"Excuse me, my lord," said the Marischal, riding off; "I must confer with his Majesty."
"He means the Lord Darnley," said Bothwell, with a bitter smile. "Shame on the hour that Scottish men made yonder gilded doll their king!"
"Humph!" said Ormiston, suspiciously; "art thou jealous?"
"If it should so happen," observed the Earl, in a low voice, "that he were to die, what wouldst thou think of me as a husband for the queen?"
"Burn my beard! what—thou?"
"By the blessed Jupiter!" continued the other, half in earnest and half in jest; "she might find a worse spouse than James Hepburn of Bothwell."
"Where?" asked Ormiston, pithily.
The Earl laughed; but his eyes flashed, as he said in a low voice—
"Mark me, Hob of Ormiston! let me but crush Moray, Mar, and Morton under my heel, and I will yet govern the kingdom of Scotland even as I curb this fiery horse."
"A rare governor! thou who canst not govern thyself."