"One to the laird of Millheugh, most certainly. That letter I delivered."
"Oh, yes; of a verity we doubt not that," continued his chief tormentor Kilmaurs;—"the letter from a fair court lady—a countess, at least, who was in sore trouble, and lacked a messenger to her dear kinsman here. We mean not that. Ha-ha! Champfleurie played his cards well!"
"I have been snared and deluded!" said the poor youth, while his heart beat like lightning; and he glanced round him vainly for means of escape, or, at least, for a desperate and protracted resistance.
"Precisely so; you have been deluded. Champfleurie——"
"Like each one of you, is a villain, whom, will God, I shall yet unmask and slay!" exclaimed their victim.
"By St. Bride! poor devil, I almost pity thee!" said Bothwell. "Thou'lt fare hardly enough at the hands of Millheugh and his ragged Robins."
"Florence Fawside," said Kilmaurs, "we know thee to be a spy of the Guises and bearer of their letters to Mary of Lorraine and the Regent Arran. We can easily slay thee, and obtain such papers as may be concealed in secret pockets; but we care not, by cracking the nut, to gain the kernel so hastily. Ye may be the custodier of other and more important secrets than men care to commit to paper, especially such men as the Cardinal de Guise and Monseigneur the Duc de Mayenne: and these secrets we must have!"
"Sirs, I swear to you, as a gentleman and a true Scottish man, I am the depositary of no such secrets as you suppose," said the unfortunate youth, with great earnestness; for though brave, even to temerity, he thought of his old mother and his young love, while all their swords seemed to glitter death before him, and his sinking heart grew sad.
"A cock-laird like thee may swear to anything," said Kilmaurs insolently.
"Thou, Kilmaurs, art an empty boaster, and a coward. My race is among the oldest in the land."