The Queen looked at once to her husband. He nodded, gave his sword to Huntly, and said, ‘I am ready for you.’ They moved ten yards apart; Morton talked and the other listened.
‘Bothwell, my man,’ he said, ‘there’s no a muckle to pick between us, I doubt—I played one card and you another; but I have the advantage of ye just now, and am no that minded to take it up. Man!’ he chuckled, ‘ye stumbled sorely when ye let them find for the powder!’
‘Get on, get on,’ says Bothwell, drawing a great breath.
‘I will,’ Morton said. ‘I am here to advise ye to make off while you can. Go your ways to Dunbar, and avoid the country for a while. I’ll warrant you you’ll not be followed oversea. All my people will serve the Queen—have no fear for her. Now, take my advice; ’tis fairly given. I’ve no wish to work you a mischief—though, mind you, I have the power—for you and I have been open dealers with each other this long time. And you brought me home—I’m not one to forget it. But—Lord of Hosts! what chance have you against Grange?’ He waited. ‘Come now, come! what say you?’
Lord Bothwell considered it, working his strong jaw from side to side: a fair proffer, an honourable proffer. He looked at the forces against him—though he had no need; he knew them better men than his, because Grange was a better man than he. That banner of murder—the cry behind it—the Prince behind the cry, up on the rock of Stirling: in his heart he knew that he had lost the game. No way to Stirling—no way! But the other way was the sea-way—the old free life, the chances of the open water. Eh, damn them, he was not to be King of Scots, then! But he had known that for a week. He turned his head and saw the sea like molten gold, and far off, dipped in it, a little ship with still sails—Ho! the sea-way!
‘By God, Morton,’ he said, ‘you may be serving me. I’ll do it.’
‘Go and tell her,’ says Morton; and they both went back to the Queen.
Both took off their bonnets. Bothwell said: ‘Madam, we must avoid blood-shedding if we may, and I have talked with my lord of Morton. He makes an offer of fair dealing, which I have taken. I have a clear road to Dunbar, thence where I will. All these hosts will follow you if I am not there. They pay me the compliment of high distrust, you perceive. After a little, I doubt not but you shall see me back again where I would always be. Madam, get the Prince in your own hands: all depends upon him. And now, kiss me, sweetheart, for I must be away.’
She heard him—she understood him—she believed him. She was curious to observe that she felt so little. Her voice when she answered him had no spring in it—it was worn and thin, with a little grating rasp in it—an older voice.
‘It may be better so. I hate to shed good blood. Whither shall I write to you? At Dunbar? In England? Flanders?’ There had been a woman in Dunkirk—she remembered that.