They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the floor.

“He will die hating me,” said Dorothy.  “If he could live I willingly would give him to the—­the Scottish woman.  Then I could die and my suffering would cease.  I must have been mad when I went to the queen.  He trusted me with his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed both.  Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die.  There is comfort at least in that thought.  How helpless I am.”

She could not weep.  It seemed as if there were not a tear in her.  All was hard, dry, burning agony.  She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously for a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory prayers for help.

“My mind seems to have forsaken me,” she said hoarsely to Madge.  “I cannot think.  What noise is that?”

She paused and listened for a moment.  Then she went to the north window and opened the casement.

“The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming,” she said.  “I recognize them by the light of their flambeaux.  They are entering the gate at the dove-cote.”

A part of the queen’s guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.

Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said:  “The other guards are here under our window and are ready to march to Rutland.  There is Lord Cecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father.  Now they are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote.  The stable boys are lighting their torches and flambeaux.  They are going to murder John, and I have sent them.”

Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro across the room.

“Call Malcolm,” said Madge.  “Perhaps he can help us.  Lead me to the window, Dorothy, and I will call him.”  Dorothy led Madge to the window, and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, “Malcolm, Malcolm.”

The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir William and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and would soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.

I then hastened to Dorothy’s room.  I was ignorant of the means whereby Elizabeth had learned of Mary’s presence at Rutland.  The queen had told no one how the information reached her.  The fact that Mary was in England was all sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth had given for Mary’s arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation.  I, of course, was in great distress for John’s sake, since I knew that he would be attainted of treason.  I had sought in vain some plan whereby I might help him, but found none.  I, myself, being a Scottish refugee, occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or Mary would be construed against me.

When I entered Dorothy’s room, she ran to me and said:  “Can you help me, Malcolm?  Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have brought upon him?”