‘A jackman does not lose a Queen’s packet,’ said she. ‘If he does, he may chance to lose his own head. Follow me!’ And she flitted on through the dark passages, turning at intervals to see that she was followed by the astonished borderer. Presently they climbed a narrow, winding stair. After ascending several steps, the maid-of-honour stopped, opened a door, and pushing aside some heavy folds of tapestry, bade her follower enter, warning him not to strike his head against the low doorway. ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh,’ dazzled and confused, found himself in a very small and brilliantly-lighted apartment. The roof was high; but the room itself was scarcely large enough to contain six or eight persons. A table prepared for supper, and laid for two, occupied the whole space between the window and the ample hearth, on which a wood fire blazed and crackled cheerfully. The borderer’s gaze was riveted at once by the gold plate on the supper-table, richly chased, and bearing the crown-royal on its burnished surface. Mary Seton could not forbear a smile at his astonishment. ‘This is somewhat different from the head of a glen in Liddesdale,’ said she, with a ringing laugh. ‘Thanks to my good-nature, you have now seen a Queen’s chamber. Give me your packet, and get you gone!’ While she spoke, she ran her eye over the athletic figure of the borderer, magnificent in its size and strength when seen in that small apartment, and well set off by his warlike gear. ‘What a fine man!’ thought Mary Seton, as she scanned him. ‘And oh! what a good face, and how unlike a courtier!’ But on ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’s’ honest countenance might be seen an expression of great perplexity. In the first place, he was a good deal charmed, and not a little stupefied, by the beauty of his guide; in the next, he was extremely apprehensive of an immediate apparition of royalty; and, lastly, he was embarrassed how to refuse anything to the most fascinating young lady he had ever yet set eyes on. Nevertheless he answered stoutly, though deferentially-- ‘My packet must be delivered into the Queen’s ain hand. You’re no the Queen hersel’, I’m thinking, though well you might be, my bonny lady, for I never saw the like o’ ye.’ The tone of admiration in which he spoke was so obviously involuntary as to be flattering in the extreme. Mary Seton looked pleased, and continued more graciously-- ‘I spoke to prove you. You can be faithful to a trust, can you? What is your name?’ ‘They call me Dick Rutherford,’ he answered; ‘but in Liddesdale I’m “Dick-o’-the-Cleugh.” Ask the Liddesdale lads if I’m to be trusted! But I’m havering. The like o’ you will never set your bonny foot in Liddesdale, nor ask tidings o’ the like o’ me.’ Dick spoke almost despondently for a moment. He brightened up though at her reply.