"But alack! they are both brave and determined."
"Likely enough—brave fellows in smooth water; but I'll teach them how to dip their spoons in the captain's mess; by St. Mary I will!"
Euphemia Drummond threw herself upon his breast and wept, as she said—
"Surely, they will never have the evil heart to take me from thee? Oh, were my uncle the dean, or our good friend the old bishop here, they dared not even to think of it."
"But your uncle the dean is attending a chapter at Dunblane, and our good friend the bishop is drinking King Henry's sack in London Tower, to which he has been wantonly conveyed a prisoner, by those same Englishmen who quite as wantonly slew my poor father on the open seas. But some one approaches—'tis thy father, Effie; leave me to speak with him on this matter—for a moment only, my sweet one."
As the old lord raised the arras at one end of the apartment and entered, his eldest daughter retired by a door at the other; and Robert Barton, while his heart swelled with sorrow and honest indignation, approached with a lowering brow the father of the girl he loved, and one whom until now he had ever esteemed is a dear and venerable friend.
"Good my lord," said he, "I pray you to pardon me, if I intrude upon the grief occasioned by the disappearance of Lady Margaret, by making a humble offer of my service and assistance."
"I thank you, Master Robert Barton," replied Lord Drummond, with something of confusion and much of stern coldness in his manner; "but I believe that to the king—and to him only—must I look for the restoration of my dearest and most gentle daughter."
"To the king?——"
"Ay, to the king! I spoke plain enough. She is the wedded wife of his son, the Duke of Rothesay——"