For some time they bore this with outward submission,
but with secret impatience and brooding resentment. A conspiracy was
at length formed against his life, at the head of which was his own
uncle, Robert Stewart, Earl of Athol, who, being too old himself for
the perpetration of the deed of blood, instigated his grandson Sir
Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert Graham, and others of less
note, to commit the deed. They broke into his bedchamber at the
Dominican Convent near Perth, where he was residing, and barbarously
murdered him by oft-repeated wounds. His faithful queen, rushing to
throw her tender body between him and the sword, was twice wounded
in the ineffectual attempt to shield him from the assassin; and it was
not until she had been forcibly torn from his person, that the
murder was accomplished.
It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and
of the golden little poem which had its birthplace in this Tower, that
made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of
armor hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to
figure in the tournay, brought the image of the gallant and romantic
prince vividly before my imagination.
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