She pretended that she must disengage her hand, but he would not allow it.
‘Alas, sir,’ she said, ‘we whip each other, you and I. Each is a torment to the other. One runs, the other chases,—but whither?’
‘Quick, quick to the goal!’
‘Take me thither in your arms, my Bothwell. Carry me, lest I faint by the way.’
‘No fainting now. The hour is come, and I with it. I have counsel for you.’
‘Counsel me—I will be faithful.’
‘I recommend, then, to your clemency the Earl of Morton, his kinsman Douglas of Whittinghame, and all their factions.’
She pondered the saying, not discerning at first what it purported, yet fearing to ask him lest he should be impatient of her stupidity. No man had ever made her feel stupid but this one.
‘Do you wish it?’ she asked him.
‘I advise it.’