“Nay,” said the page, “you may dispense with a second reason, when the first makes your confidence in me a case of necessity.”
“Good now, hold thy peace,” said Catherine. “In the second place, as I said before, there is one foolish person among us, who believes that Roland Graeme's heart is warm, though his head is giddy—that his blood is pure, though it boils too hastily—and that his faith and honour are true as the load-star, though his tongue sometimes is far less than discreet.”
This avowal Catherine repeated in a low tone, with her eye fixed on the floor, as if she shunned the glance of Roland while she suffered it to escape her lips—“And this single friend,” exclaimed the youth in rapture; “this only one who would do justice to the poor Roland Graeme, and whose own generous heart taught her to distinguish between follies of the brain and faults of the heart—Will you not tell me, dearest Catherine, to whom I owe my most grateful, my most heartfelt thanks?”
“Nay,” said Catherine, with her eyes still fixed on the ground, “if your own heart tell you not——”
“Dearest Catherine!” said the page, seizing upon her hand, and kneeling on one knee.
“If your own heart, I say, tell you not,” said Catherine, gently disengaging her hand, “it is very ungrateful; for since the maternal kindness of the Lady Fleming——”
The page started on his feet. “By Heaven, Catherine, your tongue wears as many disguises as your person! But you only mock me, cruel girl. You know the Lady Fleming has no more regard for any one, than hath the forlorn princess who is wrought into yonder piece of old figured court tapestry.”
“It may be so,” said Catherine Seyton, “but you should not speak so loud.”
“Pshaw!” answered the page, but at the same time lowering his voice, “she cares for no one but herself and the Queen. And you know, besides, there is no one of you whose opinion I value, if I have not your own. No—not that of Queen Mary herself.”
“The more shame for you, if it be so,” said Catherine, with great composure.