"For the hundreth time, lady," said he, "I beseech you to be assured that if your fate was in my own hands, you would be conducted to any part of Scotland you desired; and there would I leave you, though in doing so my heart should break for ever!" Margaret smiled bitterly, but did not reply. "Alas, lady, think better of me," urged Howard, sighing deeply; "think better of me than to believe me a mansworn wretch like Sir James of Sauchie, or a sordid slave like those other Scots who have betrayed you to Henry of England. Lady, I see a cloud now gathering on your beautiful brow; I am but a plain speaking English seaman (somewhat of a courtier once, it might be); I have no wish to take the wind out of any man's sails, but I do think, that while so many rascals tread her soil, this same Scotland of yours is not worth mourning for." "And dost think I have only the woods and mountain to weep for? Have I not my father--my four sisters, and my----" she dared not add "child!" "Lady, the love of kings and princes is like foam on the sea--a thing that comes and goes with every puff of wind, and so passes away for ever. Kings are but a hollow-hearted race at best; their lives and their loves are made alike subservient to policy and statecraft; and your Scottish kings have ever, as it were, been among breakers and shoal water since Scotland had a name; for her nobles are a race of hereditary traitors, such as have no parallel in Europe--men ever ready to sell her liberty and barter her honour for foreign gold." "Who spoke of kings or princes," asked Margaret; "not I surely, sir--my lips never uttered the name of king or prince?" "But your heart did, madam," said Howard, sadly. "Oh, do not conceal your secret thoughts from me. My own sentiments enable me to sound the depth of yours too surely for my own peace." "I think, sir captain, I might have wearied you by this time." "Nay, lady, nay; does the miser ever weary of his treasure?" continued poor Howard, getting into deeper water every moment. "I count not the hours you are with me, unless to reckon how long it may be till we are separated by King Henry, and my sun sets in a dark and hopeless sea." "And when will this happen?" asked Margaret, making a violent effort to control a rising sob. "When we drop our anchors by the Tower of London." "Oh, thou art a wretch--a minion--the slave of servile slaves!" said Margaret, covering her face, and giving way to one of those wild bursts of grief which always convulsed her when the memory of the babe from which she had been so cruelly torn, arose more poignantly within her; "begone, and leave me to the horror thou hast wrought me."