What mattered that their tyrant was a valiant knight, a worthy son of chivalry: they saw but an usurper, an enslaver, and they rose and spurned his smiles--aye, and they _will_ rise again.

And wert thou one of them, sweet girl; a cotter's wife, thou too wouldst pine for freedom.
Yes; Scotland will bethink her of her warrior's fate, and shout aloud revenge for Wallace!" Either his argument was unanswerable, or the energy of his voice and manner carried conviction with them, but a brighter glow mantled the maiden's cheek, and with it stole the momentary shame--the wish, the simple words that she had spoken could be recalled.
"Give us but a king for whom to fight--a king to love, revere, obey--a king from whose hand knighthood were an honor, precious as life itself, and there are noble hearts enough to swear fealty to him, and bright swords ready to defend his throne," said the young heir of Buchan, as he brandished his own weapon above his head, and then rested his arms upon its broad hilt, despondingly.

"But where is that king?
Men speak of my most gentle kinsman Sir John Comyn, called the Red--bah! The sceptre were the same jewelled bauble in his impotent hand as in his sapient uncle's; a gem, a toy, forsooth, the loan of crafty Edward.

No! the Red Comyn is no king for Scotland; and who is there besides?
The rightful heir--a cold, dull-blooded neutral--a wild and wavering changeling.

I pray thee be not angered, Nigel; it cannot be gainsaid, e'en though he is thy brother." "I know it Alan; know it but too well," answered Nigel, sadly, though the dark glow rushed up to cheek and brow.