The Maries looked from one to the other in uncertainty. Knox had obviously gained their attention, and he added a few words with a good motive. ‘I tell ye the truth, fair ladies,’ said he, preparing to withdraw. ‘Better take it from me than the truth-teller to whom ye must listen some day, whether ye will or no. Ay! what a goodly life were this if it could last for ever, or if we might but pass to heaven with all this gay gear; but out upon the knave death! that cometh whether we will or no, and strippeth us of all, and taketh us we know not where! Prepare yourselves for him now, fair ladies, while he is afar, so when he cometh ye shall be found watching, and may laugh in his face.’ His admonition was well meant and received with sufficient decorum, but the impression soon faded away, for he had not been gone five minutes ere they fell to discussing his outward appearance, the severity of his manners, the fashion of his garments, and the general unloveliness of his demeanour. CHAPTER XIX. ‘I freighted my bark with the rich and rare, Alice of Ormskirk, all for thee, Little I reckoned of cost or care, But I launched her out on a summer sea-- ‘A summer sea and a smiling sky, Never a ripple and never a frown, Never a token of shipwreck nigh: What did it matter? The bark went down.’ John Knox went back to his studies and his labours. The Queen and her Maries betook themselves to the duties of adornment and the preparations for a journey. The court was about to move for a season to the pleasant seaside town of St Andrews, in Fife, a favourite resort with her Majesty, and much affected by the household, as their sojourn in the old episcopal city was marked by a gaiety and freedom from restraint exceedingly welcome both to the sovereign and her court. The cavalcade moved off in high spirits. It was but a small party, consisting at the most of not more than twenty equestrians, including the four maids-of-honour, and the more immediate attendants on the person of royalty. Horses stamped and snorted, and shook their bridles merrily, as they were mounted at the palace gates to move on in gay procession down the winding causeway that led towards the Firth. Feathers waved, spurs jingled, men’s voices rose in merriment, and the soft laughter of women floated like music on the pure calm air. The dames of Queen Mary’s household, like their mistress, were skilful horsewomen, yet it was wonderful how many of those little attentions, which are so delightful to render and so welcome to receive, they exacted from the cavaliers who accompanied them. Horses were insufficiently bitted, saddles insecurely girthed, housings unbecomingly disposed; it seemed as if each of the fair travellers had reason to complain of her groom’s negligence or incapacity, yet they bore it with exemplary good humour notwithstanding. Even Mary Carmichael, after refusing assistance from every gentleman in turn,