Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen's bedroom, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window.
"Look from that window, Roland," she said; "see you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the evening from the village of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the water?--It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor glowworm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart is plotting my deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glimmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives.--Oh! how many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there, was only dejection and despair!"
"If I mistake not," answered Roland, "the candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener."
"Thou hast a good eye," said the Queen; "it is there where my trusty lieges--God and the saints pour blessings on them!--hold consultation for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils; and yet I can hold communication--I will confide the whole to thee--I am about to ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is nigh.--Place the lamp in the window, Fleming."
She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.
"Now count," said Queen Mary, "for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself."
The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore showed its pale twinkle.
"Now, our Lady be praised!" said the Queen; "it was but two nights since, that the absence of the light remained while I could tell thirty. The hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it with such truth to me!--alas! with such hazard to themselves--and bless you, too, my children!--Come, we must to the audience-chamber again. Our absence might excite suspicion, should they serve supper."
They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening concluded as usual.
The next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While Lady Douglas of Lochleven performed her daily duty of assistant and taster at the Queen's table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived, recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what he brought by word of mouth.
"Hath he given you that token?" demanded the Lady.
"He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship's ear," replied Randal.
"He doth well," said the Lady; "tell him to wait in the hall--But no--with your permission, madam," (to the Queen) "let him attend me here."
"Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in my presence," said the Queen, "I cannot choose--"
"My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam," replied the Lady; "the life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my head, and compels me to waive ceremonial."
"Oh, my good Lady," replied the Queen, "I would there were nought in this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with."
As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and Roland Graeme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius.
"What is your name, good fellow?" said the Lady.
"Edward Glendinning," answered the Abbot, with a suitable reverence.
"Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel?" said the Lady of Lochleven.
"Ay, madam, and that nearly," replied the pretended soldier.
"It is likely enough," said the Lady, "for the Knight is the son of his own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank in the Estate--But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?"
"Do not doubt of it, madam," said the disguised churchman.
"Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?" said the Lady.
"I have, madam," replied he; "but it must be said in private."
"Thou art right," said the Lady, moving towards the recess of a window; "say in what does it consist?"
"In the words of an old bard," replied the Abbot.
"Repeat them," answered the Lady; and he uttered, in a low tone, the lines from an old poem, called The Howlet,--
"O Douglas! Douglas! Tender and true."
"Trusty Sir John Holland!" [Footnote: Sir John Holland's poem of the Howlet is known to collectors by the beautiful edition presented to the Bannatyne Club, by Mr. David Laing.] said the Lady Douglas, apostrophizing the poet, "a kinder heart never inspired a rhyme, and the Douglas's honour was ever on thy heart-string! We receive you among our followers, Glendinning--But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward only, till we shall hear more touching him from our son.--Thou fearest not the night air. Glendinning?"
"In the cause of the Lady before whom I stand, I fear nothing, madam," answered the disguised Abbot.
"Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trustworthy soldier," said the matron--"Go to the buttery, and let them make much of thee."
When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen said to Roland Graeme, who was now almost constantly in her company, "I spy comfort in that stranger's countenance; I know not why it should be so, but I am well persuaded he is a friend."
"Your Grace's penetration does not deceive you," answered the page; and he informed her that the Abbot of St. Mary's himself played the part of the newly arrived soldier.
The Queen crossed herself and looked upwards. "Unworthy sinner that I am," she said, "that for my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual office, should wear the garb of a base sworder, and run the risk of dying the death of a traitor!"
"Heaven will protect its own servant, madam," said Catherine Seyton; "his aid would bring a blessing on our undertaking, were it not already blest for its own sake."
"What I admire in my spiritual father," said Roland, "was the steady front with which he looked on me, without giving the least sign of former acquaintance. I did not think the like was possible, since I have ceased to believe that Henry was the same person with Catherine."
"But marked you not how astuciously the good father," said the Queen, "eluded the questions of the woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which yet she received not as such?"