"And yet, dost thou know, there was one of whom, until her marriage, I was wont to be jealous; for thou wert ever engaged with her in conversations full of wit and laughter and repartee."
"Hah!" said Bothwell, colouring perceptibly.—"Thou meanest Mary Beaton, I warrant."
"Nay! Nay!" laughed the Countess; "naughty varlet! thou knowest well whom I mean."
"Mary Fleming, then, whose father fell at Pinkie-cleugh."
"Nay, God forbid! she is the wife of thy friend, the secretary; another, and a fairer Mary, still."
"By St. Abb on the Nab! little fairy, thou meanest the Queen herself!" exclaimed Bothwell with a loud laugh, as if he had no previous idea of who was meant. "This would be to make me a rival of Henry Darnley—a proper squire, and a tall fellow, too—Ha! ha! thou art a merry wag, my bonnibel," added the Earl, as he turned to the grape basket, for the purpose of hiding the deep colour that crimsoned his face from beard to temple. "Thou mistakest, dear Jane; my thoughts never soared so high, and it may prove dangerous to—hark! is not that the blast of a hunting-horn?"
"And by the river-side?"
"Some belated wayfarer."
"I see no one," said the Countess, who had run to a window.
"It may be Lauchope and his jackmen—there was some whisper abroad of their riding tonight, anent his feud with the Laird of Clelland concerning their meithes and marches. Seest thou aught like lances or steel caps glittering in the moonlight, for now the storm has died away?"