol of defiance its garrison
might pass unquestioned.
"Up with the banner of Scotland and the Bruce!" were the first commands
of Sir Nigel, as he stood within the ballium, surrounded by his charge
and followers. "Shall we, pledged as we are to our country and king,
even seem to stand neutral and conceal our colors, as ashamed of them?
Shall this be?"
He was answered by a simultaneous rush towards the keep, and at his word
the folds of the broad banner waved exultingly from the tower, its
appearance hailed by a loud shout from those beneath, and by a bright
and momentary gleam of sunshine flashing through the heavy clouds.
"Ha! see ye, my friends, even heaven smiles on us," exclaimed the young
knight triumphantly, and smiling cheerily on his fair friends, as with
gay words and graceful action he marshalled them into the keep. It was
while doing so, that Agnes marked the figure of an old yet
majestic-looking man, whose eyes, still bright and flashing, though his
white hair denoted extreme old age, were fixed immovably on the face and
form of Nigel. It was a peculiar glance, strained, eager, and yet
mournful, holding her attention so fascinated that she paused in her
onward way, and pointed him out to Nigel.
"I know him not, love," he said, in, answer to her inquiry. "I should
deem him minstrel by his garb, or seer, or both perchance, as is
sometimes the case, conjoined. I will speak with him when my present
grateful task is done."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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