Maxwell listened attentively, but the inscrutable repose of his countenance baffled even Randolph’s penetration, and he contented himself with vague and general replies, of which the other could make nothing. Nevertheless, he was resolved in his own mind what to do. With all his exterior of adamant, he was sufficiently vulnerable within. Bitterly hurt and offended at Mary Carmichael’s conduct, he had determined to forget her; but the old wound was only superficially healed over, and it would not bear being touched or tampered with yet. Also his attachment to that young lady had been of the purest and most unselfish order, and such an affection never fails to evoke all the latent generosity of a noble heart. His own impulse, as a gentleman, was to give his rival every fair advantage; to treat him, at least, as an open and honourable foe; to warn him that his movements were watched and his personal safety endangered; and to tell him, point blank, that he had done this for the sake of her whom they both loved. Surely such frankness would meet with the return it deserved; and then, if Mary really preferred this stranger, why, the dream was over, that was all. Any privation was better than this continual uncertainty; it was but giving her up, and the world would be before him again--something whispered that it would be a very different world, nevertheless. However, he made up his mind, and was more than usually merry with Randolph as they proceeded together towards Holyrood. CHAPTER XXVI. ‘I leant my back into an aik, I thought it was a trusty tree; But first it bowed and syne it brak, Sae my true love did lightly me. ‘Oh, waly, waly--gin love be bonny A little time while it is new; But when it’s auld, it waxeth cauld, And fades away like morning dew.’ It was the anniversary of Twelfth-night, and the feast of the Bean was in act of celebration with great glee and splendour when the English Minister and his companion entered the reception-rooms of the Palace. This favourite pastime, borrowed from the Court of France, has come down to us in modern days under the form of ‘drawing for king and queen;’ the bean was concealed in the twelfth cake, and the dame to whose share it fell was chosen with much mock solemnity as queen of the night. On the present occasion the lot had fallen to Mary Beton, and her indulgent mistress, with that playful good-humour which so endeared her to her attendants, had insisted on decking the leader of the revels with the most splendid attire her own royal wardrobe contained. In case that any lady should condescend to look into the dry pages of a historical novel, we will endeavour to the extent of our poor abilities to present the details of a ‘_grande toilette_,’ of the fifteenth century.