"She travailed with him earnestly for two hours before her supper, that he would protect the Catholic clergy from persecution." Knox slept in the castle, but "before the sun," as he records, he was awakened by the sound of horns and of boats putting off to the mainland. For the queen would go a-hawking.
Presently Knox was roused. The queen would have him join her "be-west Kinross," to continue the conversation.
The reformer did not rise as early as the queen—the serenity of that righteous conscience! He rose reluctantly at her summons. His reforming eyes, no doubt, looked with displeasure on the exquisite beauties of the unreformed morning, the mists lying soft on the Lomonds, day just emerging from night.
So he joined her, and they rode together, she on her horse, he on his hackney.
And the morning came on, and the day was a glory.
Mary warned Knox that a certain Bishop sought to use him, and Knox afterward acknowledged the value of her warning. She asked him to settle a quarrel between Argyle and his wife, her half sister, as Knox had done before. And often no doubt she glanced at her hawk hanging in the high Scottish sky.
And finally she declared—"as touching our reasoning of yesternight, I promise to do as ye required. I shall summon the offenders and ye shall know that I shall minister justice."
And the reformer, softened by the morning, and by Mary's eyes—"I am assured then that ye shall please God and enjoy rest and prosperity within your realm."
And Knox rode off. And Mary rode hawking.
The time was not yet come when Mary should say—"Yon man gar me greet and grat never tear himself. I will see if I can gar him greet."