And Bothwell, eager, hot-headed, vain, perhaps even romantic, was a mere child in the hands of such a man as this. What could avail the bluff straightforward courage of the swordsman against the diplomatic finesse of the equally bold but far more subtle statesman? It was the old story of the long sweeping sabre against the delicate rapier skilfully handled. The broad blade whistles through the air with mighty strokes that would serve to cleave a head-piece or to lop a limb, but ere it can descend amain, the thin line of quivering steel has wound its sinuous way under the guard and through the joints of the harness, and is drinking the streams of life-blood from the heart. Earl Bothwell was bound hand and foot to the half-brother of his Queen.
All these intrigues and vexations goaded the warden to the verge of madness. He could scarce bear to be noticed, much less addressed, by his retainers; and it was with a fierce oath and a savage glare that he accosted his henchman when the latter ventured to interrupt his solitary walk, one summer’s evening, on the northern rampart.
The stars were coming out one by one in the soft twilight sky, and the warden paced moodily to and fro, looking ever and anon wistfully towards the north.
‘What lack ye, man, in the fiend’s name?’ exclaimed the earl, angrily. ‘Must every knave that clears a trencher come into my presence unbidden? Silence, varlet, and begone!’
But Dick, too, had a sore heart and a perplexed brain, a combination which renders a man somewhat careless of outward observances. He was not to be daunted, even by the displeasure of his chief, and he answered doggedly in return—
‘I’ll no be silent when it’s for the laird’s honour that I suld speak! Oh! Bothwell, man, me an’ mine has served you an’ yours ever sin’ Scotland was a kingdom, I’m thinkin’. Will ye no hear me speak the day?’
Dick’s voice shook when he alluded to his feudal services. Stern as the giant looked, he was hoarse and trembling with emotion. Something in the warden’s breast responded to the appeal of his retainer, and he answered with assumed impatience—
‘Say your say, man, in the devil’s name, who seems to be commanding officer here; out with your report, if report it be, and have done with it.’
‘I wad wage my life for you, Bothwell, and that ye ken fine,’ replied Dick, with something almost like tears shining in his eyes. ‘I wadna grudge to shed every drop of bluid I hae, just to keep ye frae watting your foot. It’s no danger, an’ it’s no disgrace, an’ it’s no death that wad daunton me frae doing the laird’s bidding. No, no, “Dick-o’-the-Cleugh” and Dick’s forbears ha’ eaten the Hepburn’s bread and drunk frae the Hepburn’s cup ower lang for the like o’ that. But it’s just rackin’ my heart to think o’ yon lad in the donjon-keep at Leslie, and him breaking bread in the Hepburn’s hall, and setting his trust on the Hepburn’s honour. And to think o’ the like o’ me pittin’ his feet in the fetters and his craig in a tow; I wish my hands had rotted off at the elbows first!’
‘What would you have, man?’ said his chief, somewhat less impatiently than the henchman had expected. ‘’Tis a mettled gallant, I grant ye, and a far-off kinsman of my own. What, then? A soldier must take his chance; ’tis but the fortune of war.’