The World's Greatest Books [Volumes 1-15, 17-20]

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.

"A meloncholy tale, in sooth," said Mary; "but what proof is there?"

"Your majesty," said Bothwell, "this is the invention of some unknown enemy"--he glanced at Morton--"to deprive me of your royal favour. Let this frantic damsel be removed to a Danish vessel now at Leith, and conveyed to her home."

"Well, so be it!" replied the facile queen.

Anna drew herself up to her full height.

"Farewell, Bothwell," she cried. "In that dark time of ruin and regret that is coming upon thee, remember Anna!"

And as she spoke they hurried her away.

Bothwell henceforth was more than ever in the queen's favour. Only the life of Darnley intervened between him and the goal of his love and ambition; and the sinister promptings of Ormiston suggested that even that obstacle was not irremovable.

IV.--The Kirk of Field

On a dark winter night a conference of nobles was held at Whittinghame. Mary had been asked to divorce her husband, and had proudly and indignantly refused. Only one way remained. A solemn bond was drawn up among the assembled nobles, and the bond sealed the fate of Darnley. It was not without doubt and shrinking that Bothwell saw whither his schemes were leading him, but he would not, he could not, turn back.

It was at Ormiston's suggestion that Konrad was employed as an unconscious tool in the affair. Ormiston hinted that with a little adroitness the whole blame might be laid on the unhappy prisoner. Konrad accordingly, on the night when the deed was to be done, was awakened from a reverie in his cell at Holyrood by the entry of a tall, masked figure.

"If thou wouldst attain liberty, follow me!" said Ormiston, for it was he.

He put a sword in Konrad's hand. Konrad as he grasped the weapon, felt his spirits rise again, and he followed.

Presently they came to a group of masked men, and silently the party went through a private door in the city walls. Their destination, though Konrad knew it not, was the lonely house of the Kirk of Field, where Darnley was lying slowly recovering from small-pox--an illness through which the queen, forgetting her wrongs at his hands, had tenderly nursed him.

Konrad, arrived at the house, helped to unload a horse of heavy packages which he conjectured to contain plunder; but it was gunpowder that he unwittingly handled.

Suddenly a piercing cry came from above. A moment later the startled Konrad perceived Bothwell, his mask awry, his eyes glazed and haggard.

"Thou hast done well!" said Ormiston grimly.

"Well! My God!" groaned the earl.

"Away while I fire the train!" shouted Ormiston.

Like a fiery serpent the train glowed along the ground. Then, red and lurid in the shadowy night, there flashed a volume of dazzling light; then came a roar as if the earth was splitting.

Konrad fled in bewildered terror, and wandered about the outskirts of the city until, in a little ruined chapel on the verge of a moor, he lay down exhausted and fell asleep.

In the morning he was awakened by a rough grasp on his shoulder.

"We have meshed one of the knaves at least," said a stern voice. Konrad found himself amidst knights and men-at-arms, and he was led back to the city.

The citizens were in arms, furious at the outrage of the night before. The appearance of a suspected murderer aroused their passion to the utmost; Konrad's escort was overpowered and thrust aside. "Awa' wi' him to the Papist's pillar!" cried a voice. Down they went with him to the North Loch, and tied him there to an oaken stake about five feet deep in the water--a spot where many a luckless Catholic had perished. The mob retired, and Konrad was left alone, helpless, and to die.

Bothwell sat by the fire in his apartments at Holyrood, with knit brows and muttering lips; the word he muttered was, "Murderer." The shriek of the man whose death-blow he had struck still echoed in his ears.

Presently there entered the room one of his followers, Hepburn of Bolton.

"The Norwegian hath been bound to the Papist's pillar," said he; "and by this time he must be dead, for it rains heavily, and the loch fills fast."

"One other life!" said the earl gloomily. "By heaven, Bolton! if I can save him--come!"

In the darkness and the rain, with the water rising around him, Konrad waited for death. A sound of oars roused him from the stupefaction into which he had fallen. "Here, here! His head is above water still," said a voice. The bonds were cut, Konrad was dragged into the boat and taken to land, and offered a draught that revived him.

"Here we part," said the voice. "Give him dry garments, and take him to the Norwegian vessel, and bid him cross my path no more!"

"Who art thou?" asked Konrad feebly.

"Thy greatest enemy, James, Earl of Bothwell!"