Several wounded, and more than one corpse, encumbered the street; the fray was getting serious, and even ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’ seemed to think it was an affair more of business than pleasure, when the common bell began to toll loudly, and the city-guard, guided by Walter Maxwell, and commanded by no less a personage than Lord James Stuart himself, made its appearance on the scene. These hardy burghers, well-armed, and confident in the sympathies, and, if necessary, the assistance of the townsfolk, thrust themselves boldly between the combatants; Lord James, on whose thoughtful brow could be traced no more excitement than ordinary, himself striking up the weapons of either party, as he bade them lay down their arms in the Queen’s name. Bothwell had just reached Arran for the second time. The warden’s eye glared wickedly and the froth was white on his moustache. Arran, pale as death, and with madness flaring in his looks, struggled to meet his enemy, shouting wildly and incoherently in a paroxysm of insanity. Their swords had actually crossed when Lord James struck in between. His face was calm and unmoved; nay, there was a lurking satisfaction in his eye, for, to the plotting diplomatist, there is always gain in the differences of the powerful; but to-night it was Lord James’s cue rather to stifle than foment such dissensions, and he wished also to stand well with the citizens by quelling a disturbance that had alarmed the town. ‘For shame, gentlemen,’ said he, beating down their weapons with the sheathed sword. ‘For shame! you, Arran, her near kinsman; and you, Bothwell, in whom she trusts. What will the Queen say when she hears of it?’ The red blood faded from the warden’s angry brow at Mary Stuart’s name, and sinking the point of his sword, he fell back with a look of deep shame and contrition. In his fiercest moments that spell was sufficient to make him docile as a child. Not so Arran. With a wild shriek of rage, he darted a savage thrust at the peace-maker, that, had it taken effect, might have spared Scotland much bloodshed and Mary Stuart many a tear, for her wily bastard-brother would never have moved again. It was not fated, however, to reach its object; for ‘Dick-o’-the-Cleugh’s’ quick eye caught the movement, and he parried it with a force and rapidity that shivered Arran’s blade in pieces, and beat it from his hand. His retainers now gathered round their leader, and forced him from the ground, the unfortunate maniac raving and writhing in their grasp. Bothwell, too, got his men in order, and withdrew them, submitting patiently to the rebukes of Lord James. It is needless to observe, that on the first appearance of their grave brother, the Lords John and Robert had taken to flight, closely followed by d’Elbœuf, who did not wish to figure as a brawler at his niece’s court. The warden alone remained to bear the blame, and, now that the excitement had cooled, he bitterly regretted what he had done.