Konrad, arrived at the house, helped to unload a horse of heavy packages which he conjectured to contain plunder; but it was gunpowder that he unwittingly handled.
Suddenly a piercing cry came from above. A moment later the startled Konrad perceived Bothwell, his mask awry, his eyes glazed and haggard.
"Thou hast done well!" said Ormiston grimly.
"Well! My God!" groaned the earl.
"Away while I fire the train!" shouted Ormiston.
Like a fiery serpent the train glowed along the ground. Then, red and lurid in the shadowy night, there flashed a volume of dazzling light; then came a roar as if the earth was splitting.
Konrad fled in bewildered terror, and wandered about the outskirts of the city until, in a little ruined chapel on the verge of a moor, he lay down exhausted and fell asleep.
In the morning he was awakened by a rough grasp on his shoulder.
"We have meshed one of the knaves at least," said a stern voice. Konrad found himself amidst knights and men-at-arms, and he was led back to the city.
The citizens were in arms, furious at the outrage of the night before. The appearance of a suspected murderer aroused their passion to the utmost; Konrad's escort was overpowered and thrust aside. "Awa' wi' him to the Papist's pillar!" cried a voice. Down they went with him to the North Loch, and tied him there to an oaken stake about five feet deep in the water--a spot where many a luckless Catholic had perished. The mob retired, and Konrad was left alone, helpless, and to die.