‘Nor,’ said Kennedy, ‘endeared themselves to all who love the leal and the brave, and count these indeed as verities for which to live.’
From the manner in which these words were spoken, Malcolm had no further doubt either that Kennedy knew him, or that he meant to assist him; and the discussion thenceforth proceeded without further departures from the regular style, and was sustained with considerable spirit, till the Regent grew weary of it, and bed-time approached, when Kennedy announced his intention of taking his fellow-student to share his chamber; and, as this did not appear at all an unnatural proposal, in the crowded Castle, Malcolm followed him up various winding stairs into a small circular chamber, with a loop-hole window, within one of the flanking towers.
Carefully closing the heavy door, Kennedy held out his hands. ‘Fair cousin,’ he said, ‘this is bravely done of you.’
‘Will it save my sister?’ asked Malcolm, anxiously.
‘It should,’ said his kinsman; ‘but how can it be? Whatever is done, must be ere Walter Stewart returns.’
‘Tell me all! I know nothing—save that she was cruelly lured from St. Abbs.’
‘I know little more,’ said Kennedy. ‘It was on a false report of your death, and Walter had well-nigh obtained a forcible marriage; when her resistance and cries to Heaven daunted the monk who was to have performed the rite, so that he, in a sort, became her protector. When she was brought here, Walter swore he would bend her to his will; shut her up in the old keep, and kept her there, scantily fed, and a close prisoner, while he went forth on one of his forays. The Regent coming here meantime, found the poor maiden in her captivity, and freed her so far that she lives, to all appearance, as becomes his kinswoman; but the Duchess is cruelly strict with her, being resolved, as she says, to take down her pride.’
‘They must know that I live,’ said Malcolm.
‘They do; but Walter is none the less resolved not to be balked. Things came to a wild pass a few weeks syne. The Regent had never dared tell him how far matters had gone for bringing back the King, when one day Walter came in, clad for hawking; and, in his rudest manner, demanded the falcon that was wont to sit on his father’s wrist, and that had never been taken out by any other. The Regent refused to part with the bird, as he had oft done before; whereupon his son, in his fury, snatched her from his wrist, and wrung her head off before all our eyes; then turning fiercely on your poor sister, told her that “yon gled should be a token to her, of how they fared who withheld themselves from him.” Then rose the Duke, trembling within rage; “Ay, Wat,” said he, “ye hae been owermuch for me. We will soon have ane at home that will ken how to guide ye.” Walter looked at him insolently, and muttered, “I’ve heard of this before! They that wad have a master, may live under a master—but I’m not ane of them;” and then, turning upon Lady Lilias, he pointed to the dead hawk, and told her that, unless she yielded to him with a good grace, that bird showed her what she might expect, long ere the King or her brother were across the border.’
‘And where is he now?’