of prudence as was thy wont? hast thou thought on all the evils thou
mayest draw upon thy head, and upon these, so lovely and so dear?"

"Mary, I have thought, weighed, pondered, and yet I am here," answered
the countess, firmly, yet in an accent that still bespoke some inward
struggle. "I know, I feel all, all that thou wouldst urge; that I am
exposing my brave boy to death, perchance, by a father's hand, bringing
him hither to swear fealty, to raise his sword for the Bruce, in direct
opposition to my husband's politics, still more to his will; yet, Mary,
there are mutual duties between a parent and a child. My poor boy has
ever from his birth been fatherless. No kindly word, no glowing smile
has ever met his infancy, his boyhood. He scarce can know his
father--the love, the reverence of a son it would have been such joy to
teach. Left to my sole care, could I instil sentiments other than those
a father's lips bestowed on me? Could I instruct him in aught save
love, devotion to his country, to her rights, her king? I have done this
so gradually, my friend, that for the burst of loyalty, of impetuous
gallantry, which answered Sir Robert Keith's appeal, I was well nigh
unprepared. My father, my noble father breathes in my boy; and oh, Mary,
better, better far lose him on the battle-field, struggling for
Scotland's freedom, glorying in his fate, rejoicing, blessing me for
lessons I have taught, than see him as my husband, as my brother--alas!
alas! that I should live to say it--cringing as slaves before the
footstool of a tyrant and oppressor. Had he sought it, had he
loved--treated me as a wife, Mary, I would have given my husband
all--all a woman's duty--all, save the dictates of my soul, but even
this he trampled on, despised, rejected; and shall I, dare I then
forget, oppose the precepts of that noble heart, that patriot spirit
which breathed into mine the faint reflection of itself?--offend the
dead, the hallowed dead, my father--the heart that loved me?"