And vain was every effort on the part of her sisters-in-law and the Countess of Buchan, and other of her friends, to mitigate these successive bursts of sorrow.

The Lady Seaton, of a stronger mind, yet struggled with despondency, yet strove to hope, to believe all was not as overwhelming as had been described; although, if rumor were indeed true, she had lost a husband and a son, the gallant young Earl of Mar, whom she had trained to all noble deeds and honorable thoughts, for he had been fatherless from infancy.

Lady Mary could forget her own deep anxieties, her own fearful forebodings, silently and unobservedly to watch, to follow, to tend the Countess of Buchan, whose marble cheek and lip, and somewhat sterner expression of countenance than usual, alone betrayed the anxiety passing within, for words it found not.

She could share with her the task of soothing, of cheering Agnes, whose young spirit lay crushed beneath this heavy blow.
She did not complain, she did not murmur, but evidently struggled to emulate her mother's calmness, for she would bend over her frame and endeavor to continue her embroidery.

But those who watched her, marked her frequent shudder, the convulsive sob, the tiny hands pressed closely together, and then upon her eyes, as if to still their smarting throbs; and Isoline, who sat in silence on a cushion at her feet, could catch such low whispered words as these-- "Nigel, Nigel, could I but know thy fate! Dead, dead!--could I not die with thee?
Imprisoned, have I not a right to follow thee; to tend, to soothe thee?
Any thing, oh, any thing, but this horrible suspense! Alan, my brother, thou too, so young, to die." The morning of the second day brought other and less distressing rumors; all had not fallen, all were not taken.