"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."
"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."
"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."