‘His lordship said no more, my lord. And therefore, seeing that he plainly wished it, I took my leave.’
The Earl looked at Archie Douglas: some secret intelligence passed between them in which the Secretary had no share.
‘I am going to speak with my lord of Ruthven in his chamber,’ then said he. ‘And, cousin, do you come also.’
The guard presented arms to the great man as he went down the hall, and a few underlings—women of the house, grooms of the closet and coffer—ran after him with petitions; but he waved away all and sundry. They fell back, herded into groups and whispered together. The Secretary came out alone and paced the hall deep in thought. One or two eyed him anxiously. How did he stand now? It was a parlous time for Scotland when nobody knew to whom to cringe for a favour.
Then—two hours after dinner—word was brought down into the hall that the Queen would receive the Earl of Morton and certain other named persons in the Throne-room. Great debate over this. Lord Ruthven was for declining to go. ‘We are masters here. ’Tis for us to receive.’
But Lord Lindsay shook his ragged head. ‘No, no, Ruthven,’ he says, ‘take counsel, my fine man. It is ill to go, but worse to stay away.’
‘How’s that, then?’ cries Ruthven, white and fierce.
‘Why, thus,’ the elder replied. ‘If you go, you show that you are master. If you go not, you betray that you doubt it.’
‘I see it precisely contrary,’ says Ruthven.
‘Then,’ he was told, ‘you have a short vision. It is the strong man can afford to unbar the door.’