‘Is he not coming back soon?’ asked Mary Hamilton, waking up from one of her fits of abstraction, and fixing her large mournful black eyes on Mary Seton’s saucy blue ones. ‘Who? which?’ asked the latter, mischievously. ‘Why, D’Amville,’ answered Mary Hamilton, absently; ‘were you not talking of him? He has been more than a year away.’ ‘D’Amville!’ exclaimed the other, with her ringing laugh; ‘I hope not! At least if he brings that mad poet in his train, to turn all our heads with rhymes and flattery. Nothing interests you but what comes from France! No, we were talking of Bothwell, stout Earl Bothwell, who is worth a dozen of him. I am sure the Queen thinks so.’ Mary Beton looked up reprovingly, but in vain; the flippant speaker was in her swing, and not to be disappointed of her say. ‘I’m sure we’ve all been dull enough at court ever since Bothwell got into disgrace. And after all, I don’t believe he bared steel till the others drew on him first. I _know_ the Hamiltons outnumbered his people two to one; and nobody disputes that Arran is quite mad now, or that the duke was always an old goose. I think it very hard that Bothwell should have been made the scapegoat, that I do! and I’ve always said he hadn’t fair play from first to last.’ ‘Hush!’ interposed Mary Beton, gravely; ‘the matter was tried in Her Majesty’s own presence, before the council.’ ‘The council were a parcel of intriguers!’ vociferated the little partisan, now getting positively vehement. ‘The council wanted to get rid of him, because he was the most loyal amongst them all, and they made the skirmish an excuse. Why, I’m sure Ruthven is ready enough with his dagger, and my own dear father cleared the High Street from end to end with his own good sword and half a dozen jackmen before I was born, and the king swore he was quite right. I’ve heard him say so a score of times. No, no! the council had their own reasons; and I’ll never believe but that Englishman was at the bottom of it, though he pretended to be the warden’s friend!’ ‘If you mean Mr Randolph,’ said Mary Beton, bridling within her ruff in high disdain, ‘you only expose your ignorance of state affairs. What could he have to do with it? or how could the turbulence of a wild border noble affect the Queen of England’s confidential minister?’ ‘Only that I am convinced his red-haired mistress is at the bottom of all the mischief that goes on here,’ answered the other, determined not to be put down. ‘I believe she hates our dear beautiful angel of a Queen, partly because she’s her cousin, and partly because she’s been married, and partly because there is nobody like her in this world. I won’t abuse Randolph, Mistress Beton, because he admires you hugely, and that shows the man has good taste; but I may say what I like of Elizabeth Tudor, who is no more _my_ Queen than I am _hers_.’ The elder damsel looked mollified, though she feebly deprecated the implied compliment.