"and so content and rest
yourself."

With that she broke from him, white and scared, and reached the door.
Yet with her hand upon the latch she paused. Looking at him she saw that
he was smiling, and perhaps horror of her betrayal of him overwhelmed
her. It must be that she then desired to warn him, yet with Bothwell
within earshot she realized that any warning must precipitate the
tragedy, with direst consequences to Bothwell and herself.

To conquer her weakness, she thought of David Rizzio, whom Darnley had
murdered almost at her feet, and whom this night was to avenge. She
thought of the Judas part that he had played in that affair, and sought
persuasion that it was fitting he should now be paid in kind. Yet,
very woman that she was, failing to find any such persuasion, she found
instead in the very thought of Rizzio the very means to convey her
warning.

Standing tense and white by the door, regarding him with dilating eyes,
she spoke her last words to him.

"It would be just about this time last year that Davie was slain," she
said, and on that passed out to the waiting Bothwell.

Once on the stairs she paused and set a hand upon the shoulder of the
stalwart Borderer.

"Must it be? Oh, must it be?" she whispered fearfully.

She caught the flash of his eyes in the half gloom as he leaned over
her, his arm about her waist drawing her to him.

"Is it not just? Is it not full merited?" he asked her.

"And yet I would that we did not profit by it," she complained.

"Shall we pity him on that account?" he asked, and laughed softly and
shortly. "Come away," he added abruptly. "They wait for you!" And so,
by the suasion of his arm and his imperious will, she was swept onward
along the road of her destiny.

Outside the horses were ready. There was a little group of gentlemen to
escort her, and half a dozen servants with lighted torches, whilst Lady
Reres was in waiting. A man stood forward to assist her to mount, his
face and hands so blackened by gunpowder that for a moment she failed to
recognize him. She laughed nervously when he named himself.

"Lord, Paris, how begrimed you are!" she cried; and, mounting, rode away
towards Holyrood with her torchbearers and attendants.

In the room above, Darnley lay considering her last words. He turned
them over in his thoughts, assured by the tone she had used and how she
had looked that they contained some message.

"It would be just about this time last year that