visible, making strong contrast with the cheerless blank without. One slight glimpse revealed the cause, and partly excused the inhospitality of James, in not inviting his guest to partake his warm cheer. One in a kirtle sat somewhat retired from view; the quick motion of her head, the glance of her dark eye, showed that the monarch had been impatiently expected, and was gladly welcomed by the lovely daughter of the earl of Cassils.
Lord Buchan accompanied Richard, Lord Barry, and Plantagenet to their quarters; talking, as he went, of the contention, which had terminated fatally to several. They rode down the elevated ground on which the king's tent was placed, over a plashy, low plain, through a little wood of stunted larch, across a narrow dell, in whose bottom a brook struggled and murmured, to the acclivity on the other side, on which the tents of the English troops were pitched; considerably apart from the rest was Richard's own pavilion: all looked tranquil and even desolate, compared to the stirring liveliness of the Scotch camp, Richard was received by Sir George Neville, who looked more than usually cold and haughty as he bent to Lord Buchan's salutation: the Scotchman uttered a hasty good night, galloped down the upland and across the dell, and was lost to sight in the wood.
"What means this, Sir George?" was the prince's first remark: "what discipline is yours—brawling and bloodshed with our allies?"
"Did your highness name them our enemies," said Neville, "it were more appropriate. Suspend your displeasure, I beseech you, until I can lay before you the reality of what you name a brawl; my honour, and I fear all our safeties are concerned in the discovery. Now, your grace is wet and fatigued; you will repose?"
Richard desired solitude, not rest: he wished to be alone; for a thousand intricate ideas possessed him, clamouring to be attended to. He dismissed his friends. Frion only remained—Frion, who lately had almost become surly, but who was now smooth, supple as ever; his eye twinkling as of yore, and his ready laugh—that most characteristic part of him—again showing the old secretary returned. To the prince's warm heart, the appearance of discontent and moodiness was peculiarly grating; the smile or frown even of Frion had power over him; and he felt grateful to the man for his glossy and satisfactory speeches, now that, spite of himself, a feeling—it was not fear, but an anticipation of evil—disturbed his mind.
At length, he dismissed him; yet still he felt utterly disin-
