‘Is my mother here?’ asked David.
‘Ay, sir, and with the puir lady. Ye may gang in without question. A’ the doors be open, that ilka loon may win in to see a princess die.’
The pursuivant, hearing that the King and Dauphin were no longer in the castle, rode on to Chalons, but David dismounted, and followed a stream of persons, chiefly monks, friars, and women of the burgher class, up the steps, and on into the vaulted room, the lower part shut off by a rail, against which crowded the curious and only half-awed multitude, who whispered to each other, while above, at a temporary altar, bright with rows of candles, priests intoned prayers. The atmosphere was insufferably hot, and David could hardly push forward; but as he exclaimed in his imperfect French that he came with tidings of Madame’s sisters, way was made, and he heard his mother’s voice. ‘Is it? Is it my son? Bring him. Oh, quickly!’
He heard a little, faint, gasping cry, and as a lane was opened for him, struggled onwards. In poor Margaret’s case the etiquette that banished the nearest kin from Royalty in articulo mortis was not much to be regretted. David saw her—white, save for the death-flush called up by the labouring breath, as she lay upheld in his mother’s arms, a priest holding a crucifix before her, a few ladies kneeling by the bed.
‘Good tidings, I see, my son,’ said Lady Drummond.
‘Are—they—here?’ gasped Margaret.
‘Alack, not yet, Madame; they will come in a few days’ time.’ She gave a piteous sigh, and David could not hear her words.
‘Tell her how and where you found them,’ said his mother.
David told his story briefly. There was little but a quivering of the heavy eyelids and a clasping of the hands to show whether the dying woman marked him, but when he had finished, she said, so low that only his mother heard, ‘Safe! Thank God! Nunc dimittis. Who was it—young Angus?’
‘Even so,’ said David, when the question had been repeated to him by his mother.