“Forgive the doubt,” Darnley begged her. “Indeed, there was no doubt of you, who have shown me so much charity in my affliction.” He sighed, and looked at her with melancholy eyes.
“I would the past had been other than it has been between you and me,” he said. “I was too young for kingship, I think. In my green youth I listened to false counsellors, and was quick to jealousy and the follies it begets. Then, when you cast me out and I wandered friendless, a devil took possession of me. Yet, if you will but consent to bury all the past into oblivion, I will make amends, and you shall find me worthier hereafter.”
She rose, white to the lips, her bosom heaving under her long cloak. She turned aside and stepped to the window. She stood there, peering out into the gloom of the close, her knees trembling under her.
“Why do you not answer me?” he cried.
“What answer do you need?” she said, and her voice shook. “Are you not answered already?” And then, breathlessly, she added: “It is time to go, I think.”
They heard a heavy step upon the stairs and the clank of a sword against the rails. The door opened, and Bothwell, wrapped in his scarlet cloak, stood bending his tall shoulders under the low lintel. His gleaming eyes, so oddly mocking in their glance, for all that his face was set, fell upon Darnley, and with their look flung him into an inward state of blending fear and rage.
“Your Grace,” said Bothwell's deep voice, “it is close upon midnight.”
He came no more than in time; it needed the sight of him with its reminder of all that he meant to her to sustain a purpose that was being sapped by pity.
“Very well,” she said. “I come.”
Bothwell stood aside to give her egress and to invite it. But the King delayed her.