"Hah! A master in the art of intrigue, I warrant him! Let me see this note, if it please you?"
Florence placed it in the right hand of the stranger, whose left now grasped his horse's bridle.
"It bears on the seal the anchor and chevrons of Bothwell."
"Of Earl Patrick?" exclaimed Florence, changing colour.
"Yea; and his coronet, as I can see plainly enough, even by this twilight. Herein lies some mystery, but no evil, I trust; for the Lord Bothwell is my assured friend. So let us forward, for yonder are the lights in Millheugh Towershining, about a mile distant."
"A mystery, say you, sir?" reiterated Florence angrily. "I have nothing to do with court secrets; and if this laird of Champfleurie has trepanned me into one, I shall read him a severe lesson, were he the last Livingstone in Scotland. And now, sir, as I have no intention of further concealing my name, know that I am Florence Fawside of Fawside and that ilk in Lothian, and fear no man breathing!"
The stranger, with a startled air, drew back a pace, and after a pause said, in a low and changed voice,—
"I have heard of you, and of your old feud with Claude Hamilton of Preston anent the right of pasturage and forestry."
"Then you have only heard that which all in Scotland know, and that I am under vow to slay him!"
"Has this old man—for he is old, this Claude of Preston, ever given you personal cause for hatred?"