“By St. Andrew!” cried Lord Lindsay, “open, or I will break in the door.”
“Do nothing to it, my lord, I entreat you,” said another voice, which Mary recognised as Meville’s. “Let us rather wait for Lord Ruthven, who is not yet ready.”
“Upon my soul,” cried Lindsay, shaking the door, “I shall not wait a second”. Then, seeing that it resisted, “Why did you tell me, then, you scamp,” Lindsay went on, speaking to the steward, “that the bar had been removed?
“It is true,” replied he.
“Then,” returned Lindsay, “with what is this silly wench securing the door?”
“With my arm, my lord, which I have passed through the rings, as a Douglas did for King James I, at a time when Douglases had dark hair instead of red, and were faithful instead of being traitors.”
“Since you know your history so well,” replied Lindsay, in a rage,” you should remember that that weak barrier did not hinder Graham, that Catherine Douglas’s arm was broken like a willow wand, and that James I was killed like a dog.”
“But you, my lord,” responded the courageous young girl, “ought also to know the ballad that is still sung in our time—
“‘Now, on Robert Gra’am, The king’s destroyer, shame! To Robert Graham cling Shame, who destroyed our king.’”
“Mary,” cried the queen, who had overheard this altercation from her bedroom,—“Mary, I command you to open the door directly: do you hear?”