Tullibardine spoke of duty, forgiveness, the clemency of the prince, while the Queen stirred the broth in her hand.
‘I never sent him to France,’ she said, ‘but to the Castle of Edinburgh rather. He set me at nought when he fled this country. Let him return to the place I put him in, and we will think about duty, forgiveness, and the prince’s clemency. I bear him no more ill-will than he has put in me, and he can take it out when he pleases.’
‘I thank your Majesty,’ said Tullibardine, ‘and my noble friend will thank you.’
‘He has only himself to thank, so far as I see,’ she replied, and dismissed him before the broth could get cold.
Meantime the Earl of Moray had held a godly conversation with afflicted Pringle. Pringle had much to say: as that, of all men living, the Lord Bothwell hated two—his good lordship of Moray and Mr. Secretary. He had sworn to be the death of each when he returned.
The Earl of Moray compressed his lips, straightened himself, and cleared his throat.
‘I fear for him, Pringle,’ he said, ‘the wild, misgoverned, glorious young man. I cannot charge myself with any offence against him, and yet I remember that when I was in France he girded at me more than once. But I am accustomed in such variancy to hold my plain course. Pringle, that was a desperate gentleman. He had to be forbid the Court.’
‘True, my lord,’ says Pringle, ‘and your lordship knows to what abominable usages he hath——’
‘Pray, Pringle, pray, no more!’
Pringle was now in the painful position of having staked out a short road and finding it denied him. ‘I must whisper in your lordship’s ear. I must make so bold.’