'Patie! Patrick! Patrick Drummond!' he wildly shouted, ‘are you there?'

No answer; and seeing through the smoke a stair, he rushed up. There in an upper room, on a bed, lay a senseless form, suffocated perhaps by the smoke, but unmistakeably his cousin! He called to him, seized him, shook him, dragged him out of bed, all in vain; there was no sign of animation. The fire was gaining on the house; Malcolm's own breath was failing, and his frenzied efforts to carry Patrick's almost giant form to the stairs were quite unavailing. Wild with horror, he flew shouting down-stairs to call Halbert, whom he had left with his horse; but neither Halbert nor horse was in sight, nor indeed any of the party. Not a man was in sight, except a few hurrying far out of reach, as if something had alarmed them. He wrung his hands in anguish, and was about to make another attempt to drag Patrick down from the already burning house, when suddenly a troop of horse was among the scene of desolation, and at their head King James himself. Malcolm had not heard their approach through the roaring of the flame; and they had no doubt been sent to prevent the rapine. Malcolm flew to the King, cutting short his angry exclamation, with the cry, 'Help! help! he will burn! Patrick! Patie Drummond! There!'

James had scarce gathered the sense of the words, ere leaping from his horse, he bounded up the stairs, through the smoke, amid flakes of burning thatch falling from the roof, groped in the dense clouds of smoke for the senseless weight, and holding the shoulders while Malcolm held the feet, they sped down the stair, and rested not till they had laid him under a chestnut tree, out of reach of the crash of the house, which fell in almost instantly.

'Does he live?' gasped Malcolm.

'He will not,' said the King, if his nation be known here. Keep out of his sight! He must hear only French!'

Remembering how inexorably Henry hung every Scotch prisoner, Malcolm's heart sank. This was why no one had sought the prisoner. A Scot was not available for ransom! Should he be the murderer of his cousin, Lily's love?

Meantime James hurriedly explained to Kitson that here was the sick man left by the enemy, summoned Sir Nigel to his side, closed his own visor, and called for water; then hung over the prisoner, anxious to prevent the first word from being broad Scotch. In the free air, some long sobs shewed that Patrick was struggling back to life; and James at once said, 'Rendez vous, Messire;' but he neither answered, nor was there meaning in his eyes. And James perceived that he was bandaged as though for broken ribs, and that his right shoulder was dislocated; and no doubt had been a second time pulled out, when Malcolm had grasped him by the arms. He swooned again at the first attempt to lift him; and a hay-cart having been left in the flight of the marauders, he was laid in it, and covered with the King's cloak, to be conveyed to

Corbeil, where James trusted to secure his life by personal intercession with Henry. He groaned heavily several times, but never opened his eyes or spoke articulately the whole way; and James and Sir Nigel kept on either side of the cart, ready to address him in French the first moment, having told the English that he was a prisoner of quality, who must be carefully conveyed to King James's tent at Corbeil. Malcolm was not allowed to approach, lest he should be recognized; and he rode along in an agony of shame and suspense, with very different feelings towards Patrick than those with which he had of late thought of him, or of his own promises. If Patrick died through this plundering raid, how should he ever face Lily?

It was nearly night ere they reached Corbeil, where the tents were pitched outside the little town. James committed his captive to the prudent care of old Baird, bidding him send for a French or Burgundian surgeon, unable to detect the Scottish tongue; and then, taking Malcolm with him, he crossed the square in the centre of the camp to the royal pavilion, opposite to which his own was pitched.

It was a sultry night, and Henry had insisted on sleeping in his tent, declaring himself sick of stone walls; and as they approached, his voice could be heard in brief excited sentences, giving orders, and asking for the King of Scots.

'Here, Sir,' said James, stepping in where the curtain was looped up, and shewed King Henry half sitting, half lying, on a couch of cushions and deer skins, his eyes full of fire, his thin face flushed with deep colour; Bedford, March, Warwick, and Salisbury in attendance.

'Ho! you are late!' said Henry. Did you come up with the caitiff robbers?'

'They made off as we rode up. The village was already burnt.'

Who were they? I hope you hung them on the spot, as I bade,' continued Henry, coughing between his sentences, and almost in spite of himself, putting his hand to his side.

'I was delayed. There was a life to save. A gentleman who lay sick and stifled in a burning house.'

'And what was it to you,' cried Henry angrily, if a dozen rebel Armagnacs were fried alive, when I sent you to hinder my men from growing mere thieves? Gentleman, forsooth! One would think it the Dauphin himself; or mayhap Buchan. Ha! it is a Scot then!'

'Yes, Sir,' said James. 'Sir Patrick Drummond, a good knight, hurt and helpless, for whom I entreat your grace.'

'You disobeyed me to spare a Scot!' burst forth Henry. call yourself a captain of mine, and who know my will. instantly!'

You, who He hangs

'Harry, bethink yourself. This is no captive taken in battle. He is a sick man, left behind, sorely hurt.'

'Then wherefore must you be meddling, instead of letting him burn as he deserved, and heeding what you undertook for me? I will have

none of your traitor ruffians here. Since you have brought him in, the halter for him!-Here, Ralf Percy, tell the provost marshal-'

He was interrupted, for James unbuckled his sword, and tendered it to him.

'King Harry,' he said gravely, this morning I was your friend and brother-in-arms; now I am your captive. Hang Patrick Drummond, who aided me at Meaux in saving my honour, and such freedom as I have, and I return to any prison you please, and never strike blow for you again.'

'Take back your sword,' said Henry. What folly is this? You knew that I count not your rebel subjects as prisoners of war.'

6

'I did not know that I was saving a defenceless man from the flames, to be used like a dog. I never offered my arm to serve a savage tyrant.' Take your sword,' reiterated Henry, his passion giving way before James's steady calmness. We look into it to-morrow: but it was no soldierly act to take advantage of my weariness, to let my commands be broken the first day of taking the field; and bring the caitiff here. We will leave him for the night, I say. Take up your sword.'

'Not till I am sure of my liegeman's life,' said James.

'No threats, Sir. I will make no promise,' said Henry haughtily; but the words died away in a racking cough.

And Bedford, laying his hand on James's arm, said, 'He is fevered and weary. Fret him no longer; but take your sword, and get your fellow out of the camp.'

James was too much hurt to make a compromise. 'No,' he said; 'unless your brother freely spares the life of a man thus taken, I must be his prisoner-but his soldier never!'

He left the tent, followed by Malcolm, in an agony of despair and selfreproach.

Henry's morning decisions were not apt to vary from his evening ones. There was a terrible implacability about him at times; and he had never ceased to visit his brother of Clarence's death upon the Scots, on the plea that they were in arms against their king. Even Bedford obviously thought that the prisoner would be safest out of his reach; and this could hardly be accomplished, since Patrick had been placed in James's tent, in the very centre of the camp, near the King's own. And though Bedford and March might have connived at his being taken away, yet the mass of the soldiery would, if they detected a Scot being smuggled away into the town, have been persuaded that King James was acting treacherously.

Besides, the captive himself proved to be so exhausted, that to transport him any further in his present state, would be almost certainly fatal. A barber surgeon from Corbeil had been fetched, and was dealing with the injuries, which had apparently been the effect of a fall some days previously, probably when on his way to join the French army at Cosne; and the first fever of these hurts had no doubt been aggravated

by the adventures of the day. At any rate, Patrick lay unconscious, or only from time to time groaning or murmuring a few words, sometimes French, sometimes Scotch.

Malcolm would have fallen on his knees by his side, and striven to win a word or a look; but James forcibly withheld him. 'If you roused him into loud ravings in our own tongue, all hope of saving him would be gone,' he said.

'Shall we? Oh, can we !' cried Malcolm, catching at the mere word hope.

'I only know,' said the King, 'that unless we do so by Harry's good will, I will never serve under him again.'

'And if he persists in his cruelty?'

'Then must some means be found of carrying Drummond into Corbeil. It will go hard with me, but he shall be saved, Malcolm. But this whole army is against a Scot; and Harry's eye is everywhere, and his fierceness unrelenting. Malcolm, this is bondage! May God and St. Andrew aid us!'

When the King came to saying that, it was plain he deemed the case almost past all other aid.

Malcolm's misery was great. The very sight of Patrick had made a mighty revulsion in his feelings. The almost forgotten associations of Glenuskie were revived; the forms of his guardian and of Lily came before him, as he heard familiar names and phrases in the dear home accent fall from the fevered lips. Coldingham rose up before him, and St. Abb's, with Lily watching on the rocks for tidings of her knighther knight, to whom her brother had once promised to resign all his lands and honours; but who now lay captured by plunderers, among whom that brother made one, and in peril of a shameful death. Oh, far better die in his stead, than return to Lily with tidings such as these!

Was this retribution for his broken purpose, and for having fallen away, not merely into secular life, but into sins that stood between him and religious rites? The King had called St. Andrew to aid! Must a proof of repentance and change be given, ere that aid would come? Should he vow himself again to the cloister, yield up the hope of Esclairmonde, and devote himself for Patrick's sake? Could he ever be happy with Patrick dead, and Esclairmonde driven and harassed into being his wife? Were it not better to vow at once, that so his cousin were spared he would return to his old purposes?

Almost had he uttered the vow, when tugging hard at his heart came the vision of Esclairmonde's loveliness, and he felt it beyond his strength to resign her voluntarily; besides, how Madame of Hainault and Monseigneur de Thérouenne would deride his uncertainties; and how intolerable it would be to leave Esclairmonde to fall into the hands of Boemond of Burgundy.

Such a renunciation could not be made; he did not even know that Patrick's safety depended on it; and instead of that, he promised with

great fervency of devotion, that if St. Andrew would save Patrick Drummond, and bring about the two marriages, a most splendid monastery for educational purposes, such as the King so much wished to found, should be his reward! It should be in honour of St. Andrew ; and should be endowed with Esclairmonde's wealth, which would be quite ample enough, both for this and for a noble portion for Lily. Surely St. Andrew must accept such a vow, and spare Patrick! So Malcolm tried to pacify an anguish of suspense that would not be pacified. (To be continued.)

CAMPANELLA.

CHAPTER VIII.

Not long after this, a great event happened to Campanella. In itself it seemed a trifle; but it was no trifle in its consequences to her.

It was half-past eight in the evening; Nella was in bed, for she had learned the lessons set her by Miss Charteris, and then darkness had come on. It grew dark now before eight o'clock, and although there were plenty of candles hanging by their wicks on a nail in the cupboard, Nella had been so often warned by Mrs. Lester about the danger of setting the house on fire, that she was half afraid to light a candle lest some wandering spark should hide itself and burn up everything. When it was dark, she had raked up the ashes and smothered the fire with them, pouring a little water on the top, as Mrs. Lester had taught her to do, so that Bill, when he came home, might find some smouldering heat which he could stir into a blaze. And then she had gone to bed. She was almost asleep, when a loud noise below awoke her. Bill had come home, bringing companions with him. He had never done this before since Nella came, and now she was frightened by the boisterous way in which the men talked and laughed and knocked the chairs about. She could not understand what they said, but their voices kept her awake. Presently there was a great poking of the fire, and afterwards a strong smell of spirits and tobacco came up through the trap-door to Nella's room. While the men were smoking they grew quieter, and by-and-bye the little girl distinctly heard Bill's voice, saying, 'Give us a tune, Dutchy.' What 'Dutchy' meant she did not know; but she had learned the word 'tune' from Miss Charteris, and heard it exemplified too, in a charming way, on the piano; so now she lay listening in expectation. Not expecting much pleasure, however. She did not think that very lovely music could be made by any friend of Bill Waters, whom, privately, she likened to everything rough and ugly which she had ever known. She awaited something like the harsh loud singing which hurt her so