"My father,—oh, my father!"
"Born of the daughter of Scotland?" he added, bitterly.
"My heart, long steeped in sorrow, will burst at last. In pity, father, have mercy on us."
"And where is the lawless traitor who stole thee from me, and hath concealed thee for these many long years, my daughter?"
"Say rather, where is he who saved me when the greatest and noblest in the land—yea, even Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of Lothian, hung back."
"Kenneth of the Isles and Dunbar of Lothian are both lying dead in their armour by the walls of Balvenie;—God rest them! they fought and fell for our dear Scotland. But Mac Ian; where is he?"
"Yonder he comes down the glade, with a stag on his back,—your favourite huntsman, so ready of hand and true of aim; the same Mac Ian Rua as of old," said Cora, in a trembling voice.
"Heaven be praised, my daughter, I have found thee; yet oh, to find thee thus!"
"Oh, embrace me, or I shall die; let me feel your cheek on mine once more, my father!"
"Come, then—come to my old heart," said the King, as he sobbed; for it was a rude old age, when even kings had human hearts, and nobles were not without them.