"No—why do you ask?" said Murielle timidly.
"I thought a gnat had stung you."
"Oh, it was Andrew Gray, of Balgarno, who was wounded," said Maud good-naturedly, as she turned in haste to Murielle, whose anxiety she wished to relieve.
"Was your father sure of this?" asked the countess.
"The Provost of Dumfries had the surest tidings."
Margaret smiled bitterly at her pale sister.
"Alas!" thought the latter, in her heart, "he is not spoken of. Oh, can he be dead, that others have led where he was wont to lead?"
After a pause,
"Murielle," said the countess, with some asperity, "if you will not work with us, take your harp, and sing. Occupation will at times divert the mind, even from its most bitter thoughts. Please to give us the ballad of 'Sir Hugh le Blonde.'"
The ladies urged her to do so, but she replied briefly and wearily,—