The King forgot all about his chastisement, and its indignity, in a day or two. But not so the Countess. The act had brought to a head in her a long-swelling process of exasperation. That this audacious pedagogue should dare to claim a privilege denied to his colleagues, when a whipping-boy, common to all of them, was provided in the person of the young Sir Mungo Malagrowther, was simply intolerable. Her smouldering resentment took fire in a determination to bring this domineering will to its knees. And, as luck would have it, an opportunity seemed quickly given her. One day her son, the young Master of Mar (who had by no means forgotten, or forgotten to resent, _his_ clouting), came to her, triumphant, with some notes which he had picked up while spying about in his absent preceptor’s room. These notes were incriminating, they positively smelt of treason, and the Countess was fiercely jubilant. She abode her time. But Buchanan had in the meanwhile discovered his loss for himself, and, putting this and that together--Geordie’s new air of defiance, and his lady mother’s conscious looks--had formed a shrewd guess as to the state of affairs. That day he appeared before the King with a sifflication, or petition, which he desired his young pupil to sign, convinced that the thoughtless, good-natured boy would never trouble to examine into more than its purport. And his surmise was justified. “What is it a’ aboot?” was the indifferent demand. “Just a bit place at Court, Jamie, my man,” answered the pedagogue, “for a worthy chield, more fitted than mony to adorn his office.” The King signed, and the strategist retired with his spoil. That night the storm burst. A message reached Buchanan, desiring his immediate attendance in the royal cabinet. He obeyed the summons without hurry, an odd smile on his dry old lips. He found Erskine, the Countess, and the young Master of Mar gathered about the King’s chair. Her ladyship lost no time in opening the proceedings. “D’ye ken those papers, Maister Buchanan?” she cried, flinging the notes down on the table under the pedagogue’s nose. “Vera weel,” he answered--“and who stole them from my room?” “The Lord shall justify the theft,” she cried, “since it hath revealed a treason to His anointed.” Erskine, half bored, half amused, bade the pedagogue take up the notes and explain them as he could. “They are for a work I am projecting,” said Buchanan--“_De Jure Regni apud Scotos_--which is just a compendium of poleetical philosophy.” “Read,” cried the Countess; and, without hesitation, Buchanan obeyed, giving the whole of what is here only the gist: