"After what we remember of Crichton Castle, how can we trust you, lady?" said Malise, sternly. "Do you now speak the truth with your mouth?"
"You have indeed small cause to think so," she answered without taking offence. "Yet, having no choice, you must e'en trust me."
She turned sharply upon Sholto with a strip of paper in her outstretched hand.
"I think, young sir, that you have some reason to know from whom that comes."
Sholto grasped at the writing with a new and wonderful hope in his heart. He knew instinctively before he touched it that none but Maud Lindesay could have written that script—small, clear, and distinct as a motto cut on a gem.
"To our friends in France and Scotland," so it ran. "We are still safe this eve of the Blessed Saint Michael. Trust her who brings this letter. She is our saviour and our only hope in a dark and evil place. She is sorry for that which by her aid hath been done. As you hope for forgiveness, forgive her. And for God's dear sake, do immediately the thing she bids you. This comes from Margaret de Douglas and Maud Lindesay. It is written by the hand of M. L."
The wax at the bottom was sealed in double with the boar's head of Lindesay and the heart of Margaret of Douglas.
Sholto, having read the missive silently, passed it to the Lord James that he might prove the seals, for it was his only learning to be skilled in heraldry.
"It is true," he said; "I myself gave the little maid that ring. See, it hath a piece broken from the peak of the device."
"My lady," said Sholto, "that which you bring is more than enough. We kiss your hand and we will sacredly do all your bidding, were it unto the death or the trial by fire."