The four borderers rode up the High Street of Edinburgh in the warm afternoon sun, and their leader, fortified doubtless by the sprig of witch-elm in his head-piece, and inspirited by his arrival at the Scotch capital, looked about him with the gleeful curiosity of a schoolboy on a holiday.

On any other occasion, though troops of armed horsemen were by no means a rare sight on the causeway, so well-mounted and stalwart a little party would have received their share of admiration; but to-day no man had eyes to spare for any other object than a brilliant group of foot-passengers surrounding two commanding figures, which neither their own nor any other country in Europe could have matched.

No more in widow’s weeds, but bright and beautiful in all the freshness of her own charms, set off by the splendour of her dress, Mary Stuart walked by her young husband, the beau ideal of a monarch’s bride: her husband de facto if not de jure, for a private marriage some weeks since in Riccio’s apartments had united the destinies of the lovers, and paved the way for that public ceremony which should confer on the fortunate young noble the crown-matrimonial of Scotland.

Alas for Mary Stuart! even in those happy days of courtship, which for most women glow so brightly; immediately before and after the nuptial tie she was doomed to many anxieties and misgivings, originating in the ungovernable temper of the very man for whose sake she had braved Elizabeth of England’s displeasure, affronted a large and powerful party of her subjects, perhaps even stifled and eradicated certain deep though unacknowledged memories in her own heart. Although with the utmost haste Darnley had been created Earl of Ross, he was dissatisfied that he had not been immediately raised to the Dukedom of Albany, and vented his displeasure in no measured language even on her from whose open hand he received all the benefits he enjoyed, and whose beauty alone, bending so tenderly over himself, should have commanded his entire allegiance.

Perhaps the Queen loved him none the worse for his petulance at first; perhaps it was not till long afterwards, when unlimited indulgence and increasing depravity had fostered the spoiled and wayward youth into a reckless and unfeeling profligate, that she may have contrasted Darnley’s open insults and avowed indifference with the devotion of other worshippers, who, however faulty in many respects, had never failed in faith and loyalty towards her.

Darnley’s exterior was indeed beautiful exceedingly, but it covered a disposition in which there were no brilliant qualities of the head to counterbalance the evil of the heart. The Earl of Ross was unfortunate in the possession of dishonesty without craft, indecision without foresight, and obstinacy without energy. Like a woman, he could not restrain his tongue; unlike a woman, he never knew the exact range and precision with which that organ is able to direct its shafts.

Even on his sick-bed at Stirling, when it was first obvious to him that he had won his way into his Sovereign’s good graces, and that a little time and care could not but make the game his own,—even then, when it was essentially important to cement friendships and conciliate differences in every direction, he contrived to affront the two most formidable men in Scotland and purchase their enmity for life. To the Duke of ChatelhÊrault, simply because he heard that nobleman was opposed to Her Majesty’s immediate marriage, he sent his defiance from his sick-bed, not couched in the language of knightly courtesy, which shows a gracious respect even for a mortal foe, but threatening to ‘knock his old pate as soon as he should be well enough.’

We may imagine how such a message would be received by one who boasted he was the proudest peer in Europe. But an observation he made concerning the Earl Moray, and which did not fail to reach the latter’s ears, was even more ill-advised in its tendency and unfortunate in its results.

Scanning a map of Scotland, some one pointed out to him the vast estates of the Queen’s half-brother, and the inconsiderate youth exclaimed hastily—

‘This is too much by half!’

So untoward a remark was of course repeated to Moray, who received the information with his usual grave smile, and never made further allusion to it. So much the worse. He had forgotten it none the less for that, and it may be those half-dozen words one day cost Mary Stuart a husband and Scotland a king.

Meantime, who so brave in apparel or so dÉbonnaire in demeanour as the young Lord Darnley? The eyes of all Edinburgh are upon him as he paces along so proudly by the side of their ‘bonny Queen.’ His dress, as it is fit, is one blaze of splendour; the materials indeed are unpaid for, and the jewels are mostly love-gifts from his Sovereign, yet they set off none the worse his lofty stature and his graceful form. The women look after him admiringly; the men’s gaze is as usual riveted on the beautiful being who walks by his side. Mary Stuart has never shown to more advantage than to-day. It is not the stately folds of the damask dress, nor the delicate edging of scalloped lace, nor the rich mantle of glowing cramoisie that enthral the eyes in an irresistible spell; nor needs it that massive bracelet hanging from her shapely arm, which men say dark Lord Ruthven fabricated for a love-charm, with Satan standing over him while he worked, to account for Mary’s influence; they need but to look on the bright smile and the deep, loving eyes turned in pride and tenderness upon her husband, and they feel in their inmost hearts that there is no witchery in all the lore of gramarye to equal the resistless power that lurks in a fond and trusting woman’s face.

Darnley has turned back for an instant to exchange some light jest with one of the maids-of-honour; it must be of a strangely confusing nature to account for the vivid blush that has come over Mary Seton, dyeing her fair skin perfectly crimson from the roots of her hair to the hem of her bodice. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ riding up the street and watching intently the motions of the royal party, does not perceive it for the simple and somewhat paradoxical reason that, although he has been hoping to see her the whole way from Hermitage, no sooner has he caught her eye than his own glance is immediately withdrawn. He turns deadly pale, too, and the hand which guides his charger’s rein trembles in every fibre; the good horse bends his neck and collects himself, expectant of some further indication after this unusual touch.

Perhaps, poor Dick, with all his courage, might have ridden on into Fife without more parley, so helpless and abashed had he suddenly become, but that the Queen’s quick glance observed the cognisance of the Hepburn as he rode by, even recognised the tall retainer’s face, and could have accosted him by name. There was a faint flush on Mary’s brow as she stopped her company and bade the borderer approach. Dick was off his horse in an instant, and the courtiers could not but admire his magnificent form as he strode up to them in his clanging armour, manning himself for the effort, now he was in for it, with his natural audacity. Mary Seton did not fail to remark, with no displeased eye, that even Darnley, tall as he was, stood half a hand’s-breadth lower than the henchman.

‘What news from Hermitage, good fellow?’ said the Queen, accepting Dick’s awkward homage with gracious courtesy. ‘How fares it with our Lord Warden yonder on the Marches? Mayhap he is coming northward with the main body, of which you are but the vanguard?’

She spoke with something of flutter and hurry that was scarce natural to her. Perhaps she wished the retainer to know that she bore his sullen lord no ill-will; perhaps she even expected her vassal to return to her feet in penitence and contrition; perhaps in her woman’s heart, even now she could not but revert to the old times, when Bothwell’s haste regarded neither pace nor horseflesh to gallop on far ahead of his following, only to be the first to kneel at his Queen’s feet and touch the hem of her garment.

Dick answered stoutly, though in some confusion—

‘The Laird’s no ailing in body, Your Grace, though he wad be nane the waur to be whiles in the saddle a wee thing. The Hepburns’ feet aye become steel stirrups better than velvet mules.[12] He’s less wise-like than ordinar’,’ added Dick, with a shrewd glance in Her Majesty’s face; ‘but I’m thinkin’ he’ll bide in Liddesdale a whiley yet.’

Mary laughed good-humouredly. It did not seem to displease her that Bothwell should be sullen and dispirited. Yet she bore him no grudge for it, obviously; rather the contrary.

‘The Liddesdale lads are aye welcome at Holyrood,’ said she frankly, and with the Scottish accent she knew how to assume so gracefully. ‘Take a Stuart’s word for it,’ she added, giving him at the same time her hand to kiss, ‘both for yourself and your chief.’

‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ kissed the beautiful hand with the devotion of a worshipper to a saint; but his eyes wandered beyond the royal form and sought that of a lady in her train.

At this moment Darnley came up from behind and accosted the henchman with his usual overbearing assumption of manner.

‘How now, whom have we here, my fair cousin?’ said the young noble, flinging a contemptuous glance at the borderer. ‘An ambassador from Limbo Castle, sometimes called Hermitage, by his crest! Accredited messenger from all the thieves and sorners in the Debateable Land. How ranges the price of good nags on the Border, knave? The nights are moonless just now, though they be something short; the droves should be coming in pretty fast from Cumberland.’

The moss-trooper’s eye brightened.

‘If it was Her Grace’s wish,’ said he, looking respectfully towards the Queen, ‘we could bring the wale[13] o’ the countryside up to Holyrood in a fortnight from this day. Lord Scrope rides a soar gelding,’ he added, warming with the congenial subject, ‘that steps as daintily as a bird lights on a bough. Forbye the colour would become rarely Her Grace’s housings and foot-mantle. If I might make so bold, I wad engage he should be in Her Majesty’s stable or he was weel missed at Warkworth. I wad send ain o’ my lads back for him this very night!’

Darnley burst into a loud mocking laugh.

‘A thorough moss-trooper,’ he exclaimed, ‘rider, jackman, plunderer, thief; call them what you will, they are all alike; fit followers of such a chief. Were I king of Scotland I would have the halters off the horses and put them on the men, and string them up in rows with this tall knave at their head, not forgetting his worthy master, the leader of the gang.’

The young man spoke in laughing boisterous accents that might be taken either for jest or earnest, but the borderer’s face flushed dark-red, and the fingers of his left hand closed like a vice upon his sheathed sword.

‘If ever you are king of Scotland,’ said he, ‘may ye die no less noble a death than him who lay by the Till, yon summer’s evening, with the proudest an’ the bauldest an’ the best down about him like trees felled in a rank; and wha but the borderers sleepin’, man by man, at gentle King James’s feet! It sets a Scottish lord ill to speak again’ them that keeps the Scottish line, an’ warst of all a limber lad like your honour (no offence to ye), that’s got soldier written on his brow, and swordsman marked on every yane o’ his lang limbs.’

The compliment to his personal appearance, always an acceptable offering to Darnley, modified whatever he might have considered offensive in the henchman’s plain-speaking. The Queen, too, who had listened to the colloquy with obvious displeasure and some uneasiness, now laid her hand on the arm of her consort and motioned him to proceed with their walk. The latter felt in his girdle for a couple of gold pieces, which were not, however, forthcoming, then with a careless laugh and a whisper in Riccio’s ear, nodded insolently to the borderer, and passed on with Mary and her train.

One of these, however, lingered a few paces in the rear. Dick’s face grew very pale once more when Mistress Seton turned back and accosted him with her own bright glance and her own merry smile.

‘You are slow of speech,’ said she, ‘I know of old, though prompt in deed, and as true as the steel in your belt. Is it not so?’

His lips were white and dry. He could not answer in words, but his affirmative gesture was more convincing than a hundred oaths.

She laid her hand on his. Through the steel gauntlet that light touch thrilled in every vein and fibre of the giant.

‘You will tell me the truth,’ she proceeded. ‘What of Walter Maxwell? We have had no tidings of him since the morning he rode away from Holyrood, weeks and months ago!’

It speaks well for Mary Seton’s good nature that the subject uppermost in her mind was one which she believed so vitally affected the welfare of her friend. It was as much kindliness of disposition as female curiosity that riveted her attention on the borderer’s reply.

Dick’s face became a study of self-reproach and embarrassment while he related the treachery of which Walter had been the victim; neither concealing nor palliating his own share in the business, which seemed to himself the less black that it was taken in compliance with his chief’s orders, and for which his listener either forgot or neglected to reprove him. It is impossible to take the same interest in other people’s matters that we do in our own, and what a world of confusion we should have if the confidants and go-betweens in a love-affair were as much agitated as the principals.

Mary Seton heard him calmly enough, and then proceeded to interrogate him about Bothwell. The henchman’s answers concerning his chief seemed to afford her matter both of surprise and gratification. The earl was evidently in a state of discomfort and restlessness that must be reported at once to the Queen, who had always betrayed extraordinary interest in everything connected with Hermitage or the Borders, and his rude follower seemed to have observed and analysed his feelings with a sagacity that must have been strangely sharpened by some influence from without.

If there was a more triumphant sparkle in Mary Seton’s eye, a tinge of deeper colour on her cheek, as she reflected on the nature of that influence, who shall blame her? Was she not a woman; and is it not a woman’s instinct, like a cat’s, to tease and tantalise her prey to the utmost? Though the mouse be as big as an elephant, it is such fun to tempt him with the prospect of indulgence, or even liberty, and then sweep him irresistibly back again with one stroke of the cruel velvet paw.

Mary Seton smiled within herself, and felt twice as big as the great borderer trembling there before her. With a whole budget of news gained for her Sovereign, she reverted to the topic most interesting to her comrade.

‘You think, then, that he is alive, though in close ward?’ she asked. ‘They are cruel folk, I have heard say, the “lightsome Leslies.” I would poor Walter were safe out of their hands!’

Dick had found his voice at last:

‘And safe he shall be!’ was his reply, ‘before another week has passed over his head. It may tak’ time, an’ it may tak’ skill, an’ it may tak’ twa or three men’s lives, but we’ll ha’ Maister Maxwell oot ’gin we ding doon Lesly itsel’, an’ mak’ a low[14] that’ll light up the twa Lommonds and the tae half o’ the kingdom of Fife! That’s what I’m here for now.’

She looked at him archly:

‘Was that all that brought you to Edinburgh?’ said she.

Again something seemed to choke the man-at-arms and prevent his reply. At last he spoke in a hoarse whisper—

‘I was fain to see the Court once more—and the Queen-and—and—yersel’, Mistress Seton! I’ll no win back to Liddesdale, I’m thinkin’; but I’ll tak’ the brunt o’ it bra’ an’ easy the noo, sin I’ve seen ye to wish ye farewell.’

Something in his tone so tender, so hopeless, and so respectful, touched the girl to the heart. She laid her hand once more in his, and he wrung it hard in his own strong fingers, but did not even presume to put it to his lips. Only as she turned away to join the Queen, a low stifled sob smote upon her ear, and looking back she beheld the borderer standing as if spell-bound on the spot where she had left him. The next moment he was in the saddle, and as he passed her moving up the street after the others, he detached the sprig of witch-elm from his morion and cast it at her feet ere he galloped off.

Mary Seton’s eyes filled with tears while she picked it up, and Dick’s honest heart would have leapt with joy, notwithstanding his forebodings, could he have seen her hide it away carefully and tenderly in her bosom. When she rejoined the royal party, Riccio’s sharp countenance wore a look of curiosity, for his quick eye detected that she had been weeping; but the Queen called her to her side, and soothed and caressed her, speaking in gentle, loving tones, like a mother to a child.