And a good evening to my friend Don Carlos.
Some lucky star has led my steps this way:
I was in search of you.—The Spanish Student.

Before Gray crossed the Dee at Kelton, there came over the scenery a dense white mist, which rolled like smoke along the hills, and hung in dewdrops on his horse's mane and bridle, dimming the brightness of his armour and the embroidery of his surcoat. In this obscurity he lost his way amid the waste muirlands which the road, a mere bridle-path destitute of wall or fence, traversed. Then a sharp shower of hail fell, the stones rattling on his steel trappings as on a latticed window; and through the openings in the haze, the far-stretching dells and pastoral hills of Galloway seemed wet and grey and dreary.

The country was singularly desolate; he met no person to direct him; thus, amid the obscurity of the mist and the approaching evening, he knew not where he was, but continued to ride slowly and vaguely on.

Anon a breeze came, and the grey clouds began to disperse; the hail ceased, and the haze rolled away like finely-carded wool along the sides of the hills. The setting sun of August beamed forth in his farewell splendour, the mavis and merle chorused merrily in the sauch and hawthorn trees; for a time the hill-tops became green, and the high corn that waved on the upland slopes seemed to brighten with the partial heat and moisture. After a time, Sir Patrick found that he had penetrated to the border of Glenkens, then the wildest and most savage part of Galloway. Wheeling round his horse, he rode fast in the direction from whence he had come, and just as the sun's broad disc began to dip behind the grassy hills, and to shed its warm light upon the windings of the Dee, from an eminence he could see afar off the vast square keep of Thrave looming black and sombre, with the dusky smoke ascending from its great chimney-stalks into the calm sky in steady columns, unbroken by the breeze.

Soft was the evening light, and softer now the air, and no sound but the occasional lowing of the black cattle, or those nameless country noises which seem to come from afar, broke the stillness of the vast pastoral landscape.

The Dee has all the characteristics of a Scottish stream: now gliding stealthily and sullenly through deep pools and dark rocky chasms, where the wiry pine, the crisp-leaved oak, and the feathery silver birch cast their shadows on the darting trout or the lurking salmon; now chafing and brawling in white foam over a precipitous ledge of red sandstone, then gurgling down a bed of "unnumbered pebbles;" and now sweeping broad and stilly past a thatched clachan, a baron's moated tower, a ruined chapel, where bells were rung and masses said when Alan was lord of Galloway and constable of Scotland; then round some statelier fane like Tongland, or a vast feudal strength like Thrave of the Douglases.

After seeing the latter, Gray rode slowly and thoughtfully, for it brought the face, the form, the voice, the smile, and all the image of Murielle more vividly before him. The scenery, the place, the very air, seemed full of the presence of her, his loved and lost one.

And now the moon arose, but not brilliantly; it shot fitful gleams between weird masses of flying cloud, with a pale and ghastly effect which made the gnarled trunks of the old trees seem like spectres or fantastic figures. Erelong, Gray entered a long and narrow glen, clothed on each side by a thick fir forest, where the density of the wiry foliage was such that the darkness became quite opaque.

Here he suddenly found himself joined by a horseman, who came either from the wayside thicket or out of the ground—it might have been either, so unexpected was his appearance. A gleam of the moon, as it came down a ravine, showed that this man and his horse were of great strength and stature. He wore a hunting suit, with a sword, bugle, and small steel cap which glittered in the moonlight.

"Under favour, I presume, we may travel together?" said he, bluntly.

"Provided the road be broad enough," replied Gray in the same manner, for there was something in this man's voice which strangely affected him, causing his hair to bristle up, his pulses to quicken, and the almost obliterated wounds on his face to smart.

Whence was this emotion? Where had he heard that voice before? Where seen that grim and sturdy figure? Each looked from time to time at the other, and seemed anxious to make out who or what he was.

"Go you far this way?" asked the stranger.

"No," replied Gray, curtly.

"May I ask how far?"——"I am bound for Thrave."

"Indeed," said the other, looking fixedly at Gray, as they walked their horses side by side; "have you made a long journey?"——"From Edinburgh," replied Gray, briefly.

"You are a bold man to pass through the Johnstones of Annandale and the Borderland at this time."

"How bolder at this time than at any other?"

"That you may soon learn," replied the stranger, laughing at Gray's tone of displeasure.

"I am Sir Patrick Gray of Foulis, captain of the king's guard, and am bound to ride wherever he may order, and woe to those who dare obstruct me," said Gray, peering forward to discern the speaker, who started visibly at this reply, and after the silence of a moment said, "I too am bound for Thrave. For two days past I have been abroad hunting, but have missed or outridden my friends. Well, what may the news be from the good town of Edinburgh? and how fare the king, his carpet knights, and cock-sparrow courtiers, eh?"

"Were I not riding on the king's errand, which makes my life more precious than if I were riding on my own, I would find you a more fitting reply than words," said Gray, who could scarcely repress his rising wrath, for the tone of the other chafed him.

"You have chosen a perilous time, assuredly, to enter Galloway on the king's service," observed the stranger, loftily; "and if my words displease, I can give full reparation when your errand is sped."

"'Tis enough, sir," said Gray, hoarsely; "on the morrow I shall have sure vengeance. No man shall slight the king in my presence, and live."

"By my sooth, his last messenger—the Rothsay herald, who came hither anent the laird of Teregles—left Galloway faster than he entered it. We are about to teach this James Stuart, that the realm of Scotland was not made for his especial use. What? after fighting for centuries, and defeating Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans—in short, all the invaders of England—we are now to tremble before this boy-king and his little Gueldrian wife? Has he forgotten how his father died?"

"How—what mean you?" asked Gray, making a vigorous effort to control his passion.

"In the Black Friary at Perth," said the other, grinding his teeth, "with the swords of Grahame and Athole clashing in his heart."

"Be assured our king has not forgotten it—but hush—be wary."

"And wherefore hush?" was the fierce response.

"Because they who did that deed, the most foul murder of God's anointed king, perished miserably on the scaffold more than twenty years ago. Their ashes have long since mingled with the earth, for fire consumed and the wind of heaven scattered them; but their names exist in the execration of all good men and true."

"Hard words," said the other, scoffingly; "hard words, sir, for us, who are on the eve, perhaps, of a most just rebellion against his son, if he and his Flemish princess, with that old fox, Crichton, push us too severely; and then I think his dainty Falkland knights, and well-fed Lothian infantry, may find it perilous work to march through Nithsdale and penetrate among the wild hills of Galloway."

Gray did not answer; they had now emerged from the wood, and the Loch of Carlinwark was shining like a mirror in the full splendour of the moonlight. At some distance he could discern the three old thorn-trees, where, on a similarly calm and lovely moonlit night, he had first plighted love, life, and hope, to Murielle; and now, as then, he could see Thrave, her home and her prison, casting its long black shadows on the Dee.

"Here is Thrave," said the stranger, reining up his powerful horse beside the barbican-gate.

"And you, sir?——"

"I am James, earl of Douglas," replied the other, sternly and loftily; "you are on the king's errand, Sir Patrick Gray—'tis well; I bid you welcome; but remember, save for that tabard which you wear, by the bones of St. Bryde, I would hang you by the neck from that stone knob above the gate!"

Gray bowed and smiled bitterly, as they rode into the court-yard, and he found himself inclosed by the gates and surrounded by the followers of his mortal enemy.

He had shuddered on passing under the barbican-gate, for a man was hanging at the gallows-knob above it. Gray knew the dread custom there—that each culprit or victim was replaced by another, and he knew not who the next "tassel" might be.

The night-wind lifted the dead man's hair at times as the body swung mournfully to and fro. Beneath this ghastly object, in the blaze of the torches which were upheld by a crowd of liveried serving-men and savage-looking kilted Galwegians, there shone a great shield of carved and painted stone. It bore the arms of the ancient lords of Galloway—azure a lion rampant, argent crowned with an imperial diadem, impaled with the countless quarterings of the Douglases.

The moon was waning now; but the number of torches, as they flared on the walls and grated windows of the vast keep, made the court-yard seem light as if the night was noon.

As Gray dismounted, a familiar voice reached his ear, saying, "Thanks, brave friend and kinsman—you have perilled much to save me!"

"Thou art right, MacLellan—I come by the king's orders, so take courage!" replied Gray, looking about him; but from which of the black gratings of that lofty edifice the voice came his eye failed to discover.

A cruel smile passed over the grim face of the earl, as he said, "Sir Patrick Gray, it is ill speaking between a full man and a fasting; so get you to bed for to-night; after breakfast to-morrow, we will consider your errand from the king; and you have my knightly word for your safety while within the walls of Thrave."

"And how, when I leave them, my lord?"

"That is as may be," said the other, turning on his heel.

With these dubious, or rather ominous words, the earl retired, and within an hour, Gray, after partaking of some refreshment alone, found himself lying on a couch with his armour on and his drawn sword by his side, endeavouring to court sleep, with his mind full of the terrible novelty of his situation; and not without a sense of charm, for he knew that Murielle was near him, and that the same roof covered them both.

On a tabourette by the bedside were placed a night-lamp, a cup of sack posset, and the earl of Douglas's dagger as a symbol of peace and protection—that he had armed his unwelcome guest against even his own household; for such was the custom of the age and country.