“Silence, all of you!” exclaimed Bothwell, striking his hand fiercely on the table--“Silence, every one of you, and hear me!--You ask me for my right to examine you, sir (to Henry); my cockade and my broadsword are my commission, and a better one than ever Old Nol gave to his roundheads; and if you want to know more about it, you may look at the act of council empowering his majesty’s officers and soldiers to search for, examine, and apprehend suspicious persons; and, therefore, once more, I ask you your opinion of the death of Archbishop Sharpe--it’s a new touch-stone we have got for trying people’s metal.” Henry had, by this time, reflected upon the useless risk to which he would expose the family by resisting the tyrannical power which was delegated to such rude hands; he therefore read the narrative over, and replied, composedly, “I have no hesitation to say, that the perpetrators of this assassination have committed, in my opinion, a rash and wicked action, which I regret the more, as I foresee it will be made the cause of proceedings against many who are both innocent of the deed, and as far from approving it as myself.” While Henry thus expressed himself, Bothwell, who bent his eyes keenly upon him, seemed suddenly to recollect his features. “Aha! my friend Captain Popinjay, I think I have seen you before, and in very suspicious company.” “I saw you once,” answered Henry, “in the public-house of the town of--.” “And with whom did you leave that public-house, youngster?--Was it not with John Balfour of Burley, one of the murderers of the Archbishop?” “I did leave the house with the person you have named,” answered Henry, “I scorn to deny it; but, so far from knowing him to be a murderer of the primate, I did not even know at the time that such a crime had been committed.” “Lord have mercy on me, I am ruined!--utterly ruined and undone!” exclaimed Milnwood. “That callant’s tongue will rin the head aff his ain shoulders, and waste my gudes to the very grey cloak on my back!” “But you knew Burley,” continued Bothwell, still addressing Henry, and regardless of his uncle’s interruption, “to be an intercommuned rebel and traitor, and you knew the prohibition to deal with such persons. You knew, that, as a loyal subject, you were prohibited to reset, supply, or intercommune with this attainted traitor, to correspond with him by word, writ, or message, or to supply him with meat, drink, house, harbour, or victual, under the highest pains--you knew all this, and yet you broke the law.” (Henry was silent.) “Where did you part from him?” continued Bothwell; “was it in the highway, or did you give him harbourage in this very house?” “In this house!” said his uncle; “he dared not for his neck bring ony traitor into a house of mine.” “Dare he deny that he did so?” said Bothwell. “As you charge it to me as a crime,” said Henry, “you will excuse my saying any thing that will criminate myself.”