CHAPTER XIX.
THE REJECTED AND THE RIVAL.
When fix'd to one, Love safe at anchor rides,
And dares the fury of the winds and tides;
But losing once that hold, to the wide ocean borne,
It drives at will, to every wave a scorn.
Dryden.
Though the Earl spoke aloud with an air of careless bravado, he was not without sincere apprehension for the issue of this visit; and when contemplating what might ensue, if his rash and foolish espousal of the Norwegian lady became known to Lord Huntly, various dark ideas of threats, of dule-tree and dungeon, were suggested as the surest means of procuring silence. The malice and gibing of his highborn enemies at court—the queen's indignation—the countess' grief and anger—Huntly's pride and scorn!
"Devil!" muttered Bothwell, playing with his Parmese dagger; "it may be old Rosenkrantz himself! Would that Black Ormiston were here to advise me!"
His heart beat like lightning as footsteps crossed the antechamber; they came nearer; a hand grasped the arras, and the stranger (whom the pages had attired in one of Bothwell's own suits, but who still had his sword, dagger, and corselet) stooped as he entered, and stood erect before him, with head drawn back, his breast heaving, his eyes kindling, and his cheek flushing.
Save a fierce glance, no other greeting was exchanged between them.
"I see that the gay Lord of Bothwell has not forgotten me," said Konrad in French.
"The lover of Anna Rosenkrantz—Konrad of Saltzberg—here, within the walls of Bothwell!"
"Ay, proud noble, here!—beard to beard with thee; yet, believe me, had I known that the fortress, whose round towers rose so grimly above the river, were those of my greatest foe, I had rather have perished among its foaming waters than, given one cry for succour, save to God!"