‘Madam, I have been slow to believe it.’
‘You need faith, Monsieur de Boduel.’
‘I wish that your Majesty did!’
‘Why so?’
‘That your Majesty might partake of mine.’
They chopped words for half an hour or more. But she had her match in him.
She was friends with all the world that night, or tried to think so. Yet, at the going to bed, when the lights were out, the guards posted, and state-rooms empty save for the mice, she came up to Mary Livingstone and stroked her face without a word, coaxing for assurance of her triumph. Wanting it still—for the maid was glum—she supplied it for herself. ‘We rule all Scotland, my dear, we rule all Scotland!’
But Mary Livingstone held up her chin, to be out of reach of that wheedling hand. Coldly, or as coldly as she might, she looked at the eager face, and braved the glimmering eyes.
‘Ay,’ she said, ‘ay, you do. You and John Knox betwixt you.’
The Queen laughed. ‘Shall I marry Mr. Knox? He is twice a widower.’