"My Lord of Rothsay," he said, approaching him with grave ceremony, "I need not tell you that you owe me something for reparation of honour, though I blame not you personally for the breach of contract which has destroyed the peace of my family.

Let me conjure you, by what observance your Highness may owe an injured man, to forego for the present this scandalous dispute." "My lord, I owe you much," replied Rothsay; "but this haughty and all controlling lord has wounded mine honour." "My lord, I can but add, your royal father is ill--hath swooned with terror for your Highness's safety." "Ill!" replied the Prince--"the kind, good old man swooned, said you, my Lord of March?
I am with him in an instant." The Duke of Rothsay sprung from his saddle to the ground, and was dashing into the palace like a greyhound, when a feeble grasp was laid on his cloak, and the faint voice of a kneeling female exclaimed, "Protection, my noble prince!--protection for a helpless stranger!" "Hands off, stroller!" said the Earl of March, thrusting the suppliant glee maiden aside.
But the gentler prince paused.

"It is true," he said, "I have brought the vengeance of an unforgiving devil upon this helpless creature.

O Heaven! what a life, is mine, so fatal to all who approach me! What to do in the hurry?
She must not go to my apartments.

And all my men are such born reprobates.