A loud laugh rewarded this sally at the expense of the young noblemen, who were indeed making the most of their remaining hours of freedom; and Lord John, who was about to marry Bothwell’s sister, was so delighted with the conversation, that he took Mistress Alison’s hand and proposed that they should dance a measure together on the spot.

But the lady had no intention that her agreeable visitors should remain for too long a period. In the midst of her mirth she had never entirely got rid of a certain air of apprehension, and twice or thrice she had stopped in the middle of a sentence as if to listen. All at once she turned pale, really pale this time, and set her goblet down untasted.

‘For any sake! my lord,’ she exclaimed, with an imploring look at Bothwell, ‘go your ways now. I can let you down the back stair. Go your ways, gentlemen, I entreat you, or there will be blood spilt before all’s done!’

Already the tramp of feet and altercation of voices had been heard in the street; now the clink of steel fell familiarly on the ears of the guests up-stairs. They rose to their feet, and commenced buckling on their swords simultaneously.

‘We are, indeed, fortunate,’ observed d’Elbœuf in high glee; ‘a jovial carouse, a delightful supper-party, and a midnight fray, all without the slightest trouble or inconvenience.’

‘For the love of mercy, begone!’ pleaded Mistress Alison, pushing them, one after another, to the door. ‘For my sake, for any sake, for all our sakes! They’re breaking in the door! They’re coming up the stair! It’s the earl; as sure as death, it’s the earl!’

‘What earl?’ laughed Bothwell, carelessly, and yet curious to know the name of the favoured nobleman, for whom the supper they had just eaten was prepared.

‘The Earl of Arran, of course!’ replied Mistress Alison, blushing through her tears. ‘It’s too late now, for their swords are out and their blood up, and the street full of the red-handed Hamiltons! What will I do? What will I do?’

Pending further measures, Mistress Alison covered her head with her mantle and cried piteously.

Bothwell smiled grimly in his beard when he heard the name of Arran. They were none of the best of friends, the Hepburns and the Hamiltons, at any time. To-night, the warden’s heart thrilled with a fierce pleasure at the thought of crossing swords with their chieftain’s son.

‘Draw, gentlemen,’ exclaimed Bothwell, putting himself at the head of the party. ‘A Hepburn! a Hepburn to the rescue! draw, and follow me!’

Thus shouting, he rushed to the stair-head, followed by his friends, who appeared, one and all, as ready for the fray as they had proved themselves for the feast.

The door had, indeed, been broken open, but the narrow entrance was still filled, and stoutly defended by the stalwart figure of the warden’s henchman. Though the odds were fearfully against him, his great strength and familiarity with his weapon had enabled him to make a gallant defence against the assailants, who were closing round him. At the first alarm (and the borderer’s quick ear had caught the step of armed men approaching, long before they came in sight) he had entreated Maxwell to return for the assistance of his comrades, who were sure to be found still carousing in Bothwell’s lodging. That gentleman used his own discretion in preferring to turn out the city-guard; but of this intention the other was ignorant. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ never doubted he could keep the door single-handed till assistance should arrive.

Thrust and blow and parry succeeded each other with fearful rapidity. The borderer was long of limb and in capital wind; moreover, his heart was as true as the steel in his hand; but three or four to one will beat the best of swordsmen, and he was overpowered at last, and driven back towards the stair.

At this crisis a desperate charge of fresh combatants, led by Bothwell from above, came opportunely to the rescue. It cleared the hall and the door, which was instantaneously closed and barred by the ready-witted serving-woman. Assailants and assailed now found themselves carrying on the combat in the street.

The skirmish became general. The Hamiltons mustered in force, and came swarming to the assistance of their kinsmen. Bothwell’s riders, too disturbed from their carouse, arrived by twos and threes, and the superiority of their arms and training made them formidable partisans. Inured, as all Scotchmen were in those days, to blows and bloodshed, strife was the natural element of the borderer, and, drunk or sober, he was always ready for a fight.

The Old Town was soon disturbed from its repose—peaceful citizens leaped from their beds, and ran to the windows; night-capped heads were thrust out into the moonlight, to watch the tumult in the street below, as it waved backwards and forwards in the vicissitudes of the struggle. There was but little outcry; for men’s passions were thoroughly aroused, and they were fighting to the death. Sometimes a hollow groan, or a heavy fall on the stones, contrasted dully with the scuffle of feet and the clash of steel. Sometimes a fierce oath accompanied a shrewder blow than common, or a deadly thrust that had been driven desperately home; but there were few shots exchanged, and in the hand-to-hand conflict, the Hamiltons were gradually losing ground.

Once Bothwell succeeded in reaching his enemy, and exchanged a couple of passes with Arran; but the Hamiltons rallied round their chieftain’s son, and the warden, grinding his teeth with rage, was compelled to forego his revenge.

Several wounded, and more than one corpse, encumbered the street; the fray was getting serious, and even ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ seemed to think it was an affair more of business than pleasure, when the common bell began to toll loudly, and the city-guard, guided by Walter Maxwell, and commanded by no less a personage than Lord James Stuart himself, made its appearance on the scene.

These hardy burghers, well-armed, and confident in the sympathies, and, if necessary, the assistance of the townsfolk, thrust themselves boldly between the combatants; Lord James, on whose thoughtful brow could be traced no more excitement than ordinary, himself striking up the weapons of either party, as he bade them lay down their arms in the Queen’s name.

Bothwell had just reached Arran for the second time. The warden’s eye glared wickedly and the froth was white on his moustache. Arran, pale as death, and with madness flaring in his looks, struggled to meet his enemy, shouting wildly and incoherently in a paroxysm of insanity.

Their swords had actually crossed when Lord James struck in between. His face was calm and unmoved; nay, there was a lurking satisfaction in his eye, for, to the plotting diplomatist, there is always gain in the differences of the powerful; but to-night it was Lord James’s cue rather to stifle than foment such dissensions, and he wished also to stand well with the citizens by quelling a disturbance that had alarmed the town.

‘For shame, gentlemen,’ said he, beating down their weapons with the sheathed sword. ‘For shame! you, Arran, her near kinsman; and you, Bothwell, in whom she trusts. What will the Queen say when she hears of it?’

The red blood faded from the warden’s angry brow at Mary Stuart’s name, and sinking the point of his sword, he fell back with a look of deep shame and contrition. In his fiercest moments that spell was sufficient to make him docile as a child.

Not so Arran. With a wild shriek of rage, he darted a savage thrust at the peace-maker, that, had it taken effect, might have spared Scotland much bloodshed and Mary Stuart many a tear, for her wily bastard-brother would never have moved again. It was not fated, however, to reach its object; for ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’s’ quick eye caught the movement, and he parried it with a force and rapidity that shivered Arran’s blade in pieces, and beat it from his hand. His retainers now gathered round their leader, and forced him from the ground, the unfortunate maniac raving and writhing in their grasp.

Bothwell, too, got his men in order, and withdrew them, submitting patiently to the rebukes of Lord James. It is needless to observe, that on the first appearance of their grave brother, the Lords John and Robert had taken to flight, closely followed by d’Elbœuf, who did not wish to figure as a brawler at his niece’s court. The warden alone remained to bear the blame, and, now that the excitement had cooled, he bitterly regretted what he had done.

As he was followed by his henchman, Lord James called the latter back.

‘Let me look in your face, good fellow,’ said he; ‘you have saved my life to-night.’

‘The redder’s lick is aye the warst in the fray,’ answered the other, good-humouredly; ‘and doubtless your honour was no takin’ notice, and it must have gone clean through ye,’ he added, dogmatically.

‘You have saved my life,’ repeated Lord James. ‘I leave no scores unpaid for, good or evil, and if ever the time should come, I shall not forget the debt I owe you.’

But ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m no sae dooms sure o’ that,’ said he, as he strode on after his chief. ‘An’ I wad like ill to be beholden to a man that could part sic a bonny fray. Oh, man!’ he added to Maxwell, who had now joined him, ‘what garred ye bring in the burgher-guard? The drink was just dyin’ out in our lads, and we wad ha’ gotten the grandest ploy I’ve seen sin’ I cam’ out of Carlisle jail.’

CHAPTER X.

It was with no agreeable feelings, that Maxwell received a summons to attend the Council at Holyrood the morning after the fray. Ere he had well slept off the fatigues and dissipation of the previous night, he was disturbed by a pursuivant in the royal livery, with the lion emblazoned on his surcoat, who required his immediate presence at the palace, and from whose rigid sense of duty he found it difficult to extort permission to summon ‘Dick-o’-the Cleugh’ as a witness in his favour.

Maxwell reflected that the borderer’s straightforward testimony would serve to exonerate him from any share in the disturbance, except the measures which put a stop to it; and by dint of argument, remonstrance, and a bonnet-piece or two, he succeeded in sending a message to Bothwell himself, who, for reasons of his own, was only too ready to despatch his henchman in reply.

As they proceeded together towards the palace, attended by the pursuivant and four stout men-at-arms, ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ could by no means be brought to consider their past broil in the light of a breach of the peace. On the contrary, he esteemed it from beginning to end as the simple and natural consequence of a jaunt to the capital, and was fully persuaded that their present expedition must result in a vote of praise to all concerned.

Yet the borderer’s iron nerves seemed affected as they entered the precincts of the Abbey. He was unusually restless, and glanced hither and thither, as though in expectation. Certain female tones in the garden by no means restored his composure; and while Maxwell, with a thrill of offended pride, that was yet longing to forgive, recognised Mary Carmichael’s well-known voice, Dick nudged him vigorously with his elbow, and whispered—

‘Ye’ll hae to speak up for the twae o’ us, Mr Maxwell. I was aye dashed wi’ the women-folk; an’ it’s like they’ll no let us away the day without gettin’ a sight o’ the Queen and her leddies. Man, I would like fine to see them in their braws!’

Ere Walter could reply, a gentleman-usher beckoned him silently to advance, while two stout men-at-arms, crossing their axes in front of his follower, gave ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ to understand he must wait till he was sent for. Unusual vigilance seemed to pervade the palace. The guard was doubled on the staircase and in the galleries, whilst a strong body of cavalry occupied the court.

As Maxwell’s conductors halted at the door of the council-chamber, the former felt his wonted composure sadly disturbed by the appearance of Mary Carmichael, who was crossing from the garden towards the Queen’s apartments. She started and blushed vividly when she met his eye, and then, observing him to be under escort, turned pale with obvious apprehension. She stopped, too, as if she would fain speak with him; but after an imploring glance that seemed to entreat his forgiveness, and assure him of her sympathy, hurried away.

So strangely constituted is the human mind, even in those who most pride themselves on their philosophy, that Maxwell felt his heart lighter than it had been for a week, and entered the awful presence of the council without the slightest appearance of dismay; and yet he had not exchanged a syllable with her, had only caught her eye for an instant, and heard the rustle of her garments as she passed. Surely there is some strange magic in our nature that works below the surface, and encircles the bravest and the strongest in its spells.

In the centre of the room, which Maxwell now entered, stood a massive oak table, covered with papers and parchments, prepared for the sign-manual of Mary Stuart. Around it were seated those Scottish noblemen whose turn it was to assist the deliberations of their sovereign, thwarting indeed the free-will, and impeding her resolutions, yet constituting and considering themselves the trusty advisers of the crown.

The Duke of Chatelhérault, in right of his high rank and royal lineage, acted as president; and on his noble brow might be traced an expression of puzzled vexation as he followed in vain Secretary Maitland’s rapid and masterly explanation of the business in hand. That astute diplomatist, carrying his colleagues triumphantly with him, was furnishing a brilliant display of rhetorical fireworks, to prove that the measure he now advocated (which had indeed for its object the placing of additional power in Lord James Stuart’s hands) was the only possibility of saving the country; and the haughty Hamilton, dazzled rather than enlightened by his eloquence, looked as dissatisfied as a man generally does who is ‘convinced against his will.’

The Queen’s brother had assumed a modest and deprecating air, as who should say, ‘I seek not authority, but only wish rigidly to fulfil the duties that are thrust upon me’—a sentiment he had already expressed to the council when they sat down. The others listened in different attitudes of attention or approval, according as their interests or their convictions led them to agree with the speaker; whilst Mary herself, whose chair was drawn a little apart from the table, looked up from her embroidery ever and anon in the face of her half-brother, with an expression of perfect confidence and affection. Though her noble intellect might detect many a flaw in her secretary’s arguments, she was too thoroughly a woman not to be a dishonest reasoner; and of all the intriguers who backed Lord James in his efforts at supreme power, none supported him so fearlessly and confidingly as the Queen.

David Riccio sat, so to speak, under her Majesty’s wing. His evident favour with his mistress extorted for him a certain outward deference and cold civility from the nobles; but he was already inclined to put himself too forward, without reflecting that the key of a lady’s escritoire is but a frail weapon to meet a two-handed sword, and a velvet doublet a poor defence against the blow of a dudgeon-dagger.

When Maxwell was admitted, the State Secretary had just concluded his peroration, and was shuffling his papers together on the table with an air of business-like satisfaction. He looked up at this new arrival, however, with calm indifference, and spreading a blank sheet of paper before him, appeared ready to enter at once upon a new affair with fresh energy and attention.

Lord Ruthven, whose temper was none of the sweetest, and whose liking for the warden was of that kind which would fain have had a yard and a half of green turf, and the same measure of cold steel, between them, scowled upon Bothwell’s kinsman with all the ferocity of which his stern features were capable—a compliment returned by Maxwell with a stare of undaunted defiance. Morton stole a rapid and sinister glance at the Queen, while his beard curled with his habitual sneering smile. Huntly, Argyle, and the rest, settled themselves into comfortable attitudes, as though the more important business of the morning were now disposed of.

The Duke of Chatelhérault, as the aggrieved person, was the first to speak. With a haughty affectation of indifference, he asked—

‘Who is this witness? Is he of gentle birth?’

And being informed by Maitland that he was a kinsman of Earl Bothwell, his Grace replied, indignantly—

‘An impartial witness ye have brought before the council! Why not examine the earl himself? if, indeed, he acknowledges any authority but border-law. It is well that the Hamiltons can right themselves with their own good swords.’

Maitland cut short his further objections by desiring Maxwell to proceed with his account of the fray, while the Queen looked up from her work as if about to expostulate, but checked herself with a half-smothered sigh.

Maxwell told his tale simply and frankly. It was obvious that the fray had originated in a brawl begun by the Hamiltons, who had insisted on forcing their way into Mistress Alison’s house. Seeing that bloodshed was unavoidable, he had hurried off to alarm the civic guard, leaving the earl’s henchman at the door. When he returned, the skirmish, as Lord James could corroborate, was at its height. The henchman could speak to what took place during the narrator’s absence; he had craved permission to bring him to Holyrood for that purpose.

His manly, straightforward evidence seemed to make a favourable impression on the council. Maitland looked up from his notes, and, glancing at the duke for approval, desired the borderer to be summoned.

Honest Dick entered the council-chamber with an undaunted front, till he caught sight of the Queen, when he blushed up to his ears, and made a profound and exceedingly awkward obeisance. Then he looked about as if in search of something, and finally stood bolt upright, like a man prepared to be ‘shot at.’

‘Your name?’ said the duke, haughtily.

Dick reflected a few moments, and then answered, with the air of one who makes an admission under protest—

‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh.’

‘Your calling?’ added the president, severely.

‘Just a rider,’ answered Dick, after another pause.

The nobles glanced significantly at each other, and Huntly observed, with a smile—

‘That is another word for thief in your country, is it not?’

Dick looked extremely demure and unconscious, as he replied—

‘Na, it’s broken men they ca’ thieves on the border—just like Catherans an’ Gordons an’ that in the North.’

The council could not forbear a laugh, and even the Queen bent over her work to conceal her amusement.

‘Faith, Huntly, he shivered his lance fairly against thy breastplate this time,’ said Lord Seton; and Huntly, throwing his portly person back in his chair, vowed good-humouredly that the definition was a sufficiently precise one at either extremity of the kingdom.

The borderer’s examination then proceeded.

‘Was it by your chief’s orders that you defended the door in the High Street last night?’

‘I took nae orders yestre’en frae the warden,’ replied Dick, ‘forbye to see to the naigs about our back-coming.’

‘Would you have ventured to draw upon the Earl of Arran—upon my son,’ asked the duke, ‘without your chief’s express commands to slay him if you came across him?’

‘I ken your Grace fine,’ answered the borderer, not very directly, ‘seein’ you’re the grandest nobleman in Scotland; but if yon was the Earl of Arran, an’ a’ your Grace’s blood fight like yon camsteary chiel, I wad like ill to keep the causeway anither nicht frae the Hamiltons.’

‘What was the origin of the disturbance?’ here interposed Secretary Maitland, seeing that the discussion produced no obvious results. ‘Who began the brawl, man, and first bared steel?’

‘I could not say,’ replied Dick, looking profoundly ignorant. ‘I’m thinkin’ the stramash was a’ in gude fellowship, till his honour here, the Lord James, an’ the city guard struck in an’ spoilt all.’

‘Why, you yourself were at half-sword with a score of them when I came up,’ said Lord James, laughing, in spite of himself, at the borderer’s coolness.

‘Oo! that was just a ploy!’ answered Dick, with a grin of delight at the recollection. ‘I’ve seen waur licks than yon gi’en an’ ta’en in Bewcastle Markit, just for gude-will ye ken, an’ a tass or twa o’ brandy.’

‘Let him go,’ said the duke, ‘till we send for him again. It is not against this faithful knave, your Majesty and my lords, that I appeal for justice, but against the Earl of Bothwell.’

Again Morton shot a lurid glance at the Queen, whose white fingers were travelling fast to and fro through her embroidery.

‘The earl had entered the house peacefully enough when I left,’ began Maxwell, but he was sternly and peremptorily commanded to hold his peace, whilst a whispered consultation was carried on by the chief nobility present, in which Lord James alone took no part.

The Queen, with an angry spot on each cheek, continued to work very fast.

‘It is but a part of the plot against Her Majesty’s person,’ said the duke, after a while, ‘a plot which my son himself has discovered, and which on his recovery he will prove on the Earl of Bothwell’s body with his blade. Meantime, there lies my glove; if the Hepburn has a friend, let him take it up!’

Maxwell interposed, eagerly.

‘To any one of my own degree,’ he began—but an imploring glance from the Queen at her brother had roused that statesman from his apathy, and he interfered.

‘Take back your glove, my Lord Duke!’ said he. ‘This is no affair of private brawl, but a matter in which the safety of the crown is involved. My lords, I move for a committee of inquiry on the spot.’

The duke bit his glove through, ere he replaced it on his hand, and then, with moody brow and angry eye, listened in silence to the conference.

‘I move that James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, be committed to ward till such time as he can purge himself from the charges brought against him by the Earl of Arran,’ said Lord Ruthven, after another brief consultation, with a smile of triumph on his pale, gaunt face.

With the exception of Seton and Argyle, who seemed to think the warden was receiving scant justice, and a weak remonstrance from Lord James, which yielded gracefully to the urgency of the case, the council agreed upon this precautionary measure, and it was carried accordingly.

Secretary Maitland made out the warrant for the earl’s committal; it wanted but the Queen’s signature to become valid.

Mary rose from her chair and drew up her majestic figure.

‘Nay, my lords,’ said she; ‘it is surely unjust to condemn the absent without proof. Let the warden return to his charge on the border. He may render himself at any time, in less than twenty-four hours from Hermitage.’

‘You cannot refuse to ratify the deed of your council!’ urged Ruthven, fiercely. ‘Nay, Madam, you dare not,’ he added, with growing insolence; and would have said more; but Mary shot a glance at him, before which even his rugged nature quailed.

‘Your Majesty’s confidence in the earl is greater than that of your advisers,’ observed Morton, not deigning to conceal a sneer. ‘Already he boasts of his influence over the Queen, and vows that steel gauntlet shall not wrest him from Holyrood, though a white glove can lure him from Hermitage.’

The colour rose on Mary’s brow, and her bosom heaved quickly. It was evident the Queen was wavering.

‘It is but a measure of precaution,’ argued Maitland, in his plausible off-hand tones, spreading at the same time the warrant before his sovereign. ‘After all,’ he added, ‘it may be but a mere brawl about a wench! The Earl of Bothwell has ever been given to such follies overmuch.’

The Queen signed the paper hastily; then threw the pen on the table, and walked in silence from the council-chamber.

CHAPTER XI.

So Bothwell was committed to ward in Edinburgh Castle, yet was his durance but of a temporary nature, and devoid of the customary rigours that accompany imprisonment. The warden made no effort to escape, although he had a strong party of friends about the Court, and might at any time have created considerable disturbance had he chosen to resist the royal authority; but he bowed his head to the blast with unexpected humility, and a submission, the result of mixed motives. He lived in daily expectation of release by the Queen’s own authority. His appointment on the border had not yet been filled up, and Hermitage was still occupied by a staunch garrison who acknowledged no law but their chief’s behests. Day by day did the warlike earl, pining, as well he might, for the free breeze on his brow and the swinging gallop of his steed, reflect on the effect which such devotion as his could not fail to produce on the Queen. Danger he had always faced readily for her sake; fatigue he had cheerfully endured; and now he submitted patiently to captivity, because it was Mary Stuart’s will. Day by day he expected a pardon, a release, an acknowledgment, a communication, and day by day he was disappointed. ‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick;’ but this proverb applies rather to weak natures; in strong, it is apt to make the heart savage. Stung by what he conceived to be ingratitude, irritated by neglect, sore from conflicting feelings, such as rend an ill-disciplined character with pangs to which mere physical suffering is comparative relief, those weeks spent in Edinburgh Castle produced an effect on Bothwell’s disposition that after years could never eradicate. Even ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ who remained in attendance on his master, and who was free to come and go at his pleasure, shook his head gravely, and averred that ‘confinement was just destruction baith to man an’ beast! He would like fine to see the warden ridin’ the Marches again wi’ the Liddesdale lads at his back.’

But though Dick thus expressed himself, and doubtless meant what he said, he was conscious in his heart that the banks of the Esk and the braes of Teviotdale would never be the same to him again. The brawny borderer had a new interest in life now, strange to say, unconnected with hawk or hound, with morning chase or midnight foray, with axe or lance, or mighty stoups of ale.

Once in the week it was Mary Seton’s custom to visit the town of Edinburgh on foot, to make purchases for her mistress and her comrades, of those odds and ends which ladies consume in such wonderful quantities. The wilful little damsel had taken a great fancy to the borderer, as you may see a child sometimes pleased with a huge Newfoundland dog. Such attachments are not remarkable for reciprocity. The biped, half-pitiful, half-amused, entertains a feeble liking for so faithful an attendant; the quadruped wishes no better lot than to serve its little idol slavishly all its life, and die licking its hand. How the child cuffs it and teases it, and makes the noble animal ridiculous, pulling its ears and tail!

‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ had but one day now in his week instead of seven. He observed, not without inward gratulation, that his attendance on these saints’ days, so to speak, was by no means unwelcome; and Mary Seton, on her return to the palace, never omitted to inform the Queen that she had seen Earl Bothwell’s henchman, neither did her mistress take her to task herself, nor suffer Mary Beton to do so, for these interviews.

So the strangely matched pair moved along the High Street, and the lady, who, in addition to his other good qualities, had discovered the borderer to be a capital listener, told him the Court news, for the edification of his chief, with considerable volubility.

‘We’re all in confusion now,’ said she, one bright winter’s day, as she tripped along the cleaner portion of the pavement with a light basket in her hand, which sometimes as a great favour she permitted her Newfoundland to carry, while that faithful animal stamped contentedly alongside in the gutter. ‘The palace is turned inside out. We have got the “new acquaintance” at Holyrood.’

Dick looked as if he didn’t understand, and yet did not quite like the information. Something that would have been jealousy in a more presumptuous admirer, shot through his great frame. Had he been physically a retriever, he would have put his tail between his legs.

‘I dinna like acquaintances,’ said he, looking down at her bodily a foot or so; looking up at her metaphorically any number of yards. ‘Give me friends, Mistress Seton, auld friends, an’ no too mony o’ them.’

‘You wouldn’t like this acquaintance!’ laughed the young lady, merrily, whereat her companion looked on her admiringly, as one who listens to sweet music. ‘He’s an acquaintance that would put you on your back readily, for as strong as you think yourself; he has overcome the Queen and the household and Mr Randolph and Mary Beton, and all of them but me.’

‘No,’ replied the borderer. He did not the least understand what she meant, but admired her intensely, nevertheless.

‘It’s the sickness,’[5] at last she condescended to explain, between bursts of laughter at her companion’s puzzled countenance. ‘There are but two of the Queen’s ladies fit for duty at all—Mary Carmichael and me; and she is so occupied with your chief’s kinsman, Mr Maxwell, that she couldn’t be more useless if she was ill in bed. The Court is as dull as ditch-water, and I shall have to walk up this weary hill to do everybody’s business twice a week instead of once; that is the upshot of it.’

A ray of intense pleasure gleamed on her listener’s face at this announcement; but it clouded over a minute afterwards, and he asked with undisguised anxiety, ‘If there was no danger for herself?’

The girl could not but feel gratified at his obvious interest in her safety; but she laughed again, and answered, merrily—

‘Do you think nobody can be bold who is not six foot high? I fear sickness, I tell you, as little as you fear Lord Scrope, and hate it perhaps more; and yet you have the best of it, too. I had rather face death on an open moor than in closed bed-curtains. I wonder if anybody would miss me much?’ she added, more to herself than him, for the grave chord had somehow been struck in her thoughtless character.

He did not answer, and when she looked at him, his face was turned away.

‘Do you think they would?’ she proceeded, with the pertinacity of a spoiled child. ‘Stranger things have come to pass. You might be riding merrily in Liddesdale, whilst Mary Seton was lying stark and cold under the Abbey stones.’

‘It would be a dark day in Liddesdale,’ was all the answer he made; but he would not let her see his face, and his voice sounded as it had never done before.

A tinge of remorse, such as that which the urchin feels when he takes a bird’s-nest, smote almost unconsciously at the girl’s heart; yet was the sensation, though pathetic, by no means unpleasant.

She laughed and bantered him more than usual during their walk; but on that day, and indeed every day afterwards till he returned to the border, she suffered him to carry her basket; and the honest retriever, proud of his degradation, followed at her heel, with ever-increasing fidelity and devotion. The bird’s-nest was taken now, and it is no use attempting to put such articles back again; moreover, it had been thoroughly harried, emptied clean of its treasures, and all the eggs were in that one basket.

CHAPTER XII.

Unusual silence prevailed in the lofty hall of Hermitage, and the dinner hour, commonly one of mirth and festivity, arrived with a solemn gravity, by no means welcome to the light-hearted borderers. It was in vain that large joints of beef and mutton steamed on the long tables, and ample baskets, piled to the edge with coarse oaten bread, stood side by side with deep measures of foaming ale below the salt, while a modest display of plate, in which one or two church ornaments were conspicuous, decked the upper end of the board. The preparations, indeed, smacked of good cheer, but the hilarity which promotes digestion was wanting.

The master-spirit, gloomy, morose, and preoccupied, walked to and fro under the stag’s antlers, at the extremity of the hall, and no man dared to question or interrupt his meditations.

Bothwell was indeed chafing to the verge of madness. In vain he had submitted patiently to a mock imprisonment at the Queen’s pleasure; in vain he had waited till days grew to weeks and weeks to months for some acknowledgment from Mary of the injustice she had done him—some expression of sorrow or sympathy for the loyal soldier and devoted vassal. No acquittal came, no reprieve, no message. Desperate and goaded he had escaped from his confinement at last, and fled to Hermitage, where he now found himself, as autumn waned, in the anomalous attitude of an attainted subject holding a royal fortress, and a warden of the Marches, without the privilege of communicating with his sovereign. It has been truly said that no position is so false as that which entails responsibility without conferring authority, and of this he found himself too keenly conscious. Neither was Bothwell’s a nature to submit patiently to a slight. Hot-headed and irascible, with strong feelings and a sad want of foresight, he could act, but he could not endure. At this period he had indeed sufficient reason to feel aggrieved, and he fretted like some wild animal in a cage. It was noon; the guard was being relieved in the outer court. Bustle reigned in the kitchen; two or three old hounds, with wistful faces, licked their lips as they nosed the savoury preparations that emanated from that department; hawks screamed and flapped their wings on the perch; everything denoted the arrival of the most important hour in the twenty-four.

By twos and threes brawny men-at-arms lounged into the hall and took their places at the board. A year ago, shout and jest and schoolboy prank would have been rife at such a moment; the earl’s laugh would have been the loudest and his voice the gayest amongst them all; now they watched him pacing silently to and fro, with looks askance. Taking their cue from their chief, the boisterous riders were gloomy as mutes.

Bothwell turned suddenly and summoned his henchman.

‘Is the holy man not ready yet?’ said he, with something of irony in his tone. ‘Ho! bid the knaves bring in the food. Cowl or cassock, rochet and stole, or black Geneva gown, not one of them but comes to corn as kindly as the longest-legged borderer that ever lifted a spear. Bid them serve, Dick, in the devil’s name.’

‘Nay, James Hepburn,’ said a deep, stern voice at the earl’s elbow, ‘not in the name of the evil one, but in His from whom cometh all good. Bless the food,’ he added, stretching both hands over the board which was now spread, and shutting his eyes reverently while he prayed: ‘Bless those good things which are the product of thrift and honest industry, and may every morsel turn to gall on the lip, and poison in the breast, that is wrested by violence and bloodshed from the store of the widow and the fatherless!’

‘Amen!’ ejaculated Bothwell, without pretending to conceal the sneer on his lip, as he took his seat; whilst his retainers, glancing with a comical mixture of respect and astonishment at a man who dared to address their formidable chief in accents of reproach, seemed uncertain how to receive a blessing of such doubtful import on the border. The obvious course was to fall to without further ceremony; and soon the clatter of knives and drinking-horns drowned all qualms of conscience, if indeed such were experienced; ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ merely remarking, as he filled his trencher, ‘that if all the beef in the larder that was lifted behoved to turn to gall, there wou’d be no want o’ mustard for a whiley in Liddesdale.’

Evidently putting a strong constraint on himself, the earl proceeded to entertain his guest with marked distinction and courtesy. Indeed, after a time, the stately bearing and obvious sincerity of the man could not fail to produce a favourable effect; and though Bothwell, for political reasons, was disposed to court his good opinion, he could not but confess to himself, that under that black robe and grave exterior, lurked a spirit equal in point of courage, and far superior in energy, perseverance, and force of character, to his own.

Even the rude borderers felt the influence of his presence. Although the name of John Knox was ere this familiar in all men’s mouths, through the length and breadth of Scotland, these lawless soldiers, while professing, for the most part, the Reformed religion, which combined in their eyes the intrinsic advantages of freedom, liberality, and cheapness, were at heart wofully indifferent to its tenets, or its obligations. They had thrown off with small compunction the shackles of the Roman Catholic Church; they were not quite so ready, however, to submit themselves to the discipline of that faith which had supplanted it. In all violent and fundamental changes of opinion, the teachers of a new doctrine have to contend with two serious difficulties: the ill-judged warmth of their more zealous disciples, and the convenient indifference of a large proportion of converts, who cannot be brought to see the advantage of dissent, if it is to substitute one form of government for another.

Physically, the great Scottish Reformer appeared scarcely equal to the work he had engaged to perform. His spare frame was indeed sufficiently ascetic to command respect; and his dignified bearing, well set off by the close black gown, with its loose sleeves, which he chose to wear, was not unworthy of the holy profession of which he was so zealous a member; but his stature was low, and his bodily strength proportionate. Nevertheless in his high grave brow, only partially covered by a close black skull cap, there was rectitude, pitiless, indeed, of others’ weakness, but equally stern and uncompromising towards its own. The bold features and pale colouring of the face, more remarkable than comely, denoted energy with force of will; and though the mouth was somewhat large and coarse, its expression was firm and daring in the highest degree. His dark eyes, which it was his habit to fix intently on those with whom he conversed, were brilliantly piercing, and in the heat of argument or declamation shone and sparkled with an inward flame. A flowing beard descended to his girdle, somewhat softening the harshness of his features, and imparting a patriarchal dignity to his whole person. There was but little appearance of versatility on his immovable face, and yet John Knox, driven by his zeal into the political stream, had been forced to trim his bark more than once to suit the exigencies of the storm; and it may be that this very consciousness added to the stern defiance of his bearing.

Without attempting to be ‘all things to all men,’ the Reformer never forgot for an instant the one end and aim of his unceasing efforts, the destruction of papacy in his native land; and if ever he did turn aside for an advantage, or halt for a breathing-space, it was but to gather fresh energies for the great work, and devote himself more unreservedly to its accomplishment. If he was prejudiced, bigoted, and illiberal, he was at least an honest man thoroughly in earnest.

The latter quality invariably wins respect in the rudest, as in the most civilised societies, and even Earl Bothwell’s wild jackmen could not withhold an involuntary homage from one whose peaceful profession, while it did not affect his insensibility to physical danger, or his coolness under trying circumstances, was followed out with an energy and perseverance of which their own lawless pursuits afforded no example. The Reformer, too, for all his infirmities, could back a horse and fly a hawk with the best of them. His stirring life had given him habits of activity and daring, whilst the energy of action was not wanting, which is so useful an accessory to a keen intellect. Though he ate sparingly, the preacher’s cup was filled and emptied with grave, good fellowship, and he did not disdain to mingle in such mirth as was restrained within the bounds of decorum. There was a spice of quaint humour in his conversation that insensibly excited the attention of the most careless listeners; and though he never so far forgot his sacred office as to descend into buffoonery, he was no contemner of a ludicrous illustration or a harmless jest.

The dinner, nevertheless, progressed wearily. The churchman’s presence restrained that wild ribaldry which had been, of late, Bothwell’s only attempt at gaiety; and when the jackmen had eaten their fill, and satisfied their thirst, a gloomy silence once more pervaded the old hall.

It was the practice at Hermitage to conclude every meal with the standing toast of ‘Snaffle, spur, and spear;’ but to-day cups were emptied less cordially than usual to the accustomed pledge, and a long grace from Mr Knox immediately succeeding, it was received by the listeners with more respect than attention. It was a relief to all when the earl, calling for a basin and ewer, dipped his hands, wiped his beard, and rose from table, summoning the Reformer to attend him for a stroll upon the rampart, and whispering a few words to ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ as he passed out of the hall.

That worthy received his master’s commands with an appearance of intense gratification, which communicated itself, as if by electricity, to the majority of his comrades. Bustle and activity seemed all at once to pervade the castle, and the merriment hitherto stifled and repressed broke forth with renewed violence. The tramp of horses and the clank of steel smote gratefully on ears in which such sounds made the sweetest of music; and when the churchman crossed the courtyard in search of his host, he found it filled by some two score of well-mounted men-at-arms, drawn up in disciplined army, with ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ at their head.

The earl was giving his final orders to this leader with considerable energy. He was in a towering passion, none the less unbridled that he was not going to command the expedition himself.

‘Were he ten times warden,’ the Reformer heard him say, ‘he should not drive horses, with impunity, from my side the March. Does my Lord Scrope think that James Hepburn has been superseded at Hermitage? or that I am a likely man to submit to the slight he has endeavoured to put upon me? Faith, not while this arm of mine can lay lance in the rest. If you come across the English warden, Dick Rutherford, you shall cast James Hepburn’s defiance in his teeth. Within twenty-one days, alone, or with his following, on foot or on horseback, with spear, sword, or axe, and not more than three English miles from the border, I challenge him to meet me, if he be a man, and “God defend the right!” Have you picked the horses?’ he added, abruptly, and turning with a soldier’s eye to scan the troop.

‘I cast the twa four-year-aulds,’ answered Dick, ‘an’ I waled the soar[6] and the three bays, forbye the white-footed yane, an’ I’m ridin’ Wanton Willie mysel’. Gin I track the drove to Peel-fell, will I follow them into Cumberland?’