"We meet at last," said he, in a voice querulous with age, anger, and weariness;—"meet after I have sought you everywhere, for these ten days past; and now fortunately meet where there are none to see, and none to separate us."
"Alas, sir!" replied Florence, "too well I know what you would say to me."
"Thou whining loon, is it so with thee?" exclaimed the other scornfully; "yes, I would speak of my kinswoman—of Madeline Home, the Countess of Yarrow. What hast thou done with her? Where secluded her if alive—where buried her if dead? How hast thou spirited her away from me? Speak, lest I have thee riven at a horse's tail!"
"What shall I say—what can I say?" was the bewildered response of Florence.
"Some say thy mother slew her, Florence Fawside," continued the old man hoarsely, as he grasped the young man's arm, and shook him vehemently in his grief and rage; "others say 'twas thou——"
"I—oh horror!"
"I care not which; but vengeance I will have, for the sake of my sister who bore her, and of her father, that true and valiant earl, who, on many a day since Flodden Field, has fought by my side, and who loved me so well. Vengeance, I say, thou accursed son of a wicked beldame—dost hear me?"
"Slay me, Claude Hamilton, if you will—I resist not," replied Florence mournfully. "Weary of life, I sought death in every part of yonder bloody field; but like that fated Jew who mocked his blessed Lord upon the slope of Calvary in the days of old, he fled me everywhere. The arrows rained upon me, harmless as snowflakes; and swords, and spears, and cannon-shot have alike failed to maim me; and I live yet—live without a wounds; but without joy—without desire or hope!"
"What is all this to me—I would speak of my dear kinswoman—my dead sister's only child——"
"Alas! I know nothing, and can say nothing of her."