At last eleven tolled from the tower of St. Mary's Church, and remembering his appointment (of which more anon), the swashbuckler muffled his cloak about him, and set off at a rapid pace along the eastern road, which by the margin of the river led towards the Castle of Broughty, the lights of which could be seen twinkling on the low flat promontory that approaches the mouth of the Firth of Tay. CHAPTER VII. MARGARET DRUMMOND. ----They gazed upon each other, With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, Which mixed all feelings, child, friend, lover, brother, All that the best can mingle and express, When two pure hearts are poured in one another, And love too much, and yet cannot love less! BYRON. In a small round chamber, really "a secret bower," of her father's house, Margaret Drummond was seated alone. She was half kneeling and half reclining in an old _prie-dieu_ of oak, for she had just concluded her prayers; and a missal, bound in velvet and gold, with a rosary of bright amber beads, lay in her lap. In a large holder of carved wood and brass-work, two tall candles lighted this apartment, which was hung all round with dark-red arras. Here was a little bed, raised scarcely a foot from the ground, canopied by a gilded cornice with plumes of feathers, with a small niche over the pillows, and within it stood the prettiest Madonna that ever came out of Italy, with a little font, which always contained some holy water. This was Margaret's little bower, and at times her sleeping-place. As she lay half reclined in that old and grotesque _prie-dieu_, with her soft sad features partly hidden amid her clustering hair, her long lashes downcast, one white hand supporting her temples, and the other drooping by her side, she would have made a beautiful picture. She was still as death, as she listened for every passing sound; but all was quiet in that vast mansion, whose inmates were now retired to rest. For more than an hour she had watched and listened, without hearing anything, for the old walls of the house were several feet thick, and, together with the wainscoting and tapestry, nearly excluded all external sound, even by day. At last she raised her head and listened, while her fine eyes sparkled with animation. St. Mary's bell struck ten. "_Ten_--and he comes not yet!" said Margaret, rising, to sink again with a sigh into the _prie-dieu_, but almost immediately a knock was heard at the side of the apartment, and a soft voice sang the burden of that beautiful old song-- "Oh, are you sleeping, Maggie, My ain, my dear, my winsome Maggie! Unbar your door, for owre the muir The wind blaws cauld frae Aberdaggie."