“Then be it war!” cried she, the eloquent blood mantling to her cheeks in glorious indignation, her eyes flashing, and her bosom heaving with emotion; “then be it war! We have stooped low enough in suing thus for peace from those whom we are born to govern, and we will stoop no longer. Better to die, to fall as our gallant father fell, leading his faithful countrymen, devoted subjects, against enemies not half so fierce as these, who should be brothers. Sound trumpets, advance our guards! Seyton, Fleming, Huntley, to your leadings, and advance! ourselves will see the tourney.”
“Your grace forgets,” replied the experienced leader to whom she first addressed herself, “your grace forgets that not one dastard of this fair army, as it shows upon this ground of vantage, will advance one lance’s length against the foe. Some scores there are, in truth, followers oft tried and ever-faithful of mine own, and some if I mistake not of the earl of Orkney, who will fight well when shaft and steel-point hold together; but ’twere but butchery to lead the rugged vassals upon certain death! for what are scores to thousands such as stand thirsting for the battle yonder—thousands led on, too, by the first martialists of Europe? Nevertheless, say but the word, and it is done. Seyton hath ever lived for Stuart—it rests but now to die!” He paused—but in an instant, taking his cue from Mary’s extended nostril and still-flashing eye, he shouted, in a voice of thunder: “Mount, mount, and make ready! A Seyton, a Seyton for the Stuart!” Already had he dashed the rowels into his steed, and another instant would have precipitated his little band upon the inevitable destruction that awaited them in the crowded ranks which, at the well-known sound of that wild slogan, had brought their lances to the charge, and waited but a word to bear down all opposition.
Happily, so miserable a consummation was warded off. The earl of Orkney, who had stood silent and thunder-stricken by the side of his lovely bride, sprang forward, and grasping with impetuous vehemence the bridle-rein of Seyton—
“Not so!” he hissed through his set teeth, “not so, brave baron; this is my quarrel now, mine only; and dost think that I will veil my crest to mortal man? Lo! in yonder lines the haughty rebels have drawn their weapons, and against me only shall they wield them! What, ho there, heralds! take pursuivant and trumpet, and bear my gauntlet, the earl of Orkney’s gauntlet, to yonder misproud caitiffs: say that Bothwell defies them—defies them to the mortal combat, here before this company, here in the presence of men and angels, to prove his innocence, their bold and overweening treason!”—and he hurled his ponderous glove to earth.
“Well said and nobly, gallant earl!” cried Seyton; “so shall this foul calumny be stayed, and floods of Scottish blood be spared. On to thy devoir, and God will shield the right.”
And at the word the heralds rode forth again, the foremost bearing the glove of the challenger high on a lance’s point. Again the trumpets flourished, but not now as before, in peaceful strains. At the loud clangor of defiance, the confederate chiefs again strode to the front, their horses led behind them by page or squire; and as the menace of the challenger was proclaimed loudly and clearly by the king-at-arms, a smile of fierce delight flashed over every brow.
“I claim the privilege of battle!” shouted the impetuous Glencairn.
“And I!”—“And I!”—“And I!” rose hoarsely into air the mingled tones of Morton, Lyndesay, and Kirkaldy, as each sprang forth to seize the proffered gauntlet. “I am the senior baron!” shouted one. “And I the leader of the van!” cried another; and for a minute’s space all was confusion, verging fast toward strife, among those chiefs of late so closely linked together—till the deep, sonorous voice of Murray, in after-days the regent of the realm, was heard above the tumult.
“For shame, my lords, for shame! Seems it so much of honor to do the hangman’s office on a murderer, that ye would mar our fair array with this disgraceful bruit for the base privilege? By Heaven, should the duty fall on me, I should perform it, doubtless, even as I would prefer the meanest work that came before me under the name of duty; but, trust me, I should hold the deed a blot upon mine ancient escutcheon, rather than honor! But to the deed, my lords; the herald awaits our answer. Lord Lyndesay, thine is the strongest claim: if thou wilt undertake the deed, thou hast my voice.”
“As joyfully,” muttered Lyndesay beneath his grizzly mustache, “as joyfully as to the banquet do I go forth against the craven traitor! Morton, lend me thy falchion for the trial—the two-handed espaldron which slew Spens of Kilspindie, at the brook of Fala, in the hands of Archibald of Douglas, thy renowned forefather. God give me grace to wield it, and it shall do as trusty service on the carcass of yon miscreant!”