The sword of Nigel was in the act of falling on a second foe, the first lay at his feet, when his arm was caught in its descent, and Isabella of Buchan stood at his side.
"Forbear!" she said, in those rich impressive tones that ever forced obedience.

"Nigel Bruce, brother of my sovereign, friend of my son, forbear! strike not one blow for me.

Mine honor needs no defence by those that love me; my country will acquit me; the words of England's monarch, angered at a woman's defiance of his power, affect me not! Noble Nigel, excite not further wrath against thyself by this vain struggle for my sake; put up thy sword, ere it is forced from thee.

Let go thy hold; this man is but an instrument, why wreak thy wrath on him?
Must I speak, implore in vain?
Nay, then, I do command thee!" And those who gazed on her, as she drew that stately form to its full height, as they heard those accents of imperative command, scarce marvelled that Edward should dread her influence, woman as she was.
Despite the increasing wrath on the Earl of Berwick's brow, the men waited to see the effect of these words.

There was still an expression of ill-controlled passion on Nigel's features.