“The boy is right,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, “my lord will be very impatient.”
“The child hath wit enough to keep himself warm,” said Adam Woodcock, producing from his hawking-bag his lord's letter, addressed to the Earl of Murray, “and for that matter so have I. So, Master Roland, you will e'en please to present this yourself to the Lord Regent; his presence will be better graced by a young page than by an old falconer.”
“Well said, canny Yorkshire!” replied his friend; “and but now you were so earnest to see our good lord!—Why, wouldst thou put the lad into the noose that thou mayst slip tether thyself?—or dost thou think the maiden will clasp his fair young neck more willingly than thy old sunburnt weasand?”
“Go to,” answered the falconer; “thy wit towers high an it could strike the quarry. I tell thee, the youth has nought to fear—he had nothing to do with the gambol—a rare gambol it was, Michael, as mad-caps ever played; and I had made as rare a ballad, if we had had the luck to get it sung to an end. But mum for that—tace, as I said before, is Latin for a candle. Carry the youth to the presence, and I will remain here, with bridle in hand, ready to strike the spurs up to the rowel-heads, in case the hawk flies my way.—I will soon put Soltraedge, I trow, betwixt the Regent and me, if he means me less than fair play.”
“Come on then, my lad,” said Michael, “since thou must needs take the spring before canny Yorkshire.” So saying, he led the way through winding passages, closely followed by Roland Graeme, until they arrived at a large winding stone stair, the steps of which were so long and broad, and at the same time so low, as to render the ascent uncommonly easy. When they had ascended about the height of one story, the guide stepped aside, and pushed open the door of a dark and gloomy antechamber; so dark, indeed, that his youthful companion stumbled, and nearly fell down upon a low step, which was awkwardly placed on the very threshold.
“Take heed,” said Michael Wing-the-wind, in a very low tone of voice, and first glancing cautiously round to see if any one listened—“Take heed, my young friend, for those who fall on these boards seldom rise again—Seest thou that,” he added, in a still lower voice, pointing to some dark crimson stains on the floor, on which a ray of light, shot through a small aperture, and traversing the general gloom of the apartment, fell with mottled radiance—“Seest thou that, youth?—walk warily, for men have fallen here before you.”
“What mean you?” said the page, his flesh creeping, though he scarce knew why; “Is it blood?”
“Ay, ay,” said the domestic, in the same whispering tone, and dragging the youth on by the arm—“Blood it is,—but this is no time to question, or even to look at it. Blood it is, foully and fearfully shed, as foully and fearfully avenged. The blood,” he added, in a still more cautious tone, “of Seignior David.”
Roland Graeme's heart throbbed when he found himself so unexpectedly in the scene of Rizzio's slaughter, a catastrophe which had chilled with horror all even in that rude age, which had been the theme of wonder and pity through every cottage and castle in Scotland, and had not escaped that of Avenel. But his guide hurried him forward, permitting no farther question, and with the manner of one who has already tampered too much with a dangerous subject. A tap which he made at a low door at one end of the vestibule, was answered by a huissier or usher, who, opening it cautiously, received Michael's intimation that a page waited the Regent's leisure, who brought letters from the Knight of Avenel.
“The Council is breaking up,” said the usher; “but give me the packet; his Grace the Regent will presently see the messenger.”