Many have ruined their fortunes; many have escaped ruin by want of fortune. To obtain it the great have become little, and the little great.—Zimmerman.

"Luaig, laird of Luaig," said Albany, ponderingly; "I do not recognize the name."

"Lairds are plenty as heather hills in the far north country," said Achanna, sneeringly.

"And I have been long enough in France and elsewhere to forget even my mother tongue, as well as my dear mother's face; yet she was Isabel of Lennox," said Albany, sadly; "but lairds in the north are plenty, I know."

"And poor as plenty," added Achanna.

"True, sir," said Gray, "and hence my mission here in Flanders."

"How; I was just about to inquire," observed the duke; "seek you knight's service?"

"Yes; fortune has made me a free lance."

"And ready to follow any banner?"

"Yes; provided it find me in food, horse, and armour."

"Then follow me," said Albany, "and ere long, my friend, I may find work for your sword at home."

"At home; do you mean in Scotland?"

"Aye, in Scotland; how now, Achanna, why the devil dost twitch my sleeve?"

"As a warning that your grace should be wary."

"Here thought and speech are free. True, we have not eaten a peck of salt with our new friend, the laird of Luaig, but at this distance from that bloody rock which lies before Stirling gate, we may trust him nevertheless," said the reckless Albany, draining his wine cup at a draught; "wilt follow me, Luaig—is it a bargain?" he added, holding out his hand.

"But whither goes your grace?"

"To tread the same path my hapless father trod," replied the duke, with something of dignity and pathos in his manner.

"It may lead, alas!—--"

"To the same bloody doom, you would say?"

"Yes; I would pray your grace to be wary."

"I care not; I shall live and die, Robert Stewart, duke of Albany and earl of Rosse, if I die not something better."

A cunning smile twinkled in the hawk-like eyes of the unfathomable Achanna.

"Sit with us, Luaig," said Albany; "my heart ever warms to my countrymen, though cold as ice to my little cousin their king; and there are times when I hope to close my eyes peacefully in the same place where they first saw the light, the old castle of Rothesay by the sea—the waves that flow through the bonnie kyles of Bute, and past the hills of Cowal; but of all that more anon. Sit with us, sir, the more the merrier."

"With this poor stoup of wine?" said the prosaic Achanna, peering into the tankard with one of his cunning eyes.

"True, the old saw did not add that," said Albany, rattling the purse at his girdle; "but gibe me not about it. What can be worse than having too much liquor?"

"Having none at all," returned the thirsty parasite.

"Laus Deo! you are right, Achanna. Hallo, tapster! more wine, and quickly too. Think of Robert of Albany having for a server that slipshod varlet, who is all breeches and horn buttons! But you seem to have been severely wounded, laird of Luaig?"

"Almost to death," said Gray, and while Achanna, as if inspired by some undefinable suspicion, surveyed him keenly, he writhed at having to falsify so much, and trembled for the next question; but, on the wine being placed on the table, the careless Albany filled their cups to the brim, saying, "Drink, my friend, drink of this, it comes from the land of old Duke Philip the Good, and you will find it better than arquebusade," he added, referring to a medicinal lotion then famous for gun-shot wounds.

"May I ask in what direction your grace is travelling?" inquired Gray, who had some anxiety in the matter.

"The direction that suits our fancy," replied Achanna.

"I spoke to the duke of Albany," said Gray, with a flash in his eye, and a gush of fury through his heart.

"True, and Albany can answer for himself," said the duke; "we are travelling with all speed to overtake the earl of Douglas and his friends."

"Who are now at Breda?" said Gray, eagerly.

"No; they are at—how name you the place, Achanna?"

"Where?" asked Gray, as the latter hesitated.

"At Bommel."

"Is it distant?"

"Nay, 'tis thirty miles nearer than Breda, and we shall reach it to-morrow."

"And to-morrow, perhaps, I may see her," thought the lover in his heart.

"To the great Earl James of Douglas, Abercorn, and Avondale, and to our happy meeting," exclaimed Albany, draining another large cup of wine.

Rendered reckless by years of disappointment, by dissipation, and the mortifications incident to exile and dependence, the unfortunate young duke, the victim of circumstances and the treasons of his father, drank, as seemed to be his wont, deeply; and, as he did so, unfolded unwittingly no doubt to Gray (and to the great discomposure of Achanna), the extent and daring of the designs entertained by the Douglases; and he continued to do so, regardless of their more wary and more subtle follower, who, with one eye glistening apparently on each, listened impatiently, and seemed to scrutinize Gray as if he would have read his soul.

That Albany should be plotting with Douglas to subvert the king's power, or to usurp his crown, did not excite Gray's wonder; but his heart almost died within him, when the duke, in a half-serious and half-bantering way, mentioned incidentally, the proposed firmer and more lasting alliance between the great earl and himself, by marriage with Murielle Douglas; and had it not happened that the worthy master James Achanna's dagger fell from its sheath upon the floor, and that he had to stoop beneath the table to pick it up, keen and sharp as he was, he could not have failed to remark the pallor which overspread the lover's face, and the wild light that flashed in his eyes, at this crushing information. However, rallying all his energies to seem collected and cool, after a pause, Gray said,

"But, under favour, is not your grace contracted to a daughter of Charles VII. of France."

"Yes; I believe my father, poor duke Murdoch, made some such arrangement ere his head was cut off—when I was a child, and his captive nephew, James I., was twangling on his ghittern to Jane Beaufort in the gardens of Windsor."

"Believe! are you not certain?" said Gray earnestly.

"Since I have been among Hussites, Parisians, Bohemians, and Germans, I have been certain of nothing my friend—not even of my own existence—for this is a land of fog and philosophy; but I would have been much more certain of that spousal contract, had Monseigneur Charles the Victorious been a little more liberal with his French crowns, and a little less so with his French compliments, as I could live on the first, but not on the second. Moreover, I think my little princess Radegonde is not quite pleased with me, since my affair with Madame d'Armagnac."

"Who is she?"

"A woman more beautiful than Agnes Sorel—the lady of beauty. I have seen them both together. And then, as the devil would have it, I got embroiled with Madame la Marchale de Loheac, while her patriotic husband was fighting those insolent English last year in Bretagne and Anjou."

"But—but, your grace," stammered Gray, who felt as if he was on the eve of losing his Murielle for ever, "you are solemnly betrothed to Mademoiselle of France."

"I am—and what then?"

"Such a contract cannot be broken."

"Save by the pope, so the earl of Douglas is now on his way to Rome with Dame Murielle; I mean to accompany them, and so may you, if you care for attaching yourself to my fortunes, or misfortunes rather. That contract, moreover, was made when my father was regent of Scotland, and the king was a prisoner of war in England—and Mademoiselle of France considers me but as an outlaw now." Then after humming a lively French air, Albany said, "'tis said Murielle Douglas sings like a throstle, when winging its way aloft on a beltane morning. The throstle!" he added, letting his chin drop on his breast with an air of tipsy sadness, "Ah! that makes me think of poor old Scotland, which, despite these desperate plots, I may never see again, and my heart is wrung within me, when I think of the bonnie birken woods that shed their autumn leaves upon my mother's grave."

After a pause Albany suddenly raised his head, and Gray was moved to perceive that his fine dark eyes were full of tears; but he again filled and drained his cup of wine, and it had the effect of completely intoxicating him.

"It has been arranged that your grace was to meet the earl on his travel?" asked Gray.

"Yes; and he sent our good friend Achanna, with a message inviting me to join him and my intended little duchess at Bommel," replied Albany, laughing; "and so I have been travelling so fast, that my horses must have discovered an impatient lover was in the saddle; but what the devil dost think was master Achanna's first information for me?"

"I cannot guess," said Gray, not much interested in the matter.

"That she has a lover already."

"A lover!" exclaimed Gray, in a very different tone.

"Aye, a lover here in Flanders," hiccuped Albany, while Gray sat breathless, and toyed with his dagger in the shade.

"His name?" said he.

"Sir Patrick Gray, captain of my dear cousin's royal guard. Laus Deo! if I discover him, he is extremely likely to rot in Flemish earth, while his papers may be of service to us."

"How so?"

"Because he is on a mission from the earl's three enemies—my cousin, his regent Livingstone, and the chancellor Crichton—aid me to discover—to kill him, and in Lennox, I will more than double your lands of Luaig."

"And object of this mission—"

"Ah! that is just what we want to know, though many say, 'tis but to Arnold d'Egmont of Gueldres, anent a royal marriage. But I'll brook no lovers, no rivals, near my throne—Laus Deo, no! and I would give all I have—not much certainly—to be as near this Sir Patrick Gray as I am to you at this moment. But a friend of mine is on his track already, I believe—one whom he cannot hope to escape."

"A friend?" said Gray.

"An unfortunate and valiant Count of Flanders."

"Who?"

"Ludwig of Endhoven, a captain of Brabanciones; by St. Christopher our lover is not likely to escape him—eh, Achanna! but now let us to bed—to bed; for we must be in our saddles by cockcrow to-morrow. Achanna, your arm," said the poor young duke, staggering up; "Lua-Luaig—fare, sir—fare you well."

"Good night to your grace, and God be wi' you!" said Gray, opening and closing the door as they separated.

After the duke and Achanna were gone, he sat long and late, full of anxious and bitter thoughts that came thick and fast upon him. He felt agony at the idea of Murielle being about to be sacrificed to the wild, ambitious, and revengeful schemes of the earl of Douglas and the duke of Albany; and he actually trembled lest her heart might have changed or her fancy have been dazzled, for he now remembered with pain the banter of his comrade and kinsman, MacLellan. He pitied and despised the outlawed duke, yet he trembled for the trouble, which he, with the earl, when combined, might give the young king James, their master. He was filled with wrath at the resolution, so fully expressed, to destroy himself, and starting to his feet, he was about to get his sword from the tapster, and summon Achanna forth into the moonlight, which shone brightly, to upbraid him with his villany, and then kill him on the spot; and in doing so, he would not have committed a crime, but have acted simply in the spirit of the age. However, cooler reflection showed that he might serve Murielle, the king, and himself better, by preserving his incognito. So master Achanna, that utilitarian Scot, who would have sold his own father and his mother to boot, without compunction, slept that night without a yard of cold iron in his body.

Yet, as it was impossible for Gray to travel with Duke Robert and this scurvy companion to Bommel, he resolved to set forward alone. Thus, after a restless night, he was up and mounted an hour before sunrise, and while the frowsy haze hung thick and yellow over the pale-green willow-copse of the Maese, veiling all Grave and the quaint old castle of Otho, lord of Cuick and Haverale, he was far on his journey to Bommel.