And who was this third conspirator, this evil spirit so much mightier and so much more daring than the two it controlled? Who, but Moray, the Queen’s half-brother? Staid, quiet, composed as usual; less splendidly dressed, less energetic in gesture, less striking in appearance than either of his companions, yet obviously the leader whom they trusted implicitly and obeyed without remorse.
One more faithful adherent to the House of Leslie completed the party. His honest face and loyal courage seemed strangely out of place where treason was brewing; a large handsome bloodhound kept close at the heel of Rothes, poking his wet nose at intervals into his master’s hand.
Even in the extremity at which he found himself, Maxwell could not forbear contrasting the surrounding scene with the principal actors. The white stems of the beeches shone like silver in the glowing afternoon sun, while thrush and blackbird carolled gaily from the deep rich screen of their heavy foliage. Life and light, beauty and fragrance filled the atmosphere, peace and prosperity smiled around; white sheep were feeding on a grassy slope over against him between the trees; red roses blooming and clustering around steeped his senses in their perfumes; the bee hummed drowsily by in the warm still air; overhead the swallows flitted to and fro against the blue laughing sky; and there, at his feet, within a spear’s length of him, frowned the three dark pitiless faces, while Moray’s measured voice unfolded the plot that chilled his very blood, though it roused his vindictive hatred, as he listened.
Not one of the others drank in every syllable as did that eager fugitive, crouching like a wild cat along the arm of the old beech tree.
‘I tell ye, gentlemen, it cannot fail,’ said the degenerate Stuart, with more earnestness than usual; ‘the net is so spread that fly which way she will, the bird cannot but find herself within its meshes. I can tell ye for as certain as if I heard her say so now, that she leaves Perth after dinner to-morrow and rides to Callander, for the young Livingstone’s baptism, direct; she will have no following beyond her personal attendants, and some twenty or thirty spears. Your Leslies, my lord, may surely make account of these.’
He turned to Rothes while he spoke; the latter answered with a savage laugh, and the bloodhound murmured simultaneously a deep angry growl.
‘Why, “Hubert” seems to be of the same opinion,’ pursued Moray, carelessly patting the dog’s wide forehead, a liberty ‘Hubert’ seemed hugely inclined to resent. ‘But I always counsel force enough in these little matters of necessity. “Never stretch your hand out farther than you can draw it back again,” says our Scottish proverb; and “Never strike at your foe if your arm be not long enough to reach him,” say those who know how to make war with prudence and moderation. Nay, I would have no risk run of failure or miscarriage for want of an odd score or two of horsemen. What say you, my lord of Argyle?’
That nobleman pondered a few moments ere he replied.
‘My following moves forward to-night. I shall find four hundred spears at the Paren-Well to-morrow ere the sun has gone down two hours from the meridian.’
‘Good!’ answered Moray, nodding his head. ‘And you, Rothes? The Leslies are sure to be swarming when there is aught stirring that promises a fight or a capture.’