On his return he was informed that the prisoner, David Drummond, desired to see him at the town jail; but although the message was brought by no less a person than Bailie Roy, the junior magistrate of the town, the earl refused to visit the prisoner.
"Tell him, good Master Roy," he said, "had he not been one of my own servants, I would have come to see him at his request; but such being the case, I will deal with him no way privately before his trial."
When the worthy bailie departed, Gowrie expected to hear no more of the matter; but he was surprised, about half an hour after, as he was walking somewhat sadly in his garden, to see Bailie Roy posting up the path towards him.
"I most humbly beg your lordship's pardon," said the good magistrate, approaching; "but I am forced to intrude upon your private recreation by another message from that dour divot, David Drummond. He bade me tell your lordship that if you would not see him he would apply to the king, and might tell him some things that he would be glad to hear."
"Then, by all means, let him pleasure his majesty," said Gowrie. "I would not for the world deprive him of any valuable or agreeable information. In short, Master Roy, I will not see him; and he should know me well enough to be sure that when once I have said so I will not alter."
Notwithstanding this determined answer, the prisoner's message left the earl thoughtful and anxious. "The only thing he can tell," thought Gowrie, "is the retreat of my poor Julia. The king has sent no answer to my letter. I will wait till noon to-morrow, and then go to demand one myself--I do not think he would venture to attempt to take her from my protection by force; but we shall soon see, and, thank God, everything is prepared."
No letter came on the day following, and Gowrie set out for Edinburgh after the noon meal. He arrived too late to visit the court that day, indeed; and was sitting down with all the evil anticipations of an impatient spirit under prolonged anxiety, when the clouds were suddenly dispelled, and a brief gleam of sunshine broke through the canopy of storm that was fast spreading over him.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"Gowrie, Gowrie, Gowrie!" cried the voice of Sir John Hume from the antechamber, almost as if he had been calling to a dog; and the next moment the gay knight entered with his face all radiant. "Where are the once sharp ears of the noble earl?" he continued, "ears that would have heard the hunter's, halloo, from Stirling to Linlithgow. Why, I called to you out of my high window in the High Street as you rode by, till the echo at the Blackford hills shouted out Gowrie; and you spurred on as if you had stopped your ears with wax, like Don Ulysses when in danger of the fair ladies on the shore. Would to Heaven all our mariners would do the same when they first land."
"I did not hear you, Hume," answered Gowrie, in a grave tone. "In truth, my friend, my heart is very sad, and my outward faculties have little communication with the spirit within. But what makes you look so joyful?"