Mary Seyton, frightened at the effect produced by this fatal name, immediately sprang to support the queen; but she, stretching one hand towards her, while she laid the other on her heart—­

“It is nothing,” said she; “I shall be better in a moment.  Yes, Mary, yes, as you said, it is a fatal name and mingled with one of my most bloody memories.  What such men are coming to ask of me must be dreadful indeed.  But no matter, I shall soon be ready to receive my brother’s ambassadors, for doubtless they are sent in his name.  You, darling, prevent their entering, for I must have some minutes to myself:  you know me; it will not take me long.”

With these words the queen withdrew with a firm step to her bedchamber.

Mary Seyton was left alone, admiring that strength of character which made of Mary Stuart, in all other respects so completely woman-like, a man in the hour of danger.  She immediately went to the door to close it with the wooden bar that one passed between two iron rings, but the bar had been taken away, so that there was no means of fastening the door from within.  In a moment she heard someone coming up the stairs, and guessing from the heavy, echoing step that this must be Lord Lindsay, she looked round her once again to see if she could find something to replace the bar, and finding nothing within reach, she passed her arm through the rings, resolved to let it be broken rather than allow anyone to approach her mistress before it suited her.  Indeed, hardly had those who were coming up reached the landing than someone knocked violently, and a harsh voice cried: 

“Come, come, open the door; open directly.”

“And by what right,” said Mary Seyton, “am I ordered thus insolently to open the Queen of Scotland’s door?”

“By the right of the ambassador of the regent to enter everywhere in his name.  I am Lord Lindsay, and I am come to speak to Lady Mary Stuart.”

“To be an ambassador,” answered Mary Seyton, “is not to be exempted from having oneself announced in visiting a woman, and much more a queen; and if this ambassador is, as he says, Lord Lindsay, he will await his sovereign’s leisure, as every Scottish noble would do in his place.”

“By St. Andrew!” cried Lord Lindsay, “open, or I will break in the door.”

“Do nothing to it, my lord, I entreat you,” said another voice, which Mary recognised as Meville’s.  “Let us rather wait for Lord Ruthven, who is not yet ready.”

“Upon my soul,” cried Lindsay, shaking the door, “I shall not wait a second”.  Then, seeing that it resisted, “Why did you tell me, then, you scamp,” Lindsay went on, speaking to the steward, “that the bar had been removed?

“It is true,” replied he.

“Then,” returned Lindsay, “with what is this silly wench securing the door?”

“With my arm, my lord, which I have passed through the rings, as a Douglas did for King James I, at a time when Douglases had dark hair instead of red, and were faithful instead of being traitors.”