"The darkness increases apace," said Mariette; "take thou this mantle and broad hat, lower thy stature, stoop if thou canst, pass forth, and may God attend thee! Leave me in thy place—they cannot have the heart to destroy me, a poor French girl; and yet," she added, in an under tone, "what matters it now?"
"Destroy thee? thou the sister of French Paris—of that Nicholas Hubert, who this day died amid the yells of the infuriated thousands who crowded the Lawnmarket like a living sea!"
"True, true, I am his sister!" said Mariette, wringing her hands; "God sain and assoilzie thee, my dear, dear brother; but in this, my disguise of page, I have another chance of escaping, for Charles la Fram, Duval, and Dionese la Brone, who, thou mayest remember, were in thy band of archers, and now serve as arquebusiers in the guards of the Regent Moray, are at this moment sentinels in the Abbey Close, and by their connivance, for the love of old France, I am sure—oh! quite sure—of escaping in safety. Be persuaded, dearest monsieur, I am as certain of freedom as thou art of a terrible death."
"And by the ignominious rope—the badge of shame—amid a gazing and reviling multitude. John Hepburn, of the house of Bolton—the last of a line whose pennons waved at Halidon—to die thus! God of mercy! any risk were better than the agony of such an end."
"Away, then, and long ere the sun rises we shall both be free."
"At this hour, then, to-morrow eve, thou wilt meet me, Mariette."
"Meet thee—meet thee!—where?"
"At the Rood Chapel, by the loan side that leads to Leith."
"Ah, monsieur! 'tis a wild and solitary place."
"But a safe one. Thou knowest it then—near the Gallowlee. I have much—oh, very much—to say to thee, and many a question to ask. Promise thou wilt come, Mariette, for the sake of that dear love thou didst once bear me!"