It is a time of danger, not of revel,

When churchmen turn to masquers.

The Spanish Father .

The enterprise of Roland Graeme appeared to prosper. A trinket or two, of which the work did not surpass the substance, (for the materials were silver, supplied by the Queen,) were judiciously presented to those most likely to be inquisitive into the labours of the forge and anvil, which they thus were induced to reckon profitable to others and harmless in itself. Openly, the page was seen working about such trifles. In private, he forged a number of keys resembling so nearly in weight and in form those which were presented every evening to the Lady Lochleven, that, on a slight inspection, it would have been difficult to perceive the difference. He brought them to the dark rusty colour by the use of salt and water; and, in the triumph of his art, presented them at length to Queen Mary in her presence-chamber, about an hour before the tolling of the curfew. She looked at them with pleasure, but at the same time with doubt.—“I allow,” she said, “that the Lady Lochleven’s eyes, which are not of the clearest, may be well deceived, could we pass those keys on her in place of the real implements of her tyranny. But how is this to be done, and which of my little court dare attempt this tour de jongleur with any chance of success? Could we but engage her in some earnest matter of argument — but those which I hold with her, always have been of a kind which make her grasp her keys the faster, as if she said to herself — Here I hold what sets me above your taunts and reproaches — And even for her liberty, Mary Stuart could not stoop to speak the proud heretic fair.— What shall we do? Shall Lady Fleming try her eloquence in describing the last new head-tire from Paris?— alas! the good dame has not changed the fashion of her head-gear since Pinkie-field for aught that I know. Shall my mignóne Catherine sing to her one of those touching airs, which draw the very souls out of me and Roland Graeme?— Alas! Dame Margaret Douglas would rather hear a Huguenot psalm of Clement Marrot, sung to the tune of Reveillez vous, belle endormie. — Cousins and liege counsellors, what is to be done, for our wits are really astray in this matter?— Must our man-at-arms and the champion of our body, Roland Graeme, manfully assault the old lady, and take the keys from her par voie du fait? ”

“Nay! with your Grace’s permission.” said Roland, “I do not doubt being able to manage the matter with more discretion; for though, in your Grace’s service, I do not fear —”

“A host of old women,” interrupted Catherine, “each armed with rock and spindle, yet he has no fancy for pikes and partisans, which might rise at the cry of Help! a Douglas, a Douglas! ”

“They that do not fear fair ladies’ tongues,” continued the page, “need dread nothing else.— But, gracious Liege, I am well-nigh satisfied that I could pass the exchange of these keys on the Lady Lochleven; but I dread the sentinel who is now planted nightly in the garden, which, by necessity, we must traverse.”

“Our last advices from our friends on the shore have promised us assistance in that matter,” replied the Queen.

“And is your Grace well assured of the fidelity and watchfulness of those without?”

“For their fidelity, I will answer with my life, and for their vigilance, I will answer with my life — I will give thee instant proof, my faithful Roland, that they are ingenuous and trusty as thyself. Come hither — Nay, Catherine, attend us; we carry not so deft a page into our private chamber alone. Make fast the door of the parlour, Fleming, and warn us if you hear the least step — or stay, go thou to the door, Catherine,” (in a whisper, “thy ears and thy wits are both sharper.)— Good Fleming, attend us thyself”—(and again she whispered, “her reverend presence will be as safe a watch on Roland as thine can — so be not jealous, mignone .”)

Thus speaking, they were lighted by the Lady Fleming into the Queen’s bedroom, a small apartment enlightened by a projecting window.

“Look from that window, Roland,” she said; “see you amongst the several lights which begin to kindle, and to glimmer palely through the gray of the evening from the village of Kinross-seest thou, I say, one solitary spark apart from the others, and nearer it seems to the verge of the water?— It is no brighter at this distance than the torch of the poor glowworm, and yet, my good youth, that light is more dear to Mary Stuart, than every star that twinkles in the blue vault of heaven. By that signal, I know that more than one true heart is plotting my deliverance; and without that consciousness, and the hope of freedom it gives me, I had long since stooped to my fate, and died of a broken heart. Plan after plan has been formed and abandoned, but still the light glimmers; and while it glimmers, my hope lives.— Oh! how many evenings have I sat musing in despair over our ruined schemes, and scarce hoping that I should again see that blessed signal; when it has suddenly kindled, and, like the lights of Saint Elmo in a tempest, brought hope and consolation, where there, was only dejection and despair!”

“If I mistake not,” answered Roland, “the candle shines from the house of Blinkhoolie, the mail-gardener.”

“Thou hast a good eye,” said the Queen; “it is there where my trusty lieges — God and the saints pour blessings on them!— hold consultation for my deliverance. The voice of a wretched captive would die on these blue waters, long ere it could mingle in their councils; and yet I can hold communication — I will confide the whole to thee — I am about to ask those faithful friends if the moment for the great attempt is nigh.— Place the lamp in the window, Fleming.”

She obeyed, and immediately withdrew it. No sooner had she done so, than the light in the cottage of the gardener disappeared.

“Now count,” said Queen Mary, “for my heart beats so thick that I cannot count myself.”

The Lady Fleming began deliberately to count one, two, three, and when she had arrived at ten, the light on the shore showed its pale twinkle.

“Now, our Lady be praised!” said the Queen; “it was but two nights since, that the absence of the light remained while I could tell thirty. The hour of deliverance approaches. May God bless those who labour in it with such truth to me!— alas! with such hazard to themselves — and bless you, too, my children!— Come, we must to the audience-chamber again. Our absence might excite suspicion, should they serve supper.”

They returned to the presence-chamber, and the evening concluded as usual.

The next morning, at dinner-time, an unusual incident occurred. While Lady Douglas of Lochleven performed her daily duty of assistant and taster at the Queen’s table, she was told a man-at-arms had arrived, recommended by her son, but without any letter or other token than what he brought by word of mouth.

“Hath he given you that token?” demanded the Lady.

“He reserved it, as I think, for your Ladyship’s ear,” replied Randal.

“He doth well,” said the Lady; “tell him to wait in the hall — But no — with your permission, madam,” (to the Queen) “let him attend me here.”

“Since you are pleased to receive your domestics in my presence,” said the Queen, “I cannot choose —”

“My infirmities must plead my excuse, madam,” replied the Lady; “the life I must lead here ill suits with the years which have passed over my head, and compels me to waive ceremonial.”

“Oh, my good Lady,” replied the Queen, “I would there were nought in this your castle more strongly compulsive than the cobweb chains of ceremony; but bolts and bars are harder matters to contend with.”

As she spoke, the person announced by Randal entered the room, and Roland Graeme at once recognized in him the Abbot Ambrosius.

“What is your name, good fellow?” said the Lady.

“Edward Glendinning,” answered the Abbot, with a suitable reverence.

“Art thou of the blood of the Knight of Avenel?” said the Lady of Lochleven.

“Ay, madam, and that nearly,” replied the pretended soldier.

“It is likely enough,” said the Lady, “for the Knight is the son of his own good works, and has risen from obscure lineage to his present high rank in the Estate — But he is of sure truth and approved worth, and his kinsman is welcome to us. You hold, unquestionably, the true faith?”

“Do not doubt of it, madam,” said the disguised churchman.

“Hast thou a token to me from Sir William Douglas?” said the Lady.

“I have, madam,” replied he; “but it must be said in private.”

“Thou art right,” said the Lady, moving towards the recess of a window; “say in what does it consist?”

“In the words of an old bard,” replied the Abbot.

“Repeat them,” answered the Lady; and he uttered, in a low tone, the lines from an old poem, called The Howlet,—

“O Douglas! Douglas!

Tender and true.”

“Trusty Sir John Holland!” 41 said the Lady Douglas, apostrophizing the poet, “a kinder heart never inspired a rhyme, and the Douglas’s honour was ever on thy heart-string! We receive you among our followers, Glendinning — But, Randal, see that he keep the outer ward only, till we shall hear more touching him from our son.— Thou fearest not the night air. Glendinning?”

“In the cause of the Lady before whom I stand, I fear nothing, madam,” answered the disguised Abbot.

“Our garrison, then, is stronger by one trustworthy soldier,” said the matron —“Go to the buttery, and let them make much of thee.”

When the Lady Lochleven had retired, the Queen said to Roland Graeme, who was now almost constantly in her company, “I spy comfort in that stranger’s countenance; I know not why it should be so, but I am well persuaded he is a friend.”

“Your Grace’s penetration does not deceive you,” answered the page; and he informed her that the Abbot of St. Mary’s himself played the part of the newly arrived soldier.

The Queen crossed herself and looked upwards. “Unworthy sinner that I am,” she said, “that for my sake a man so holy, and so high in spiritual office, should wear the garb of a base sworder, and run the risk of dying the death of a traitor!”

“Heaven will protect its own servant, madam,” said Catherine Seyton; “his aid would bring a blessing on our undertaking, were it not already blest for its own sake.”

“What I admire in my spiritual father,” said Roland, “was the steady front with which he looked on me, without giving the least sign of former acquaintance. I did not think the like was possible, since I have ceased to believe that Henry was the same person with Catherine.”

“But marked you not how astuciously the good father,” said the Queen, “eluded the questions of the woman Lochleven, telling her the very truth, which yet she received not as such?”

Roland thought in his heart, that when the truth was spoken for the purpose of deceiving, it was little better than a lie in disguise. But it was no time to agitate such questions of conscience.

“And now for the signal from the shore,” exclaimed Catherine; “my bosom tells me we shall see this night two lights instead of one gleam from that garden of Eden — And then, Roland, do you play your part manfully, and we will dance on the greensward like midnight fairies!”

Catherine’s conjecture misgave not, nor deceived her. In the evening two beams twinkled from the cottage, instead of one; and the page heard, with beating heart, that the new retainer was ordered to stand sentinel on the outside of the castle. When he intimated this news to the Queen, she held her hand out to him — he knelt, and when he raised it to his lips in all dutiful homage, he found it was damp and cold as marble. “For God’s sake, madam, droop not now,— sink not now!”

“Call upon our Lady, my Liege,” said the Lady Fleming —“call upon your tutelar saint.”

“Call the spirits of the hundred kings you are descended from,” exclaimed the page; “in this hour of need, the resolution of a monarch were worth the aid of a hundred saints.”

“Oh! Roland Graeme,” said Mary, in a tone of deep despondency, “be true to me — many have been false to me. Alas! I have not always been true to myself. My mind misgives me that I shall die in bondage, and that this bold attempt will cost all our lives. It was foretold me by a soothsayer in France, that I should die in prison, and by a violent death, and here comes the hour — Oh, would to God it found me prepared!”

“Madam,” said Catherine Seyton, “remember you are a Queen. Better we all died in bravely attempting to gain our freedom, than remained here to be poisoned, as men rid them of the noxious vermin that haunt old houses.”

“You are right, Catherine,” said the Queen; “and Mary will bear her like herself. But alas! your young and buoyant spirit can ill spell the causes which have broken mine. Forgive me, my children, and farewell for a while — I will prepare both mind and body for this awful venture.”

They separated, till again called together by the tolling of the curfew. The Queen appeared grave, but firm and resolved; the Lady Fleming, with the art of an experienced courtier, knew perfectly how to disguise her inward tremors; Catherine’s eye was fired, as if with the boldness of the project, and the half smile which dwelt upon her beautiful mouth seemed to contemn all the risk and all the consequences of discovery; Roland, who felt how much success depended on his own address and boldness, summoned together his whole presence of mind, and if he found his spirits flag for a moment, cast his eye upon Catherine, whom he thought he had never seen look so beautiful.—“I may be foiled,” he thought, “but with this reward in prospect, they must bring the devil to aid them ere they cross me.” Thus resolved, he stood like a greyhound in the slips, with hand, heart, and eye intent upon making and seizing opportunity for the execution of their project.

The keys had, with the wonted ceremonial, been presented to the Lady Lochleven. She stood with her back to the casement, which, like that of the Queen’s apartment, commanded a view of Kinross, with the church, which stands at some distance from the town, and nearer to the lake, then connected with the town by straggling cottages. With her back to this casement, then, and her face to the table, on which the keys lay for an instant while she tasted the various dishes which were placed there, stood the Lady of Lochleven, more provokingly intent than usual — so at least it seemed to her prisoners — upon the huge and heavy bunch of iron, the implements of their restraint. Just when, having finished her ceremony as taster of the Queen’s table, she was about to take up the keys, the page, who stood beside her, and had handed her the dishes in succession, looked sideways to the churchyard, and exclaimed he saw corpse-candles in the churchyard. The Lady of Lochleven was not without a touch, though a slight one, of the superstitions of the time; the fate of her sons made her alive to omens, and a corpse-light, as it was called, in the family burial-place boded death. She turned her head towards the casement — saw a distant glimmering — forgot her charge for ............