Pale as ashes, and feeling as if death was in his heart, Florence entered the room, with his hands begrimed by the fire-scathed cross, which he had long since consigned to another messenger to bear elsewhere. He approached the regent, but, overcome by his emotions, tottered to a chair, and found himself incapable of speech or action.
"Wine—wine! 'tis Fawside, ever faithful and true; but faint and worn now," exclaimed Arran.
Dalserfe, the page, promptly brought a flask of wine; but Florence waved his hand, and again sank back; then fortunately there entered at that moment another messenger, the loyal old Earl of Mar.
"The English are in motion, my Lord of Arran," he exclaimed.
"A thousand beacons are telling all Scotland quite as much, lord earl," said Arran, with a quiet smile; "so they are advancing?"
"Their avant-garde, three thousand strong, under their lieutenant-general, the brave Earl of Warwick, is already on the march to Greenlaw; and their rear-guard, also three thousand strong, under the Lord Dacres, hath reached Berwick. I have ridden from the Merse, old as I am, to bear these sure tidings, for I saw them cross the Tweed to-day at noon!"
"Who hath them, under baton?"
"The duke—Edward of Somerset."
"Sit ye down, lord earl," said the Archbishop of St. Andrews; "for in sooth you seem weary."
"Nay, my lord, pardon me," replied this peer, like all his race a faithful adherent of the crown; "but in this room where last I knelt to James V.——"