[11] I am unwilling to intrude myself and my opinions, but feel drawn to suggest that the latter was her motive. If she had beaten the Countess at the eleventh hour, could she not beat the Earl? Was she not Huntress to the utterance? Let God (Who made her) pity her: I do believe it.
CHAPTER X
THE KNOCKING AT BORTHWICK
The 10th of June had been a thunderous day, and was followed by a stifling night. In the lower parlour where the Queen lay the candles seemed to be clogged, the air charged with steam. Mary Seton sat on the floor by the couch, Des-Essars, bathed in sweat, leaned against the window-sill. In the hall beyond could be heard Bothwell’s voice, grating querulously to young Crookstone and Paris about his ruined chances. He was not laughing any more—was not one, it was found, to bear misfortunes gaily. His tongue had mastered him of late, and his hand too. He had nearly killed Paris that morning with one smashing blow.
There came a puff of wind, with branches sweeping the window, the pattering, swishing sound as of heavy rain. ‘Thank God for rain! Baptist, the window, lest I suffocate. The rain will cool the air.’ He set it wide open, and leaned out. There was no rain at all; but the sky was a vaporous vault, through which, in every part, the veiled moon diffused her light. He saw a man standing on the grass as plainly as you see this paper, who presently, after considering him, went away towards the woods. It might have been one of their own sentries, it might have been any one: but why did it make his heart beat? He stayed where he was, watching intently, considering with himself whether he should tell the Queen, or by some ruse let my lord have warning without her knowledge. Then, while he was hammering it out, she got up and came to the window, and leaned over him, her hand on his shoulder.
‘Poor prisoners, you and I, my Baptist.’
He turned to her with burning eyes. ‘Madam, there can be no prison for me where you are; but my heart walks with yours through all space.’
‘My heart,’ she said, ‘limps, and soon will be bedridden; and then yours will stop. You are tied to me, and I to him. The world has gone awry with us, my dear.’