Mary Seyton was left alone, admiring that strength of character which made of Mary Stuart, in all other respects so completely woman-like, a man in the hour of danger. She immediately went to the door to close it with the wooden bar that one passed between two iron rings, but the bar had been taken away, so that there was no means of fastening the door from within. In a moment she heard someone coming up the stairs, and guessing from the heavy, echoing step that this must be Lord Lindsay, she looked round her once again to see if she could find something to replace the bar, and finding nothing within reach, she passed her arm through the rings, resolved to let it be broken rather than allow anyone to approach her mistress before it suited her. Indeed, hardly had those who were coming up reached the landing than someone knocked violently, and a harsh voice cried: “Come, come, open the door; open directly.” “And by what right,” said Mary Seyton, “am I ordered thus insolently to open the Queen of Scotland’s door?” “By the right of the ambassador of the regent to enter everywhere in his name. I am Lord Lindsay, and I am come to speak to Lady Mary Stuart.” “To be an ambassador,” answered Mary Seyton, “is not to be exempted from having oneself announced in visiting a woman, and much more a queen; and if this ambassador is, as he says, Lord Lindsay, he will await his sovereign’s leisure, as every Scottish noble would do in his place.” “By St. Andrew!” cried Lord Lindsay, “open, or I will break in the door.” “Do nothing to it, my lord, I entreat you,” said another voice, which Mary recognised as Meville’s. “Let us rather wait for Lord Ruthven, who is not yet ready.” “Upon my soul,” cried Lindsay, shaking the door, “I shall not wait a second”. Then, seeing that it resisted, “Why did you tell me, then, you scamp,” Lindsay went on, speaking to the steward, “that the bar had been removed? “It is true,” replied he. “Then,” returned Lindsay, “with what is this silly wench securing the door?” “With my arm, my lord, which I have passed through the rings, as a Douglas did for King James I, at a time when Douglases had dark hair instead of red, and were faithful instead of being traitors.” “Since you know your history so well,” replied Lindsay, in a rage,” you should remember that that weak barrier did not hinder Graham, that Catherine Douglas’s arm was broken like a willow wand, and that James I was killed like a dog.” “But you, my lord,” responded the courageous young girl, “ought also to know the ballad that is still sung in our time— “‘Now, on Robert Gra’am, The king’s destroyer, shame! To Robert Graham cling Shame, who destroyed our king.’” “Mary,” cried the queen, who had overheard this altercation from her bedroom,—“Mary, I command you to open the door directly: do you hear?”