‘You wish your opportunity—you think the hour is struck! You observe—you judge—you make your plans—you wait—you watch—and—ah! You come to me—you say, Passion is not wanting, but opportunity is all. And my music lends it: Baisons-nous, ma belle, hey? Good, sir! good, sir! I thank you, and I meet you half-way. In a little moment—ha! here is the moment. Listen.’ A bell in the tower began to toll.
‘Midnight, sir!’ cried the Italian, leaping about and waving his arms. ‘That is the midnight bell!’ He struck a great pose—head thrown back, one hand in his breast. ‘Era già l’ ora che volge il disio! Come, come, my lord, we will put the point to the pyramid. Wait for me.’
He ran out, cloaking head and shoulders as he went; the Earl awaited him massively. In a little while he was back again, cheerful, almost riotously cheerful, accompanied by a blue-chinned young man, a priest of the old religion, whose eyes looked beady with fright to see the grim Protestant lord.
‘No, no, my reverend, have no fears at all,’ said the Italian; ‘see nobody, hear nothing; but go to the chapel and vest yourself for midnight mass. Quick, my dear, quick!—off with you!’
My lord had contrived to freeze himself out of sight or conscience of this part of the business. It was droll to see how abstractedly he looked at the wall. The priest had disappeared before the Italian touched his arm, beckoning him to follow.
They descended from the turret upon the long corridor which connected the two wings of the house; they went down a little stair, and came to the Queen’s door, which led from the hall to her own side. This door was closed, but not locked. Pushing it gently open, Signior Davy saw young Gordon looking at the crowd in the dusty hall, his elbows on his knees. The hum and buzz of talk came eddying up the stair—little cries, manly assurance, protestations, and so on. ‘Hist, Monsieur de Gordon, hist!’ Adam looked up, Des-Essars peeped round the corner: those two were never far apart.
The Italian whispered, ‘I must have a word with the Queen as she comes up. It is serious. Warn her of it.’ Adam coloured up; he was flustered. It was Des-Essars who, looking sharply at the incisive man, nodded his head. Signior David drew back, and drew his companion back. They waited at the head of the stair in the shadow, listening to the rumours of the hall.
There came presently a lull in the talk, a hushing-down; some sort of preparation, expectancy; they heard the Queen say, quite clearly, ‘To-morrow, to-morrow I will consider it. I cannot hear you now.’ A voice pleaded, ‘Ah, madam, in pity——!’ and hers again: ‘No, no, no! Come, ladies.’
‘Room there, sirs! Give room there, my ladies!’ cried the usher. Good-nights followed, laughing and confused speech, shuffling of feet, and some rustling—kissing of hands, no doubt. Then, as one knows what one cannot see, they felt her coming.
Arthur Erskine, Captain of the Guard, marched up first, solemnly, with two great torches; Bastien the valet, some more servants. Margaret Carwood, bedchamber-woman, appeared at the stair-head. Some of the maids of honour passed up—Mary Beaton and a young French girl, hand-in-hand, Mary Sempill, and others. Des-Essars stepped from his place at the foot of the stairs and was no more seen.