“What has chanced, Dryfesdale, that thou lookest thus?” said his mistress—“Have there been evil tidings of my son, or of my grandchildren?”
“No, Lady,” replied Dryfesdale, “but you were deeply insulted last night, and I fear me thou art as deeply avenged this morning—Where is the chaplain?”
“What mean you by hints so dark, and a question so sudden? The chaplain, as you well know, is absent at Perth upon an assembly of the brethren.”
“I care not,” answered the steward; “he is but a priest of Baal.”
“Dryfesdale,” said the Lady, sternly, “what meanest thou? I have ever heard, that in the Low Countries thou didst herd with the Anabaptist preachers, those boars which tear up the vintage—But the ministry which suits me and my house must content my retainers.”
“I would I had good ghostly counsel, though,” replied the steward, not attending to his mistress's rebuke, and seeming to speak to himself. “This woman of Moab——”
“Speak of her with reverence,” said the Lady; “she is a king's daughter.”
“Be it so,” replied Dryfesdale; “she goes where there is little difference betwixt her and a beggar's child—Mary of Scotland is dying.”
“Dying, and in my castle!” said the Lady, starting up in alarm; “of what disease, or by what accident?”
“Bear patience, Lady. The ministry was mine.”