“Whom shall I arrest, my liege?” he replied. “Here is none but your Grace’s royal brother of Albany.”
“Most true,” said the King, his brief fit of vindictive passion soon dying away. “Most true—none but Albany—none but my parent’s child—none but my brother. O God, enable me to quell the sinful passion which glows in this bosom. Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis!”
MacLouis cast a look of wonder towards the Duke of Albany, who endeavoured to hide his confusion under an affectation of deep sympathy, and muttered to the officer: “The great misfortune has been too much for his understanding.”
“What misfortune, please your Grace?” replied MacLouis. “I have heard of none.”
“How! not heard of the death of my nephew Rothsay?”
“The Duke of Rothsay dead, my Lord of Albany?” exclaimed the faithful Brandane, with the utmost horror and astonishment. “When, how, and where?”
“Two days since—the manner as yet unknown—at Falkland.”
MacLouis gazed at the Duke for an instant; then, with a kindling eye and determined look, said to the King, who seemed deeply engaged in his mental devotion: “My liege! a minute or two since you left a word—one word—unspoken. Let it pass your lips, and your pleasure is law to your Brandanes!”
“I was praying against temptation, MacLouis,” said the heart broken King, “and you bring it to me. Would you arm a madman with a drawn weapon? But oh, Albany! my friend—my brother—my bosom counsellor—how—how camest thou by the heart to do this?”
Albany, seeing that the King’s mood was softening, replied with more firmness than before: “My castle has no barrier against the power of death. I have not deserved the foul suspicions which your Majesty’s words imply. I pardon them, from the distraction of a bereaved father. But I am willing to swear by cross and altar, by my share in salvation, by the souls of our royal parents—”