hour of midnight, and, as at the time of the
conspiracy, forth might sally the phantom assassins, with stealthy step
and ghastly look, to renew the semblance of the deed. There comes the
fierce fanatic Ruthven, party hatred enabling him to bear the armour
which would otherwise weigh down a form extenuated by wasting disease.
See how his writhen features show under the hollow helmet, like those of
a corpse tenanted by a demon, whose vindictive purpose looks out at
the flashing eyes, while the visage has the stillness of death. Yonder
appears the tall form of the boy Darnley, as goodly in person as
vacillating in resolution; yonder he advances with hesitating step, and
yet more hesitating purpose, his childish fear having already overcome
his childish passion. He is in the plight of a mischievous lad who
has fired a mine, and who now, expecting the explosion in remorse and
terror, would give his life to quench the train which his own hand
lighted. Yonder--yonder--But I forget the rest of the worthy cutthroats.
Help me if you can."

"Summon up," said I, "the postulate, George Douglas, the most active of
the gang. Let him arise at your call--the claimant of wealth which he
does not possess, the partaker of the illustrious blood of Douglas, but
which in his veins is sullied with illegitimacy. Paint him the ruthless,
the daring, the ambitious--so nigh greatness, yet debarred from it; so
near to wealth, yet excluded from possessing it; a political Tantalus,
ready to do or dare anything to terminate his necessities and assert his
imperfect claims."

"Admirable, my dear Croftangry! But what is a postulate?"

"Pooh, my dear madam, you disturb the current of my ideas. The postulate
was, in Scottish phrase, the candidate for some benefice which he had
not yet attained. George Douglas, who stabbed Rizzio, was the postulate
for the temporal possessions of the rich abbey of Arbroath."

"I stand informed. Come, proceed; who comes next?" continued Mrs.
Baliol.

"Who comes next? Yon tall, thin made, savage looking man, with the
petronel in his hand, must be Andrew Ker of Faldonside, a brother's son,
I believe, of the celebrated Sir David Ker of Cessford; his look and
bearing those of a Border freebooter, his disposition so savage that,
during the fray in the cabinet, he presented his loaded piece at the
bosom of the young and beautiful Queen, that queen also being within a
few weeks of becoming a mother."

"Brave, beau cousin! Wel