The word reached the ear of the unhappy Princess, who caught it up, speaking with great rapidity. “Husband!—what husband?—Not his most Christian Majesty—he is ill at ease—he cannot mount on horseback.—Not him of the Lennox—but it was the Duke of Orkney thou wouldst say.”
“For God's love, madam, be patient!” said the Lady Fleming.
But the Queen's excited imagination could by no entreaty be diverted from its course. “Bid him come hither to our aid,” she said, “and bring with him his lambs, as he calls them—Bowton, Hay of Talla, Black Ormiston, and his kinsman Hob—Fie! how swart they are, and how they smell of sulphur! What! closeted with Morton? Nay, if the Douglas and the Hepburn hatch the complot together, the bird, when it breaks the shell, will scare Scotland. Will it not, my Fleming?”
“She grows wilder and wilder,” said Fleming; “we have too many hearers for these strange words.”
“Roland,” said Catherine, “in the name of God, begone! You cannot aid us here—Leave us to deal with her alone—Away—away!”
She thrust him to the door of the anteroom; yet even when he had entered that apartment, and shut the door, he could still hear the Queen talk in a loud and determined tone, as if giving forth orders, until at length the voice died away in a feeble and continued lamentation.
At this crisis Catherine entered the anteroom. “Be not too anxious,” she said, “the crisis is now over; but keep the door fast—let no one enter until she is more composed.”
“In the name of God, what does this mean?” said the page; “or what was there in the Lady Fleming's words to excite so wild a transport?”
“Oh, the Lady Fleming, the Lady Fleming,” said Catherine, repeating the words impatiently; “the Lady Fleming is a fool—she loves her mistress, yet knows so little how to express her love, that were the Queen to ask her for very poison, she would deem it a point of duty not to resist her commands. I could have torn her starched head-tire from her formal head—The Queen should have as soon had the heart out of my body, as the word Sebastian out of my lips—That that piece of weaved tapestry should be a woman, and yet not have wit enough to tell a lie!”
“And what was this story of Sebastian?” said the page. “By Heaven, Catherine, you are all riddles alike!”