"Does your majesty fear death?" asked Gray. "Nay, it never was my fear, and _now_ it is my only hope," replied James, in a low voice, "but I asked for a priest, sirs----" "Well--here I am--a priest, though cased in iron," said Borthwick. "And for whom fought you to-day, false priest?" "By the cross of Macgriddy! I fought for my own hand--as Hal o' the Wynd fought, in old King Robert's time; but I am, nevertheless, a priest--behold my tonsure--or what remains of it." "It is enough--even the unworthy is better than none. And you will hear my confession?" "Yea," answered the bantering ruffian, "wert thou as great a clown as ever played at Hogshouther." "And who are ye, sirs?" asked the king, turning uneasily from this disrespectful person. "I am William Stirling of the Keir," hissed one through his teeth. "And thou art the Lord Gray?" said James to a second, his brow darkening, as he saw the scarlet tabard-coat, which had a lion within its engrailed border, and was worn above the armour of the wearer. "Nay, I am only the Lord Gray's near kinsman, and captain of your majesty's castle at Broughty." "Leave me," said James, bitterly; "I will confess myself--and oh, bless me, father, for I have sorely sinned." A terrible smile spread over Borthwick's face, as he grasped his dagger, and saw the poor king, after three futile attempts to rise, sink powerlessly down on the miller's humble pallet. Gawain and his wife drew aside, awestruck and silent; Mysie held her apron to her mouth with one hand, while the other clasped her husband's arm; but the Lairds of Keir, Kyneff, and Sauchie stood a little in the background, and conferred together in whispers on what should now be done, for their minds were agitated by a slender doubt, though the viler slave of English Henry's gold felt none. "Dost thou expect to recover?" he sneered. "I trow I might," sighed the poor king, "if I had a physician." "How long dost thou expect to live?" he asked again, playing with his victim as a cat does with a mouse. "Alas! priest; He who numbereth the leaves in the Torwood, and every blade of grass in the Carse of Stirling, alone can tell." "I never numbered either; yet I think thou'lt be a dead man in ten minutes." A flush passed over James's pallid brow. "Be it so, father; the world and all its vanities are nothing now to me;--wifeless, childless,--or worse, for my own son is in arms against me; my soul hovers, as it were, between this world and the next. Oh would, father, that I might cure my soul at the expense of my body!" "Pythagoras----" "He was a pagan."