"They are too slight and unsolid pledges, my lord," said the Queen;
"add at least a handful of thistle-down to give them weight in the
balance."
"Away, Ruthven," said Lindesay; "she was ever deaf to counsel, save of
slaves and sycophants; let her remain by her refusal, and abide by
it!"
"Stay, my lord," said Sir Robert Melville, "or rather permit me to
have but a few minutes' private audience with her Grace. If my
presence with you could avail aught, it must be as a mediator--do not,
I conjure you, leave the castle, or break off the conference, until I
bring you word how her Grace shall finally stand disposed."
"We will remain in the hall," said Lindesay, "for half an hour's
space; but in despising our words and our pledge of honour, she has
touched the honour of my name--let her look herself to the course she
has to pursue. If the half hour should pass away without her
determining to comply with the demands of the nation, her career will
be brief enough."
With little ceremony the two nobles left the apartment, traversed the
vestibule, and descended the winding-stairs, the clash of Lindesay's
huge sword being heard as it rang against each step in his descent.
George Douglas followed them, after exchanging with Melville a gesture
of surprise and sympathy.
As soon as they were gone, the Queen, giving way to grief, fear, and
agitation, threw herself into the seat, wrung her hands, and seemed to
abandon herself to despair. Her female attendants, weeping themselves,
endeavoured yet to pray her to be composed, and Sir Robert Melville,
kneeling at her feet, made the same entreaty.
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