Darnley burst into a loud mocking laugh. ‘A thorough moss-trooper,’ he exclaimed, ‘rider, jackman, plunderer, thief; call them what you will, they are all alike; fit followers of such a chief. Were I king of Scotland I would have the halters off the horses and put them on the men, and string them up in rows with this tall knave at their head, not forgetting his worthy master, the leader of the gang.’ The young man spoke in laughing boisterous accents that might be taken either for jest or earnest, but the borderer’s face flushed dark-red, and the fingers of his left hand closed like a vice upon his sheathed sword. ‘If ever you _are_ king of Scotland,’ said he, ‘may ye die no less noble a death than him who lay by the Till, yon summer’s evening, with the proudest an’ the bauldest an’ the best down about him like trees felled in a rank; and wha but the borderers sleepin’, man by man, at gentle King James’s feet! It sets a Scottish lord ill to speak again’ them that keeps the Scottish line, an’ warst of all a limber lad like your honour (no offence to ye), that’s got soldier written on his brow, and swordsman marked on every yane o’ his lang limbs.’ The compliment to his personal appearance, always an acceptable offering to Darnley, modified whatever he might have considered offensive in the henchman’s plain-speaking. The Queen, too, who had listened to the colloquy with obvious displeasure and some uneasiness, now laid her hand on the arm of her consort and motioned him to proceed with their walk. The latter felt in his girdle for a couple of gold pieces, which were not, however, forthcoming, then with a careless laugh and a whisper in Riccio’s ear, nodded insolently to the borderer, and passed on with Mary and her train. One of these, however, lingered a few paces in the rear. Dick’s face grew very pale once more when Mistress Seton turned back and accosted him with her own bright glance and her own merry smile. ‘You are slow of speech,’ said she, ‘I know of old, though prompt in deed, and as true as the steel in your belt. Is it not so?’ His lips were white and dry. He could not answer in words, but his affirmative gesture was more convincing than a hundred oaths. She laid her hand on his. Through the steel gauntlet that light touch thrilled in every vein and fibre of the giant. ‘You will tell me the truth,’ she proceeded. ‘What of Walter Maxwell? We have had no tidings of him since the morning he rode away from Holyrood, weeks and months ago!’ It speaks well for Mary Seton’s good nature that the subject uppermost in her mind was one which she believed so vitally affected the welfare of her friend. It was as much kindliness of disposition as female curiosity that riveted her attention on the borderer’s reply.