"You owe me nothing, Lady Jean; my mother was a Seton."
At that moment Sir John Forrester, who had been summoned from his lodgings in the palace, and had come forth armed with soldier-like alacrity, entered, with his visor up, displaying the sad and dark cloud that hovered on his brow; for the watchful Dobbie had met him in the palace-yard, and placed in his hand the warrant for Lady Jane's arrest and "committal to ward," as they phrased it in those days.
"To your arms!" said he, waving his hand to the soldiers, who immediately took their arquebuses from the rack, where they stood in a row, and leaving the guard-house, fell into their ranks before it.
"My dear Lady Jane," said the courtly knight, taking both her hands in his, the moment they were left alone; "from what has all this frightful affair arisen?"
Jane answered only with her tears.
"Lady—dear lady, of what are you guilty?"
"Ask the leaders of your faction, Sir John," she replied, bitterly; "but ask not me."
"My faction, lady?"
"Thou servest the Court?"
"Nay, madam, I serve the king, like Sir Roland Vipont, whose fast friend I am; and as such, I beg permission to be thine."