"Yea, madam," said he, grinding his teeth, and with a voice that made even her start; "victory, vengeance, and death are in my heart." .........
The trysting-place beside the Dee was a most sequestered spot. In all the windings of that beautiful river, by haugh and strath, there was not a lonelier. Among the dense summer foliage of the old beech-trees, around whose gnarled trunks the thick dark ivy clambered, the cushat-doves were still cooing, while the black mavis and the merry merle sang on their topmost boughs. Among rocks overhung by the clustering Gueldre-roses, the sweet brier and the fragrant honeysuckle, the deep blue Dee was jarring in tiny waves, that every rock and pebble fretted into little bells of foam; while, numerous as the stars of the sky, the yellow buttercups, the wild violets, and white gowans spangled the bright green grass on which the dew was falling thick and fast; for it was evening now, and the last rays of the sun were giving a farewell gleam on the clustered chimneys of the old mansion of Culbleine, and the older spire of Logie kirk. The murmur of the gliding water, and the rustle of the shady branches, the perfume of the summer flowers, the voices of the happy birds, and the partial glimpses of the evening sun, all combined to make beautiful the trysting-place where fair Lily was to meet her lover-cousin, as she returned from the miln of Newtoun.
On her arm hung a little basket, in which she had conveyed to the sick wife of the miller the various comfits and medicaments the good old lady her mother had so carefully prepared. Her plaid, though fastened under her chin by a silver brooch, had fallen from her head, and permitted a shower of curls to fall over her shoulders—those golden curls, such as the early painters would have adored. There was a bloom on her rounded cheek, for exercise had imparted a rosy tinge to it, and a rich red to her smiling lip; while a clear light sparkled in her deep violet eyes, as she reached the place of tryst, and looked anxiously round for her lover.
"Kenneth!" she exclaimed, on seeing a tall cavalier leaning against the well-known tree, with a feather drooping over his eyes, and a mantle dangling over his left arm, which rested on the muzzle of a carbine; "dear Kenneth!"
He turned abruptly, and she beheld the olive face and dark glittering eyes of Halbert of the Tower.
"I am not Kenneth Logie," said he courteously, raising his bonnet as he slightly kissed her hand; "may I hope that I am not the less welcome to fair Lily of the Forest?"
"Oh, no!" said she, concealing the terror with which his presence inspired her; "why should you be unwelcome? Are you not my old playmate, and, save Kenneth, the oldest friend I have known!"
Gordon stamped his foot at the name of his rival.
"And as your playmate in older and happier times, fair Lily, I now come to bid you adieu; for I am going far from the woods of Logie and Culbleine, and all those scenes around which your presence casts a charm."
"For Flanders, where your poor father went before you?" she asked, with a mixed feeling between sorrowful interest and joy at this good riddance to the district; "to the wars of Low Germanie?"