Bothwell started, and turned pale. He could not trust himself to speak. At that moment, wild phantom shapes, that had vaguely haunted him for long, seemed suddenly to assume a distinct aspect of reality. Dropped by an unconscious hand, the seed now struck root, that was hereafter destined to bear such appalling fruit. The offspring of a chance word, a wild and maddening vision took possession of his brain. He looked around at the solid dimensions of his fortress; he counted the gallant hearts within its walls, for whom his will was law; he thought of his friends and following, his resources and his influence, his own daring and his father’s brilliant crimes. One desperate cast for the great stake; one bold swoop for the shrinking quarry; a few shots, a thrust or two, a white form borne swiftly away at a gallop, and the sweet face that had been a dream to him all his life might become a reality at last! Why, even crazed Arran had been man enough to entertain such a scheme, whilst he, Bothwell, was eating his own heart here at Hermitage. Well, stranger things had come to pass. He must watch and bide his time; must be wary, vigilant; above all, must be patient. It was a stirring season. For a bold man _nothing_ was impossible. He replied at last, but cautiously and with reservations. If he joined the Protestant party, agreeing to act with Moray, Morton, and the rest, it must be under certain conditions; if he consented to a reconciliation with Arran, it must be accompanied with sundry stipulations which should be communicated hereafter at greater length. Even Maitland could not have been more mysterious, and the Reformer found himself wondering at the rapidity of a transformation which had changed the wild, reckless, border noble into a cold and scheming diplomatist. He had attained his object, however, and that was enough for him. With a firm persuasion that he was furthering the good work, he took his leave of the earl, well-satisfied, resisting all hospitable importunities to remain, and even declining the offer of an escort to conduct him in safety through that lawless district. ‘My Master will care for me,’ said the preacher, as he prepared to leave the castle on horseback when the shades of night were closing in. ‘He who has sent me on my mission will provide for the safety of His servant!’ And so departed unarmed and alone. Well might Morton hereafter pronounce over this dauntless nature its well-known epitaph, ‘There lies one that never feared the face of man.’ CHAPTER XIII. ‘Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen, But it was na to meet wi’ Dunira’s men, Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, For Kilmeny was pure as maiden could be.’