As she ceased speaking, a double knock was heard against the inner door. The matron hastily adjusting her muffler, and resuming her chair by the hearth, demanded who was there.
“Salve in nomine sancto,” was answered from without.
“Salvete et vos,” answered Magdalen Graeme.
And a man entered in the ordinary dress of a nobleman's retainer, wearing at his girdle a sword and buckler—“I sought you,” said he, “my mother, and him whom I see with you.” Then addressing himself to Roland Graeme, he said to him, “Hast thou not a packet from George Douglas?”
“I have,” said the page, suddenly recollecting that which had been committed to his charge in the morning, “but I may not deliver it to any one without some token that they have a right to ask it.”
“You say well,” replied the serving-man, and whispered into his ear, “The packet which I ask is the report to his father—will this token suffice?”
“It will,” replied the page, and taking the packet from his bosom, gave it to the man.
“I will return presently,” said the serving-man, and left the cottage.
Roland had now sufficiently recovered his surprise to accost his relative in turn, and request to know the reason why he found her in so precarious a disguise, and a place so dangerous—“You cannot be ignorant,” he said, “of the hatred that the Lady of Lochleven bears to those of your—that is of our religion—your present disguise lays you open to suspicion of a different kind, but inferring no less hazard; and whether as a Catholic, or as a sorceress, or as a friend to the unfortunate Queen, you are in equal danger, if apprehended within the bounds of the Douglas; and in the chamberlain who administers their authority, you have, for his own reasons, an enemy, and a bitter one.”
“I know it,” said the matron, her eyes kindling with triumph; “I know that, vain of his school-craft, and carnal wisdom, Luke Lundin views with jealousy and hatred the blessings which the saints have conferred on my prayers, and on the holy relics, before the touch, nay, before the bare presence of which, disease and death have so often been known to retreat.—I know he would rend and tear me; but there is a chain and a muzzle on the ban dog that shall restrain his fury, and the Master's servant shall not be offended by him until the Master's work is wrought. When that hour comes, let the shadows of the evening descend on me in thunder and in tempest; the time shall be welcome that relieves my eyes from seeing guilt, and my ears from listening to blasphemy. Do thou but be constant—play thy part as I have played and will play mine, and my release shall be like that of a blessed martyr whose ascent to heaven angels hail with psalm and song, while earth pursues him with hiss and with execration.”