They jeered at her for her pains. ‘Who shall be honest where ye are, woman? Hide yourself—pray to your idols—that they keep ye from the fire.’
‘Oh, men, you do me wrong,’ she began to moan. ‘Oh, sirs, be pitiful to a woman. Have I ever harmed any?’
They shrieked her down, cursing her for a witch and a husband-killer. The flags were jigged together again—a stone broke the window over her head. Des-Essars then got her back by force.
It is amazing that she could have a thought in such a riot of fiends—yet the sight of Lethington had given her one. She feared his grey, rat’s face. She whispered it to Des-Essars. ‘Baptist, you can save me. Quick, for the love of Christ! The coffer! the coffer!’
He knew what she meant. That coffer contained her letters to Bothwell, her sonnets—therefore, her life. He understood her, and went away without a word. He took his sword, put a hood over his head, got out of the backside of the house, over a wall, into the wynd. Hence, being perfectly unknown, he entered the crowd in the High Street and worked his way down the Canongate. He intended to get into Holyroodhouse by the wall and the kitchen window, as he had done many a time, and notably on the night of David’s slaughter.[12]
Des-Essars had gone to save her life; but whether he did it or no, he did not come back. She wore herself to thread, padding up and down the room, wondering and fretting about him. This new anxiety made her forget the street; but towards evening, when her nerves were frayed and raw, it began to infuriate her—as an incessant cry always will. She suddenly began panting, and stood holding her breasts, staring, moving her lips, her bosom heaving in spite of her hands. ‘God! Mother of God! Aid me: I go mad,’ she cried, strangling, and ‘Air! I suffocate!’ and once more threw open the windows and let in the hubbub.
She was really tormented for air and breath. She tore at her bodice, split it open and showed herself naked to the middle.
‘Yes—yes—you shall look upon me as I was made. You shall see that I am a woman—loved once—loved much. See, see, my flesh!’ Horrible scandal!—but the poor soul was mad.
Soon after this some of the lords came to her—Lindsay, Morton, and Atholl. The windows, they said, must be closed at once; they feared a riot. They would take her back to Holyroodhouse if she would be patient. But she must be rendered decent: Atholl gave her his cloak. She had quieted immediately they came, and thanked them meekly.
They took her away at once. Mary Seton followed close, but was gently pushed back by Lord Morton. ‘No, no: she must come alone. You shall see her after a little. You cannot come now.’ For the first time in her life, as I believe, Mary Seton shed tears.