“Read!” he commanded, in his turn.
Dumbfounded, but somehow impelled, the Countess lifted the paper, glanced at it, and, uttering a shriek, threw it down before Erskine, who, also perusing it, gave a sudden snort, and handed it, with an amused ironic bow, to the King.
It was a document, signed by his own Majesty, vesting his title and authority for the space of fifteen days in the person of his faithful servant George Buchanan.
The pedagogue, with a stern aspect, advanced, and, motioning the King out of his chair—a dictate which the pupil instinctively obeyed—assumed the vacant place.
“D’ye deny your ain sign-manual, James Stuart?” he asked.
The boy, looking very sheepish, shook his head.
“It shall be a lesson and a warning to ye, Jamie,” said Buchanan. “How aften have I rebuked, and vainly, your complying good-nature! And now that easy concession has dethroned ye for the nonce, as ane day it may for gude and a’. For the future, read your sifflications before signing them.” He whipped round suddenly on the small Master of Mar. “As for this young traitor and his mither,” he bawled, “that have conspired to injure their King——”
The Countess cried out, as Geordie ran screaming into her arms, “No treason, gudeman, no treason! I allow the truth of your contention. It is maist lawful, under just provocation, to dethrone and kill a tyrant.”
“Humph!” said Buchanan, twisting into place again. “I am nane, maybe, so convinced of that as I was, and we will e’en leave the point for future discussion. In the meanwhile, as King I decree that the person of ane George Buchanan, homo multarum literarum, is sacred from this hour and for ever, and that onyone at ony time conspiring to injure it, shall be adjudged guilty of treason against the King’s Majesty.”
Alexander Erskine lay back in his chair and went into a roar of laughter.