‘She ought to know it. She shall know it. I’m a rider, my lords; I ride with the spur.’
‘’Tis the curb you lack,’ says Ruthven, with a harsh laugh.
The blinking youth pondered him and his words. ‘I’m for the spur and a loose rein, Ruthven. I get the paces out of my nags. I have the seat.’
‘Half of it, say, my lord!’
Everybody heard that except the King, who went grumbling on. ‘You shall not teach me how to sit a horse. I say you shall not, man.’
‘My lord,’ cried Lindsay, who never would call him ‘sir,’ ‘the talk is not of horse-riding. If we use that similitude for the Queen’s government, I tell your lordship it is unhappy. For on that horse of government there be two riders, I think; and of what advantage is the loose rein of your lordship when your fellow uses the curb?’
‘Ay my good lord, you hit the mark. Two riders, two riders, by God’s fay!’
The same voice as before—heard this time by the King. No one knew who had spoken, nor were the words more explicitly offensive than Lindsay’s; but the pothouse tone of them caught the muzzy ear, hit some quick spot in the cloudy brain, and stung like fire. The King lifted up his head to listen; he opened his mouth and stared, as if he saw something revealed beyond the window, some warning or leering face. Then he rose and held by his chair. ‘Two riders? Two riders? Two! Who said that? By heaven and hell, bring me that man!’
The pain, the horror he had, the helpless rage, made a dead hush all over; nobody stirred. Ridiculous he may have been, as he raised his voice yet higher and mouthed his words—worthless he was known to be—and yet he was tragic for the moment. ‘I say it is damnable lying,’ he said, swaying about. ‘I say that man shall go to deep hell.’ He stared round the hall, at his wits’ end. His wits made a pounce. ‘Archie, thou black thief, ’twas thou!’
‘No, sir; no, upon my soul.’