"To the point, my lords!" said Shelly haughtily, while he drew tighter, by a hole or two, the silver buckle of his sword-belt.
"Florence Fawside, the French envoy, spy, or what you will, is even now with Mary of Lorraine!"
"Art sure of this?" asked Shelly in a low voice, full of interest, as he gazed through the barred window.
"Sure as my name is Patrick Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell; we both saw him enter her residence; and a soldier of her guard holds the bridle of his grey horse at the door—a soldier, who says he departs thereafter for Cadzow—dost thou see, for Cadzow!"
"To the lord regent. This must not be!" said Master Patten, starting up.
"Let us follow and cut him off—'tis the simplest plan," said Shelly.
"Nay—nay!"
"Why, thou, Bothwell, art not wont to be wary!"
"Our trains are scattered abroad throughout the city, and if we fared ill——"
"Four to one?"