‘Madam,’ he said earnestly, ‘all is left. All which that blasphemer was not fit to give, since he was not fit to receive. Worship is left you, service of true men.’
She grew very serious. He could see her eyes now; all black.
‘Not from you, Bothwell. Never more from you, since I have lied.’
He took a step forward. ‘More from me, madam (if you care to have it), than perhaps is fitting from a subject; and yet less than perhaps may be reasonable from a man.’
‘No, no,’—she shook her head,—‘I have lied. Not from you now.’
He laughed aloud. ‘Madam, beseech you see what I see. A noble lady, justly enraged, who yet can stoop to comfort her subject—who can humble herself to prove her kindness. Is that not worshipful? Is not that serviceworthy? Oh, most glorious humility! Oh, proudest pride of all! That Queen Mary should make confession to James Hepburn! Why, Heaven above us, madam, for what do you take me: a block of stone—a wooden stub? Madam, Mistress, Queen—I am beaten to your feet—I am water——’ He heard her sob, saw that she had covered her face with her hands: he ran towards her. God of Gods, what was this? ‘Have I offended your Majesty? Am I so unhappy?’
She shook her head. ‘No, no, no! I cannot talk—but I am not wretched. I am happy, I think—comforted.’
He considered her. He considered intently, every muscle at a stretch. He bit his moustache, pressing it into his teeth with his fingers—moved forward—stopped, like a hawk poised in mid-air: he nodded his head savagely, came up to her, and with gentle firmness took her by the wrists, drew her hands from her face. ‘Look now at me,’ he said.
She did not struggle to be free, but kept her face averted, strongly bent downward.
‘Look you at me.’