Bothwell flushed dark red with wrath and shame.
‘Not a hair of his head must be jeopardied!’ he exclaimed passionately; then controlling himself, added in a more friendly tone, ‘I am beholden to you, Leslie, nor will I forget your courtesy. I shall, indeed, commit my kinsman to your care for a brief space. Four of my knaves, commanded by one whom I can trust, shall convoy him to-morrow into Fifeshire; though its lord is here with so gallant a following, Leslie House is, doubtless, not left ungarrisoned.’
‘Trust me for that!’ answered Rothes, an evil sneer again marring the beauty of his countenance. ‘They are peaceful knaves enough, the men of Fife, yet they would like well to harry the old corbie’s nest up yonder, and clear off scores for a few of Norman’s doings, to say nothing of my own. It will be long, though, ere they crack the stones of my poor fortalice with their teeth, and I care not to ride in Fife without some fifty spears at my back; there are more than as many there even now. Hark ye, Bothwell, take my signet-ring here; give it to your lieutenant, and he will find himself at Leslie House “master and more.”’
Moray, pretending not to listen, now asked for more wine with a great assumption of joviality and recklessness. A close observer, though, might have remarked that he scarce touched his own cup with his lips, whilst he encouraged his companions, who indeed were nothing loth, to empty theirs again and again. Artfully leading the conversation to the Queen’s possible marriage, to her different suitors, and other topics connected with Mary, he watched Bothwell writhing under the torture, and drowning his sufferings in revelry, with covert interest tinged by a sardonic amusement.
It was midnight ere the reckless orgie broke up, when Moray, calm, cool, and smiling, bade his companions a placid ‘good night;’ while Rothes, flushed and boisterous, trolled off a ribald drinking-song; and Bothwell, in whom wine had been powerless to drown the stings of conscience, sought his solitary chamber with keen remorse and torturing self-reproach gnawing at his heart.
CHAPTER XXX.
‘In solitude the sparks are struck that bid the world admire,
Though heart and brain must scorch the while in self-consuming fire.