"A priest," she cried, "a priest, for God's love and sweet St. Mary's sake: a priest to confess the king!"
"To confess whom say ye?" cried the headmost of four armed horsemen, who, with helmets open and swords drawn, galloped up to her in the glooming.
"The king, the king, gude sirs—our puir and sakeless king!"
"And where is he, gudewife?"
"Lying in our pair bed—here, in here, ayont the hallan in my gudeman's mill. Oh, sirs, for a priest!"
"Hush, woman, I am a priest," said the first, who was no other than Sir Hew Borthwick, with a glance of infernal import to his three companions, as he leaped from his horse; "lead me to the king."
Borthwick entered the lonely mill, and his three companions, who were no other than Sir Patrick Gray of Kyneff, Sir William Stirling of Keir, and Sir James Shaw of Sauchie, after fastening their horses to the hedge without, followed him beyond the hallan, or wooden partition which formed the inner apartment.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE REGICIDES.
"Upon desolate Aros there is wailing and weeping,
For the chief of her lords in the dark chamber sleeping;
In the dark chamber sleepeth our curly-tressed warrior,
In the day of the battle our bulwark and barrier."
Lament for Maclean of Aros.