Meanwhile the Lady of Lochleven herself held parley at the door of the Queen's apartment, and in vain urged the page to undo it.
“Foolish boy!” she said, “thine own life and thy Lady's are at stake—Open, I say, or we will cause the door to be broken down.”
“I may not open the door without my royal mistress's orders,” answered Roland; “she has been very ill, and now she slumbers—if you wake her by using violence, let the consequence be on you and your followers.”
“Was ever woman in a strait so fearful!” exclaimed the Lady of Lochleven—“At least, thou rash boy, beware that no one tastes the food, but especially the jar of succory-water.”
She then hastened to the turret, where Dryfesdale had composedly resigned himself to imprisonment. She found him reading, and demanded of him, “Was thy fell potion of speedy operation?”
“Slow,” answered the steward. “The hag asked me which I chose—I told her I loved a slow and sure revenge. 'Revenge,' said I, 'is the highest-flavoured draught which man tastes upon earth, and he should sip it by little and little—not drain it up greedily at once.”
“Against whom, unhappy man, couldst thou nourish so fell a revenge?”
“I had many objects, but the chief was that insolent page.”
“The boy!—thou inhuman man!” exclaimed the lady; “what could he do to deserve thy malice?”
“He rose in your favour, and you graced him with your commissions—that was one thing. He rose in that of George Douglas's also—that was another. He was the favourite of the Calvinistic Henderson, who hated me because my spirit disowns a separated priesthood. The Moabitish Queen held him dear—winds from each opposing point blew in his favour—the old servitor of your house was held lightly among ye—above all, from the first time I saw his face, I longed to destroy him.”