Lord Huntly, who was up with them by now, cries out: ‘What wild folly is this? Do you rave? You will never go to Liddesdale this hell-black night! Are you mad, Lord Bothwell, or a villain?’
‘I’m a bird of the bough, brother-in-law, a bird of the bough.’
The Countess turned to her brother. ‘Should I be afraid of the dark, Huntly, with this nobleman by my side?’
‘God’s death, my child,’ says Bothwell, admiring her cool blood, ‘I would be more at your side if you suffered me.’
Lord Huntly turned on his heel.
She went to take leave of the Queen, and found her on an unworthy arm. ‘My leave, madam. I crave liberty to follow my lord.’
‘It should be the other way, child,’ said the Queen, ‘for a little while, at least. But we will come and put you to bed—and he shall come after.’
‘Your Majesty’s pardon, but this may hardly be. My lord chooses for Hermitage, and I must follow him—as my duty is.’
It made the Queen grow red; but she did not let go the arm she had. ‘As you will, mistress,’ she said stiffly, and added something in Italian to her companion, who raised his eyebrows and gave a little jerk of the head.