"You would undo all the past, by making me the wife of the exiled Albany, that your husband's terrible aims and ends may be furthered, his feudal power and splendour increased."
"By raising you, perhaps, to"—the countess paused—"to a throne, little fool!"
"A throne?" reiterated Murielle, in absolute bewilderment.
"Yes, a throne," said Margaret, in a low voice, as she bent her black flashing eyes close to her startled sister's face; "where can all this leaguing and combination with Henry of England, Christian of Oldenburg, John of the Isles, and with so many discontented barons, end, but in the destruction of Livingstone, of Crichton, and of that boy-king, in whose name they slew the earl of Douglas?"
"Saint Mary keep us, sister; but this is murder, treason, regicide!" said Murielle, in terror and incredulity.
"I am speaking in our castle of Thrave," said the countess, significantly, as she patted the strong rampart with her white jewelled hand; "but I am unwise in talking to you of schemes, the magnitude of which you cannot comprehend, and the daring of which appals you."
"Oh, Maggie, all this can end but in one way."
"How?"
"Destruction, forfeiture, and death!"
"We shall see," replied the countess, calmly smoothing back her silky hair; "but to resume about this Patrick Gray—who is he, that he should aspire to love my sister, the daughter of a line of powerful earls?"