‘Whither, my lord?’ asks Huntly.
‘Why, to bed,’ says he.
‘It is yet early,’ says Huntly.
‘It is none so early for the bed I intend for,’ he was told. ‘My bed is at Hermitage. I am master there, I’d let you know, and shall be here some day, God damn me.’ He was in a high rage at the way things were going, and always impatient of the least restraint. One or two bystanders, however, shrewd men, suspected that he had met his match.
Lord Huntly did not believe him—could not believe that he would ride, and ask his young Countess to ride, fifty miles through the marriage night. Nevertheless, towards six o’clock, the Earl came into the lower hall with his great boots on and riding-cloak over his shoulder, and confronted his lady standing with Mr. Ogilvy, my Lord Livingstone, Mary Sempill, her Master, and some more.
‘My lady,’ he said with a reverence, ‘I am a bird of the bough. ’Tis after my hour—I’m for my bed.’
Lady Bothwell gave him a short look. ‘If that is your night-gear, my lord, you sleep alone.’
Harshly he laughed. ‘It seems I am to do that. But, mistress, when you want me you will find me at Hermitage, whither I now go. And the same direction I give to you, Mr. Ogilvy,’ says he with meaning. ‘If you come into my country, or any country but this cursed town, you shall find me ready for you, Mr. Ogilvy of Boyne.’
Ogilvy wagged his head. ‘La la la! We shall meet again, never fear, my Lord Bothwell,’ says he.
The Countess gave him her hand to kiss. ‘I wish you good-night, Boyne,’ she said: ‘I am going to my bed’: then, looking her Earl in the face, ‘Pray you send your page for my women, my lord. I lack my riding-gear.’