"Cora!" he reiterated, and bursting into tears, pressed her to his breast; "I might have guessed it—Cora! what other name could be borne by one so bright, so beautiful, and so innocent; but be not alarmed my poor little one, for I once had a Cora like thee."
"Oh, here we byde, and yonder is my mother!" said the child, who was terrified by the stranger's emotion; and now they found themselves before a hunter's cot, the walls and roof of which were formed of turf and clay; and over the door of which were the branching antlers of a stag. Around it was a thicket of dark hawthorns, with all their white blossoms in full and fragrant bloom,—for as the reader has no doubt long since surmised, this was the humble dwelling of Mac Ian Rua which the king approached, and the beautiful matron who stood at its lowly door, with two babies at her knee and one in her arms, was his daughter Cora; yet the king, whose mind was full of her, knew her not; for she no longer wore the rich attire, the garments of many-coloured silk, the jewels and golden armlets of old, with which he had last seen her; but a homespun kirtle and linen tunic with sleeves that reached only to her white elbows; and about her tresses, which once waved round her head like a golden halo, was plaited a plain linen fillet—the heafodes roegel, or headrail of the Lowland peasant woman—an adoption from the Saxons—who dwelt beyond the English border.
The King gazed upon her earnestly, yet he knew her not; and though he was older and his face was more wrinkled,—though his eyes were sad and haggard, and his hair, which had been grey, was now white as the snows of Ben Mhor, Cora knew her parent—that princely sire who had loved her so well of old—and all the daughter gushed up in her heart; yet not a word could she sajr, but gazed upon him trembling with sorrow and remorse, with fear, with love, and hope, while her children clung to her skirts, and she pressed to her bosom their youngest born—the child of Mac Ian Rua, the banished huntsman.
"Good woman, I seek but a night's shelter in your sheiling, till my train can join me," said the King; "be not alarmed, I am a Scottish soldier, and have been fighting all day down the waterside. The foes are vanquished, and the King is safe. Allow me to enter; and believe that kindness will not be unrewarded. My name is Malcolm Mac Kenneth."
The tongue of Cora was without words. Silently she led Malcolm into her humble hut, and silently placed a seat for him, spreading the softest deerskin under his feet,—for her gentle heart was full of old thoughts and loving memories that came crowding fast and remorselessly upon her—summoned back, as it were, by the sound of her father's voice; yet that voice was sadder in tone, and more tremulous than it was wont to be of old; and that conviction stirred her hoart of hearts, and crossing her hands upon her bosom, she thought,—"Oh, pardon me, God—for it is I who have caused this!"
"Hast thou no words to welcome me, good woman, or does this armour, even when on an auld man's back, so scare thee?" said the King, kindly, taking one of the children on his knee, as he perceived that she was gazing eagerly, mournfully, and with awe upon him, as he sat near the little window, with his silver tresses glittering in the light of the west, and his wrinkled hand resting on the flaxen head of his little conductress.
Cora could control her emotions no longer!
"Father—sire!" she exclaimed wildly, as she threw herself upon the clay floor and embraced his knees; "oh, father! dost thou not know me? Have these few years so sorely changed me? I am Cora—thine own Cora, who was swept down the Lynn of Clyde. Beloved father and king—behold me at thy feet! Oh thou whom I have so cruelly and so wickedly forsaken in thine old age, pardon and forgive me, lest these younglings should forsake me in turn; forgive me and bless me, though I have sinned against God and thee!"
These words terrified the old king as if a spirit had spoken them. He held her from him at arm's length, and his eyes wandered over her face and person with an expression of fear and wonder.
"I am Cora, the little child that clambered at your knee, and nestled in your bosom, in old Dunfermline Tower," she exclaimed, passionately; "I am Cora whose cheek was once so dimpled—whose hair was so bright—whose little mouth you kissed so often and so kindly——"