"Yes; but the earl rarely condescends to hint."
"Oh my beloved heart!"
"I meant not to add to your griefs, dearest, by naming a rival whose rank renders him so formidable,—but—but—" tears choked her utterance.
"And this rival is the duke of Albany—a French minion—an outlaw; the son of a traitor who plotted for the lawless detention of James I., in England; a roué and swashbuckler, who consorts with the robber, Ludwig of Endhoven!"
"'Tis indeed he, to whom they would sacrifice me," said Murielle, clasping her poor little tremulous hands, and weeping bitterly. Gray remained silent for some moments, while love, pity, and alarm wrung his heart by turns.
"I know it—I know it," said he gloomily, "for Albany's own lips informed me."
"You see, dear Gray, to what lengths Douglas and my sister will go in their thirst for vengeance. The young king dethroned or slain; his banished cousin crowned by English aid as Robert IV., the house of Douglas would become more powerful than ever, and thus attain in the land a strength which none could crush, and before which Livingstone and Crichton assuredly must fall."
The vista these projects opened up, when thus plainly stated, startled even the gallant heart of Gray!
"But Albany dare not," said he huskily, while grasping his dagger; "this should end his treason long ere it reached the mature length his father's did."
"Douglas and Albany will dare anything," sobbed Murielle; "alas, poor me! I am, my sister says, but a child, and a very weak one in their iron hands."