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Updated: June 2, 2025
Bothwell's thoughts instantly turned to Anna. He knew that she would not accompany him unless he married her, and policy now more than ever required that he should keep his troth to the sister of his friend, the Earl of Huntly. Then there occurred to him the sinister thought of a mock marriage. His actions were quick, and his persuasions, to the love-sick Anna, irresistible.
The lad departed, and had he done his errand faithfully, he would have found Bothwell's followers, Hay and Hepburn, and the Queen's man, Nicholas Hubert better known as French Paris emptying a keg of gunpowder on the floor immediately under the King's bed.
The italics indicate the additions of the nice editorial hand. IV. Elinor Forester. "The Father's Wedding Day." By Mary Lamb. The pretty song, "Balow, my babe," was probably "Ann Bothwell's Lament," beginning "Balow, my boy." V. Margaret Green. "The Young Mahometan." By Mary Lamb, and perhaps her most perfect work.
Her agent in England wrote to her that "if she married that man she would lose the favour of God, her own reputation, and the hearts of all England, Ireland, and Scotland." But whatever may have been the ties of passion or guilt which united them, Mary was now powerless in Bothwell's hands. He boasted that he would marry Mary, whether she would or no.
He is the prisoner of King Edward, and thus I demand him at your hands!" Wallace spoke not, but with an unmoved countenance looked around upon the assembly. Edwin precipitated himself into his arms. Bothwell's full soul then forced utterance from his laboring breast: "Tell your sovereign," cried he, "that he mistakes. We are the conquerors who ought to dictate terms of peace!
Glad to escape the insults of the soldiers who lay wallowing in the wine, Bothwell's old servant quitted the cellar with the last company which bore flagons to their comrades above. Murray listened anxiously, in hopes of hearing from his garrulous neighbors some intimation of the fate of his uncle and aunt.
Mary may have yielded to force; she may have yielded to passion; it is possible that in Bothwell's vigour she saw the means of at last mastering the kingdom and wreaking her vengeance on the Lords. But whatever were her hopes or fears, in a month more all was over. The horror at the Queen's marriage with a man fresh from her husband's blood drove the whole nation to revolt.
Some one stepped quickly across the deck and leaned over the rail above me. Bothwell's dark face looked down into mine. He leveled a revolver at my head and fired just as I drew back. That shot served as a signal for the attack. Bullets sang back and forth, some from the schooner, others from the boats of my friends.
"Gawd, I've 'ad enough," the cook gasped, and got his fat bulk to the stairway with incredible swiftness. The others were at his heel, fighting for the first chance down. A bullet clipped the deck in front of me. I looked up hastily to see Bothwell's malevolent face in the wheelhouse window. "Turn about, Mr. Sedgwick," he jeered, and let fly again.
Neither the power and greatness of Bothwell, nor his favor with the queen, secured him from the indignant sentiment of the nation. He had a mock trial, in which he was acquitted. The queen, on a journey from Edinburgh to Stirling, to visit her son, was seized by a party of Bothwell's and conducted a prisoner to his castle at Dunbar.
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