No token reached him of what was happening above; and an event happened there that had vast influence on Bothwell’s future.  Across the hills to Hermitage rode the Queen of Scots herself.  The sight of her stirred in Bothwell’s heart an emotion he had never wholly conquered, for she, Mary herself, was his first love of the bygone days in France.  He had begun to realise that he loved her still; he knew the coldness of her relations with the dissolute and unfaithful Darnley, her husband; now she had come to Hermitage.

“Jesu Maria!” cried the queen, as Bothwell, with beating heart, paused in the conversation.  “Have you lost your tongue?”

“Nay, madame—­my heart.”

“That is very serious; but search for another.”

“I want no other,” replied the earl, in a trembling voice, “but thine!”

“Lord Bothwell,” she said, with a hauteur that froze her admirer, “thou art in a dream.”

“Pardon me, I pray you—­”

“I do pardon thee,” replied the queen, with a calm smile; but added, significantly, “I think ’tis time I was riding from Hermitage.”

So ended the famous visit to Hermitage, which was interpreted throughout Scotland as a token of Mary’s love for her favourite earl.

Konrad, a month afterwards, was sent to Edinburgh and confined in the old tower of Holyrood, awaiting trial as a Border outlaw.  Bothwell himself soon followed, and celebrated his return by a wild revel in company with Hob of Ormiston and other choice spirits.

As the revellers wandered through the narrow streets at midnight, seeking a quarrel, they passed the house of Dame Alison Craig.

“My page tells me,” said Bothwell, “there is a famous foreign beauty concealed there.  Ho! within!”

A stoup of water, poured on them from an upper window, was the answer.  They broke open the door, and forced the shrieking dame to lead them to the apartment where the foreign beauty was hidden.

“Death and confusion!” muttered the earl when he saw who was within.

“Cock and pie!” said Ormiston.  “We have started the wrong game.”

Hastily they thrust back their companions.  But Anna had recognised him.  When Morton had made advances towards her, she had repulsed him scornfully, telling him she was the Countess of Bothwell.  Morton had seized on this opportunity of injuring a man he hated, and resolved to bring Anna before the queen.  Bothwell now knew the danger before him, and prepared for it.

Next day, as the queen sat with her grim lords in council, Morton led in Anna.

“I have the pleasure,” said he, “to present a lady who accuseth the Earl of Bothwell of wedding and ignobly deserting her.”

“’Tis false, Lord Earl!” cried Bothwell.

“Oh, madam, hear my story, and condemn me not unheard,” pleaded Anna.

“Let her speak for herself,” said Mary.

Thus encouraged, Anna, in moving accents, told her story.