‘I took leave of the Queen of late. She was greatly wrought upon—distempered. Sent me off—called me back—sent me off again, after some wild words. I know not what to make of it.’
‘Help her through it, God!’ said Huntly.
‘I think it is a matter for Lucina,’ said Bothwell, and went his road.
He travelled musingly by the hill-ways into Liddesdale, French Paris behind him. At the top of the pass—Note o’ the Gate, they call it—whence first you see the brown valley of the Liddel, and all the hills, quiet guardians about the silver water, he reined up, and stood looking over his lands.
‘Yonder awaits me the fairest dark lady in Scotland, and (to my mind) the fairest demesne: the open country and the good red deer. Oh, the bonny holms, the green knowes, and the ledged rocks! Houp, man! We are free of the scented chambers and all their whisperings here.’
‘It is most certain, my lord,’ said French Paris, ‘that we have left the direction of those whisperings to Monsieur de Moray.’
Lord Bothwell was stung. ‘Monsieur de Moray! Monsieur de Moray! Pooh, rascal, she has her husband with her now. And that may be even worse for me.’
French Paris looked demurely at the reins sliding in his fingers. ‘True, my lord, she has his Majesty. I have remarked that women in the Queen’s condition have extraordinary inclination for their husbands. It is reasonable.’
‘You are a fool, Paris,’ said the Earl.