“Not always, my lord!” answered the page, with his characteristic audacity, “if fame speaks truth.”
“How, sir?” said the Regent, colouring in his turn, and perhaps suspecting an indiscreet allusion to the height which he himself had attained by the hap of civil war.
“Because, my lord,” said Roland Graeme, without change of tone, “he who fights well, must have fame in life, or honour in death; and so war is a game from which no one can rise a loser.”
The Regent smiled and shook his head, when at that moment the door opened, and the Earl of Morton presented himself.
“I come somewhat hastily,” he said, “and I enter unannounced because my news are of weight—It is as I said; Edward Glendinning is named Abbot, and—”
“Hush, my lord!” said the Regent, “I know it, but—”
“And perhaps you knew it before I did, my Lord of Murray,” answered Morton, his dark red brow growing darker and redder as he spoke.
“Morton,” said Murray, “suspect me not—touch not mine honour—I have to suffer enough from the calumnies of foes, let me not have to contend with the unjust suspicions of my friends.—We are not alone,” said he, recollecting himself, “or I could tell you more.”
He led Morton into one of the deep embrasures which the windows formed in the massive wall, and which afforded a retiring place for their conversing apart. In this recess, Roland observed them speak together with much earnestness, Murray appearing to be grave and earnest, and Morton having a jealous and offended air, which seemed gradually to give way to the assurances of the Regent.
As their conversation grew more earnest, they became gradually louder in speech, having perhaps forgotten the presence of the page, the more readily as his position in the apartment placed him put of sight, so that he found himself unwillingly privy to more of their discourse than he cared to hear. For, page though he was, a mean curiosity after the secrets of others had never been numbered amongst Roland's failings; and moreover, with all his natural rashness, he could not but doubt the safety of becoming privy to the secret discourse of these powerful and dreaded men. Still he could neither stop his ears, nor with propriety leave the apartment; and while he thought of some means of signifying his presence, he had already heard so much, that, to have produced himself suddenly would have been as awkward, and perhaps as dangerous, as in quiet to abide the end of their conference. What he overheard, however, was but an imperfect part of their communication; and although an expert politician, acquainted with the circumstances of the times, would have had little difficulty in tracing the meaning, yet Roland Graeme could only form very general and vague conjectures as to the import of their discourse.