Their favourite amusement was palm play, which Florence taught them as he had learned it at the Louvre and Vendome. It is an old French game, which simply consisted in receiving a ball in the palm of the hand, and propelling it back again; but it became so fashionable in the kingdom of the Louis, that the nobles, when they lost large sums, and found their purses empty, to continue the play would stake their mantles, armour, poniards, jewels, or anything, in the ardour with which they pursued it.
On a little eminence close to the verge of the loch, there still remains a box-wood summer-house, with a fine old hawthorn in its centre; and in this the little queen and her mother, with the four Maries, are said to have sat in the autumn evenings, and heard Florence read the ancient chronicles of Scotland, the Bruce of Barbour, and tell old tales of wizards and fairies, giants and dwarfs, till the light of day faded from the romantic summit of Ghoille-dun; till the vesper lights began to twinkle through the Gothic windows of the old priory upon the tremulous waters of the lake, and the ancient tower of Tulla, on the Earl's Isle (where dwelt Earl John, who in that year, 1547, was slain by the tutor of Appin) cast its lengthening shadow to the shore.
Amid the romantic mountain scenery which surrounded this lake and isle, Florence, while attending to the somewhat trivial and monotonous duties which the queen-mother assigned him as captain of her guard—duties which he varied occasionally by hawking on the long, narrow, promontory that runs out from the southern shore, or by fishing for pike by baited lines tied to the leg of a goose—a strange custom then common in Monteith—longed to be once again in the Scottish capital, for now he never saw, nor by rumour, letter, or report, heard from the Countess of Yarrow. His love affair seemed literally to be an end! The angry spirit of the old feud, thought he, may have gathered again in the heart of her kinsman; and there were times when he bitterly upbraided himself for having so sternly declined that kinsman's proffered friendship and alliance; "but, alas! what could I do?" he would exclaim—"the blood of my father, the blood of my brother, were alike upon his hands." Then he would strive to recal some of the anger, bitterness, and antipathy that filled his heart when he first left France on board of the galley of Villegaignon, with no other thought but to fulfil the terrible injunction of his mother's homeward summons—to slay the Laird of Preston as he would have slain a snake or tiger—but the soft image of Madeline arose before him, and he strove in vain!
If the sentiments of Claude Hamilton had really grown more hostile, and Madeline Home had learned to share them, she might also gradually learn to love another, or to wed in mere indifference, for she had many suitors—but he thrust these ideas aside, and vainly strove to think of other things.
So time passed slowly, heavily on, and brown October spread her russet hues upon the foliage; the swallows disappeared, and the woodcocks came through dark and misty skies from the shores of the Baltic to replace them.
By the old chesnuts that cast at eve their shadows on the grey walls of the ancient priory, and by the waves of the lake, poor Florence sat and pondered, till the sweet voice of Madeline seemed to come to his ear, amid the ripples that chafed on the little beach, and amid the rustle of the dry leaves, as the autumn gusts shook them down from the tossing branches.
Michaelmas came; but even in that remote Highland region, where, yet, so many old customs linger, few traces remained of the feast of St. Michael, as it was held of old; though Mary of Lorraine and the prior of the isle, or Earl John of Monteith, in Tulla Hall, partook of roasted goose, duly and solemnly, on the eleventh of the month, as an indispensable ceremony—all unaware that it was the last remnant of a creed that flourished long anterior to Christianity; for on this day the Pagans of old sacrificed a goose to Proserpine, the infernal goddess of Death.
'Twas November now; and the piercing wind that swept over the mountains seemed as if anxious to tear the last brown leaves of autumn from the naked trees; and then came snow to whiten the hills and valleys—to bury deep the rocky passes; and with it came the frost, to seal up the waters of the lake; for, unlike those of the present age, the winters of the olden time were somewhat Arctic in their aspect, with the strong and bitter Scottish frost, of which Annsæus Julius Floras, the satirical Roman poet and historian, wrote, when, armed with his pen, he entered the lists against the Emperor Adrian:—
"Ego nolo Cæsar esse,
Ambulare per Brittanos,
Scoticas pati pruinas."
And so the Highland winter came on with all its dreariness; and amid the cloistral seclusion of the Isle of Rest, and of Mary of Lorraine's little court, Florence thought ever of Madeline Home, and longed again to hear her voice—to see her smile—to touch her pretty hand. Mary of Lorraine saw that he was sad, pre-occupied, and thoughtful; and, with the natural gaiety of a Frenchwoman, she rallied him on the subject of his pensiveness, and bade him be of good cheer; for though man proposed, God disposed, and all would yet be well.