"I have nothing to urge," said she, gently; "my mind has long been without hope, and my heart is so crushed by sorrow that I have now less courage than a child."
"Has the Lord Drummond forgotten altogether that you are my plighted wife, Euphemia?" asked Barton, in a mingled tone of tenderness and anger.
"He forgets all—everything—or despises to remember——"
"And faith! I had almost forgotten to give thee that particular kiss our dear Margaret sent thee."
"Stay—the friar—"
"Oh, the hermit—he is busy overhauling our baskets; well—and so Lord Drummond forgets, eh?"
"Everything of the past; and now sees nothing but two earl's coronets and clumps of Border spears; and hears nothing but the whispers of envy, anger, and restless ambition——"
"Ay—and treason and rebellion."
"Hush, Bob," said the less confident Falconer; "bethink you he is their father?"
"Poor infatuated old lord," continued Barton, pursuing his own train of thought; "in these times it may be rash to wed, when one half of Scotland has unsheathed the sword against the other; but why may we not bring in the hermit; here is an altar (in the kingdom we have none holier), and we have witnesses enough—the pages, the tirewomen, and the gunner. Father Fairlie will splice us all in half the time a reel would run; what say you, dear Euphemia?"