The Court was to go to Callander House for the wedding of this fond Livingstone; but before that there was a bad moment to be endured—when Adam Gordon came back, without the glove. They had told him in Edinburgh that the Earl of Bothwell had broken bars and was away. He had gone to his country, they said, and had been heard of there, hunting with the Black Laird and others of his friends—hunting men mostly, and Englishmen too, over the border. He had sent word to George Gordon that, if he was willing, he would ‘raise his lambs, and pull him out of Dunbar for a bout with Hell’; but, said the boy, ‘Madam, my brother refused him.’
Adam had ridden into Liddesdale to find Bothwell, into the Lammermuirs, into Clydesdale: but the Earl was in none of his castles. Then he went the English road towards Berwick: got news at Eyemouth. The Earl was away. Two yawls had shipped him and his servants; had stood for the south—for France, it was thought. The glove was in his bosom, no doubt.
The Queen sent Adam away rewarded, and had in Des-Essars. ‘Jean-Marie,’ she said, ‘my Lord Bothwell hath gone oversea. Do you suppose, to France?’
‘No, madam; I suppose to Flanders.’
He seemed troubled to reply—evaded her looks.
‘Why there?’
‘Madam, there was a woman at Dunkirk——’
‘Enough, enough! Go, boy.’
She had appointed to ride that day to the hawking. The prince was to be there, with new peregrines from Zealand. Now—she would not go. Instead, she crept into her oratory alone, and, having locked the doors, went through secret rites. She stripped herself to the shift, unbound her hair, took off shoes and stockings. With two lit candles, one in either hand, she stood stock-still before the crucifix for an hour. Chilled to the bones, with teeth chattering and fingers too stiff to find the hooks for the eyes, she dressed herself then in some fashion, and slipped quietly out. This was her third absolution. Thus she froze out of her heart the last filament of tainted flesh; and then, bright-eyed and wholesome, set her face towards the future.