"Can your friend read?" asked Shelly.
"Like Duns Scotus himself," replied Bothwell; adding, "Master Patten, I thank you. When I am the husband of Katharine Willoughby, I will requite this and other services as they deserve. And now for our messenger, who must receive this from the hand of Champfleurie to lull all suspicion."
"Fawside is quite unsuspecting," said Glencairn.
"And therefore, the more open to guile and to attack, poor fellow!" added Shelly with some commiseration, though not much afflicted with tender scruples at any time.
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE DEATH-ERRAND.
My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this farther charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or circumstance.—Measure for Measure.
Florence, with his heart beating wildly, from the conflicting revelations of his late interview, had placed his foot in the silver stirrup of his saddle, and was in the act of grasping his horse's flowing mane preparatory to mounting, when a gauntleted hand was laid bluntly on his shoulder, and on turning he met the dark and handsome, but somewhat crafty, face of John Livingstone of Champfleurie, captain of the queen's guard, a man who had been long enough about courts and among Scottish and French courtiers to acquire the habit of veiling every emotion of life under a bland and well-bred smile, from which nothing could be gathered. Though faithful enough to the queen, as faith went at court, he was also disposed to be not unfriendly to his kinsman the Earl of Bothwell, and, heedless whether the missive given him by the latter purported good or evil to the bearer, he undertook that Fawside should deliver it. It was a favourite proverb of this time-serving soldier, "as long as one is in the fox's service, one must bear up his tail."
"Under favour," said he, "I would speak with you, laird."
"Then speak quickly, for I am in haste," replied the young man, gathering up his reins.