‘Now for some double-dyed intrigue,’ was his inmost thought, ‘some plot set on foot by impenetrable Moray, not satisfied with his new earldom, and turbulent Morton, with his own craft added to the recklessness of all his Douglas ancestors, and Maitland, the skilful penman, the subtle diplomatist, wise as the serpent and plausible as the father of lies himself. They would fain make a cat’s-paw of rude James Hepburn, for, doubtless, they want a bold heart and a ready hand to aid their schemes, and they send this godly man, half-fanatic, half-hypocrite, to feel if the tool be heated the right temper. I wot they may burn their fingers, one and all of them, yet!’ But he only answered, abruptly—
‘I believe you are the friend of my house. You will counsel nothing that can prejudice my honour, or my loyalty to the Queen.’
‘My great-grandfather, my gude-sire, and my father, have served your family, James Hepburn, for three generations. Ay! served them when their banner was waving in the fore-front of the battle, and the arrows of the English archers were hailing against their harness like a storm from hell. Do you think their blood is not boiling in my veins because I wear a Geneva cassock for a steel breastplate? Do you think if my forebears shrank not to ride through fire and water for the Hepburn, I would fear to encounter death in his defence, much less would tempt him to danger or disgrace? Nay, my lord earl, though the commands of my Master are imperative, they will but lead to your aggrandisement in this world, and your salvation in the next.’
John Knox paused and turned a scrutinising look on his companion’s face.
The latter plucked a morsel of grass from the rampart, and flung it on the breeze.
‘Let us see how the wind blows,’ he replied, with a scornful laugh; ‘fair or foul, ye can trim your sails to it, all of ye, and I can ride through a storm with the best!’
‘Nay!’ exclaimed the Reformer; ‘the labourer is worthy of his hire; know ye not that the great trial is approaching between the powers of darkness and the children of light? In France, the sovereign and his ministers are determined to stifle the good cause with the strong hand, and even now the blood of saints and martyrs crieth aloud from the very stones in the streets of Paris. The scarlet woman who spreadeth her mantle over the Seven Hills, and waveth her white arms abroad to lure souls to perdition, seducing some with indulgences and driving others to despair with her curse, is battling for her very existence, and that of the reptiles she hath spawned, and who crawl around her feet. Here in Scotland—ay, at Holyrood itself—hath not an image been erected unto Baal? and is not the idolatry of the mass raised weekly by Mary Stuart, whom men call Queen of Scotland, and who is herself a daughter of perdition?’
‘Hold!’ exclaimed Bothwell, in a voice of thunder, and advancing a step towards the speaker, as though about to hurl him from the rampart. He restrained himself, however, with an obvious effort, and proceeded in a calmer voice, ‘It was not to malign his Queen that you sought an interview with the most devoted of her servants?’
Knox saw his zeal had carried him too far. The Reformer, like those whose persuasion he reprobated, was somewhat prone to allow that ‘the end justified the means.’ He retraced his steps, therefore, as it were, and resumed more calmly—
‘Her Majesty must be saved from the influence of evil advisers. Why are her communications with the bloody Guises so frequent? Why is Popish Riccio all-powerful at Holyrood? Why is Bothwell virtually banished, and well nigh attainted for a traitor? But because there is a schism in the camp of the faithful, and a house divided against itself shall not stand.’