He laughed horribly—with a hollow, barking noise, like a leopard’s cough. ‘By my God, Lindsay, I know ye now for a fine false friend. You shall never take me here.’
For answer, the knocking was doubled; men rained blows upon the door; and some ran round to the windows and jumped up at them, crying, ‘Let us in—let us in!’ Some glass was broken; but the shutter held. Mary Seton held the Queen close in her arms, Des-Essars stood in the doorway with a drawn sword. Bothwell came up to him for a moment. ‘By God, man, we’re rats in a drain—damned rats, by my soul! Ha!’ he turned as Paris came down from the turret, where he had been sent to spy.
The house, Paris said, was certainly surrounded. The torches made it plain that these were enemies. He had seen my lord of Morton on a white horse, my Lords Hume and Sempill and some more.
They all looked at each other, a poor ten that they were.
‘Hark to them now, master,’ says Paris. ‘They have a new cry.’
Bothwell listened, biting his tongue.
‘Murderer, murderer, come out! Come out, adulterous thief!’ This was Lindsay again. There was no sound of Morton’s voice, the thick, the rich and mellow note he had. But who was Morton, to call for the murderer?
Paris, after spying again, said that they were going to fire the doors; and added, ‘Master, it is hot enough without a fire. We had best be off.’
Bothwell looked at the Queen. ‘My dear, I must go.’
She barely turned her eyes upon him; but she said, ‘Do you leave me here?’ Scathing question from a bride, had a man been able to observe such things.