up to the regulation of
Know-All I'd evidently attained in her eyes.

In Linlithgow we expected to see at once the famous palace where Queen
Mary was born, but nothing was visible in what the French would call the
_place_, except the Town House, a new statue, and a graceful copy of an
old fountain. We had to turn up an unpromising side street to find at
last a beautiful little gateway between dumpy octagonal towers, such as
the old masters loved to put in the background of their pictures.
Passing through was like walking into one of those pictures, getting
round the hidden corner as one always longs to do on canvas. Before our
eyes rose majestically the colossal shell of a palace, with carved
golden walls, a vast courtyard, cyclopean round towers, and wonderful
windows full of sky and dreams. Close by was the noble church where
James IV had his vision warning him not to go to war with England.

Somerled had talked to Barrie about Linlithgow, doubtless in the hope of
making her think of him when there. He had called it the "finest
domestic architectural ruin in all Scotland," and told her of Lord
Rosebery's suggestion to restore and make of it a great national museum.
I was glad for every reason that Somerled wasn't with us, and, for one,
because he would have overshadowed me entirely with his knowledge of
architecture, which he contrives to use picturesquely, not ponderously.
All I could do was to rhapsodize in a way Barrie likes well enough when
she can get nothing better, painting for her a rough word-picture of the
palace in days when rich gilding still glittered on the quaint wall
statues, when crystal jets spouted from the lovely fountain, green with
moss now as with thick verdigris--when knights in armour rode into the
quadrangle to be welcomed by fair ladies, while varlets led tired horses
to distant stables. Those were the days when the Livingstons were
keepers of the palace for the King, long before they lost their lands
and titles for love of Prince Charlie; days when the memory of Will
Binnock was honoured still, that "stout earle" who helped wrest
Linlithgow from English Edward's men by smuggling soldiers into the
palace precincts, concealed in a load of hay.

We wandered almost sadly through the splendid rooms where Queen Mary
first saw the light, the week her father died: through "the King's
room," with its secret staircase under a trap door, and its view over a
blue lake where swans floated like winged