He was looking away, answering at random, searching whom he should take with him, or on whom he could reckon to follow him if he asked. ‘I will send you word. Yes, yes, you will write to me. You shall know full soon. But now I cannot stay.’
Morton had returned to his friends.
‘Paris, come you with me. Ormiston, are you for the sea? No? Stay and be hanged, then. Hob? What, man, afraid? Where is Michael Elliott? Where is Crookstone? What Hepburn have I?’ He collected six or eight—both the Ormistons decided for him—Powrie and Wilson, Dalgleish, one or two more.
He took the Queen’s hand gaily. ‘Farewell, fair Queen!’ he said; and she, ‘Adieu, my lord.’ He leaned towards her: ‘One kiss, my wife!’ but she drew back. ‘Your lips are foul—you have kissed too many—no, no.’ ‘I must have it—you must kiss me’—he pressed against her. For a while she was agitated, defending herself; but then, with a sob, ‘Ay, take what you will of me,’ she said—‘it is little worth.’ He got his cold kiss, and rode fast through his scattering host. This going of his was the Parthian shot. He had beaten her. Desire was dead.
The Queen sat still—with a face like a rock. ‘Has he gone?’ she asked Des-Essars in a whisper.
‘Yes, thank God,’ said he.
She shook herself into action, gathered up the reins, and turned to Erskine. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘we will go down to them now.’
She surrendered to the Earl of Atholl, who, with Sempill and Lindsay, came up to fetch her. Followed by one or two of her friends—Des-Essars, Melvill, Du Croc, and Livingstone—she rode down the hill from her host and joined the other. Grange cantered up, bareheaded, to meet her, reined up short, took her hand and kissed it. Many followed him—Glencairn, Glamis, young Ruthven. Each had his kiss; but then came Archie Douglas smelling and smiling for his—and got nothing. She drew back from him shuddering: he might have been a snake, he said. Lethington was not to be seen. The host stood at ease awaiting her; the white banner wagged and dipped, as if mocking her presence. ‘Take that down,’ she said, with a crack in her dry throat; but no one answered her. She had to go close by the hateful thing—a daub of red and green and yellow—crowned Darnley crudely lying under a tree, a crowned child kneeling at his feet, spewing the legend out of his mouth. She averted her eyes and blinked as she passed it: an ominous silence greeted her, sullen looks; one or two steady starers showed scornful familiarity with ‘a woman in trouble’; one said ‘Losh!’ and spat as she passed.
She was led through the Murrays, Humes, and Lindsays; murmurs gathered about her; all eyes were on her now, some passionate, some vindictive, some fanatic. On a sudden a pikeman ran out of his ranks and pointed at her—his face was burnt almost black, his eyes showed white upon it. ‘Burn the hure!’ he raved, and when she caught her breath and gazed at him, he was answered, ‘Ay, ay, man. Let her burn herself clean. To the fire with her!’