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Dmitry Vostokov

Python Debugging for AI, Machine

Learning, and Cloud Computing
A Pattern-Oriented Approach
Dmitry Vostokov
Dalkey, Dublin, Ireland

ISBN 978-1-4842-9744-5 e-ISBN 978-1-4842-9745-2

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-9745-2

© Dmitry Vostokov 2024

Apress Standard

The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks,

service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the
absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the
relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general
use.

The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the
advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate
at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the
editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the
material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have
been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional
claims in published maps and institutional affiliations.

This Apress imprint is published by the registered company APress

Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature.
The registered company address is: 1 New York Plaza, New York, NY
10004, U.S.A.
To Ekaterina, Alexandra, Kirill, and Maria
Introduction
Python is the dominant language used in AI and machine learning with
data and pipelines in cloud environments. Besides debugging Python
code in popular IDEs, notebooks, and command-line debuggers, this
book also includes coverage of native OS interfacing (Windows and
Linux) necessary to understand, diagnose, and debug complex software
issues.
The book begins with an introduction to pattern-oriented software
diagnostics and debugging processes that, before doing Python
debugging, diagnose problems in various software artifacts such as
memory dumps, traces, and logs. Next, it teaches various debugging
patterns using Python case studies that model abnormal software
behavior. Further, it covers Python debugging specifics in cloud native
and machine learning environments. It concludes with how recent
advances in AI/ML can help in Python debugging. The book also goes
deep for case studies when there are environmental problems, crashes,
hangs, resource spikes, leaks, and performance degradation. It includes
tracing and logging besides memory dumps and their analysis using
native WinDbg and GDB debuggers.
This book is for those who wish to understand how Python
debugging is and can be used to develop robust and reliable AI,
machine learning, and cloud computing software. It uses a novel
pattern-oriented approach to diagnosing and debugging abnormal
software structure and behavior. Software developers, AI/ML
engineers, researchers, data engineers, MLOps, DevOps, and anyone
who uses Python will benefit from this book.
Source Code: All source code used in this book can be downloaded
from github.com/Apress/Python-Debugging-for-AI-
Machine-Learning-and-Cloud-Computing.
Any source code or other supplementary material referenced by the
author in this book is available to readers on GitHub. For more detailed
information, please visit https://www.apress.com/gp/services/source-
code.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1:​Fundamental Vocabulary
Process
Thread
Stack Trace (Backtrace, Traceback)
Symbol Files
Module
Memory Dump
Crash
Hang
Summary
Chapter 2:​Pattern-Oriented Debugging
The History of the Idea
Patterns and Analysis Patterns
Development Process
Development Patterns
Debugging Process and Patterns
Elementary Diagnostics Patterns
Debugging Analysis Patterns
Debugging Architecture Patterns
Debugging Design Patterns
Debugging Implementation Patterns
Debugging Usage Patterns
Debugging Presentation Patterns
Summary
Chapter 3:​Elementary Diagnostics Patterns
 Functional Patterns
Use-Case Deviation
Non-Functional Patterns
Crash
Hang
Counter Value
Error Message
Summary
Chapter 4:​Debugging Analysis Patterns
Paratext
State Dump
Counter Value
Stack Trace Patterns
Stack Trace
Runtime Thread
Managed Stack Trace
Source Stack Trace
Stack Trace Collection
Stack Trace Set
Exception Patterns
Managed Code Exception
Nested Exception
Exception Stack Trace
Software Exception
Module Patterns
Module Collection
 Not My Version
Exception Module
Origin Module
Thread Patterns
Spiking Thread
Active Thread
Blocked Thread
Blocking Module
Synchronization Patterns
Wait Chain
Deadlock
Livelock
Memory Consumption Patterns
Memory Leak
Handle Leak
Case Study
Summary
Chapter 5:​Debugging Implementation Patterns
Overview of Patterns
Break-Ins
Code Breakpoint
Code Trace
Scope
Variable Value
Type Structure
Breakpoint Action
 Usage Trace
Case Study
Elementary Diagnostics Patterns
Debugging Analysis Patterns
Debugging Implementation Patterns
Summary
Chapter 6:​IDE Debugging in the Cloud
Visual Studio Code
WSL Setup
Cloud SSH Setup
Case Study
Summary
Chapter 7:​Debugging Presentation Patterns
Python Debugging Engines
Case Study
Suggested Presentation Patterns
Summary
Chapter 8:​Debugging Architecture Patterns
The Where?​Category
In Papyro
In Vivo
In Vitro
In Silico
In Situ
Ex Situ
The When?​Category
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 Live
JIT
Postmortem
The What?​Category
Code
Data
Interaction
The How?​Category
Software Narrative
Software State
Summary
Chapter 9:​Debugging Design Patterns
CI Build Case Study
Elementary Diagnostics
Analysis
Architecture
Design
Implementation
Data Processing Case Study
Elementary Diagnostics
Analysis
Architecture
Design
Implementation
Summary
Chapter 10:​Debugging Usage Patterns
 Exact Sequence
Scripting
Debugger Extension
Abstract Command
Space Translation
Lifting
Gestures
Summary
Chapter 11:​Case Study:​Resource Leaks
Elementary Diagnostics
Debugging Analysis
Debugging Architecture
Debugging Implementation
Summary
Chapter 12:​Case Study:​Deadlock
Elementary Diagnostics
Debugging Analysis
Debugging Architecture
Exceptions and Deadlocks
Summary
Chapter 13:​Challenges of Python Debugging in Cloud Computing
Complex Distributed Systems
Granularity of Services
Communication Channels Overhead
Inter-Service Dependencies
Layers of Abstraction
 Opaque Managed Services
Serverless and Function as a Service
Container Orchestration Platforms
Continuous Integration/​Continuous Deployment
Pipeline Failures
Rollbacks and Versioning
Immutable Infrastructure
Diversity of Cloud Service Models
Infrastructure as a Service
Platform as a Service
Software as a Service
Evolving Cloud Platforms
Adapting to Changes
Staying Updated
Environment Parity
Library and Dependency Disparities
Configuration Differences
Underlying Infrastructure Differences
Service Variabilities
Limited Visibility
Transient Resources
Log Management
Monitoring and Alerting
Latency and Network Issues
Network Instabilities
Service-to-Service Communication
 Resource Leaks and Performance
Resource Starvation
Concurrency Issues
Race Conditions
Deadlocks
Security and Confidentiality
Debugger Access Control Restrictions
Sensitive Data Exposure
Limited Access
Cost Implications
Extended Sessions
Resource Provisioning and Deprovisioning
Data Transfer and Storage Fees
State Management
Stateful Services
Data Volume
Limited Tooling Compatibility
Versioning Issues
Deprecations and Changes
SDK and Library Updates
Real-time Debugging and User Experience
External Service Dependencies
Dependency Failures
Rate Limiting and Quotas
Asynchronous Operations
Flow Tracking
 Error Propagation
Scaling and Load Challenges
Load-Based Issues
Resource Contention
Multi-Tenancy Issues
Resource Contention
Data Security
Reliability and Redundancy Issues
Service Failures
Data Durability
Summary
Chapter 14:​Challenges of Python Debugging in AI and Machine
Learning
The Nature of Defects in AI/​ML
Complexity and Abstraction Layers
Non-Determinism and Reproducibility
Large Datasets
High-Dimensional Data
Long Training Times
Real-Time Operation
Model Interpretability​
Hardware Challenges
Version Compatibility and Dependency Hell
Data Defects
Inconsistent and Noisy Data
Data Leakage
 Imbalanced Data
Data Quality
Feature Engineering Flaws
Algorithmic and Model-Specific Defects
Gradients, Backpropagation, and Automatic Differentiation
Hyperparameter Tuning
Overfitting and Underfitting
Algorithm Choice
Deep Learning Defects
Activation and Loss Choices
Learning Rate
Implementation Defects
Tensor Shapes
Hardware Limitations and Memory
Custom Code
Performance Bottlenecks
Testing and Validation
Unit Testing
Model Validation
Cross-Validation
Metrics Monitoring
Visualization for Debugging
TensorBoard
Matplotlib and Seaborn
Model Interpretability​
Logging and Monitoring
 Checkpoints
Logging
Alerts
Error Tracking Platforms
Collaborative Debugging
Forums and Communities
Peer Review
Documentation, Continuous Learning, and Updates
Maintaining Documentation
Library Updates
Continuous Learning
Case Study
Summary
Chapter 15:​What AI and Machine Learning Can Do for Python
Debugging
Automated Error Detection
Intelligent Code Fix Suggestions
Interaction Through Natural Language Queries
Visual Debugging Insights
Diagnostics and Anomaly Detection
Augmenting Code Reviews
Historical Information Analysis and Prognostics
Adaptive Learning and Personalized Debugging Experience
Test Suite Integration and Optimization
Enhanced Documentation and Resource Suggestions
Problem Modeling
 Generative Debugging Strategy
Help with In Papyro Debugging
Summary
Chapter 16:​The List of Debugging Patterns
Elementary Diagnostics Patterns
Debugging Analysis Patterns
Debugging Architecture Patterns
Debugging Design Patterns
Debugging Implementation Patterns
Debugging Usage Patterns
Debugging Presentation Patterns
Index
About the Author
Dmitry Vostokov
is an internationally recognized expert,
speaker, educator, scientist, inventor, and
author. He founded the pattern-oriented
software diagnostics, forensics, and
prognostics discipline (Systematic
Software Diagnostics) and Software
Diagnostics Institute (DA+TA:
DumpAnalysis.org + TraceAnalysis.org).
Vostokov has also authored multiple
books on software diagnostics, anomaly
detection and analysis, software, and
memory forensics, root cause analysis
and problem-solving, memory dump
analysis, debugging, software trace and log analysis, reverse
engineering, and malware analysis. He has over thirty years of
experience in software architecture, design, development, and
maintenance in various industries, including leadership, technical, and
people management roles. In his spare time, he presents multiple topics
on Debugging.TV and explores software narratology and its further
development as narratology of things and diagnostics of things (DoT),
software pathology, and quantum software diagnostics. His current
interest areas are theoretical software diagnostics and its mathematical
and computer science foundations, application of formal logic, artificial
intelligence, machine learning, and data mining to diagnostics and
anomaly detection, software diagnostics engineering and diagnostics-
driven development, diagnostics workflow, and interaction. Recent
interest areas also include cloud native computing, security,
automation, functional programming, applications of category theory to
software development and big data, and artificial intelligence
diagnostics.
About the Technical Reviewer
Krishnendu Dasgupta
is currently the Head of Machine
Learning at Mondosano GmbH, leading
data science initiatives focused on
clinical trial recommendations and
advanced patient health profiling
through disease and drug data. Prior to
this role, he co-founded DOCONVID AI, a
startup that leveraged applied AI and
medical imaging to detect lung
abnormalities and neurological
disorders.
With a strong background in
computer science engineering,
Krishnendu has more than a decade of experience in developing
solutions and platforms using applied machine learning. His
professional trajectory includes key positions at prestigious
organizations such as NTT DATA, PwC, and Thoucentric.
Krishnendu’s primary research interests include applied AI for
graph machine learning, medical imaging, and decentralized privacy-
preserving machine learning in healthcare. He also had the opportunity
to participate in the esteemed Entrepreneurship and Innovation
Bootcamp at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, cohort of 2018
batch.
Beyond his professional endeavors, Krishnendu actively dedicates
his time to research, collaborating with various research NGOs and
universities worldwide. His focus is on applied AI and ML.
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© The Author(s), under exclusive license to APress Media, LLC, part of Springer Nature 2024
D. Vostokov, Python Debugging for AI, Machine Learning, and Cloud Computing
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-1-4842-9745-2_1

1. Fundamental Vocabulary
Dmitry Vostokov1

(1) Dalkey, Dublin, Ireland

Debugging complex software issues in machine learning and cloud computing

environments requires not only the knowledge of the Python language and its interpreter
(or compiler), plus standard and external libraries, but also necessary and relevant
execution environment and operating system internals. In this chapter, you will review
some necessary fundamentals from software diagnostics and debugging languages to
have the same base level of understanding for the following chapters. In this book, I
assume that you are familiar with the Python language and its runtime environment.

Process
A Python script is interpreted by compiling it into bytecode and then executing it, or it
can even be precompiled into an application program. In both cases, this interpreter file
or the compiled application is an executable program (in Windows, it may have a .exe
extension) that references some operating system libraries (.dll in Windows and .so in
Linux). This application can be loaded into computer memory several times; each time, a
separate process is created with its own resources and unique process ID (PID, also
TGID), as shown in Figure 1-1. The process may also have a parent process that created it,
with a parent process ID (PPID).
Figure 1-1 Two python3 processes with two different PIDs
To illustrate, I executed the code in Listing 1-1 on both Windows and Linux twice.

import time

def main():
foo()

def foo():
bar()

def bar():
while True:
time.sleep(1)

if __name__ == "__main__":
main()
Listing 1-1 A Simple Script to Model Running Python Code

Figure 1-2 shows two processes on Windows.

Figure 1-2 Two running python3.11.exe processes on Windows
On Linux, you can also see two processes when you execute the same script in two
separate terminals:

~/Chapter1$ which python3

/usr/bin/python3

~/Chapter1$ ps -a
PID TTY TIME CMD
17 pts/0 00:00:00 mc
60 pts/2 00:00:00 python3
61 pts/1 00:00:00 python3
80 pts/3 00:00:00 ps

Note The operating system controls hardware and processes/threads. From a high
level, it is just a collection of processes with the operating system kernel as a process
too.

Thread
From an operating system perspective, a process is just a memory container for a Python
interpreter, its code, and data. But the interpreter code needs to be executed, for example,
to interpret the Python bytecode. This unit of execution is called a thread. A process may
have several such units of execution (several threads, the so-called multithreaded
application). Each thread has its own unique thread ID (TID, also LWP or SPID), as shown
in Figure 1-3. For example, one thread may process user interface events and others may
do complex calculations in response to UI requests, thus making the UI responsive. On
Windows, thread IDs are usually different from process IDs, but in Linux, the thread ID of
the main thread is the same as the process ID for a single-threaded process.

Figure 1-3 Two python3 processes with different numbers of threads

To model multithreading, I executed the code in Listing 1-2 on both Windows and
Linux.

import time
import threading

def thread_func():
foo()

def main():
t1 = threading.Thread(target=thread_func)
t1.start()
t2 = threading.Thread(target=thread_func)
t2.start()
t1.join()
t2.join()
def foo():
bar()

def bar():
while True:
time.sleep(1)

if __name__ == "__main__":
main()
Listing 1-2 A Simple Script to Model Multiple Threads
Figure 1-4 shows that in Windows, you can see 11 threads at the beginning (this
number later changes to 7 and then to 5). You see that the number of threads may be
greater than expected.

Figure 1-4 The number of threads in the running python3.11.exe process on Windows

In Linux, you can see the expected number of threads – 3:

~/Chapter1$ ps -aT
PID SPID TTY TIME CMD
17 17 pts/0 00:00:00 mc
45 45 pts/2 00:00:00 python3
45 46 pts/2 00:00:00 python3
45 47 pts/2 00:00:00 python3
54 54 pts/1 00:00:00 ps
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simple as to be nearly a fool, and yet not so nearly but that he had
been able to beget Lord Arran, a real fool. When he understood that
this swaggering young prince was indeed his queen, he gave up
bowing and waving his hands, and dropped upon his knee, having
very courtly old ways with him.
‘Dear madam, dear my cousin, the Lothians show the greener for
your abiding. ’Tis shrewish weather yet in the hills; but you make a
summer here.’
‘Rise up, my cousin,’ says the Queen, ‘and come talk with me.’ She
drew him to a settle by the wall. ‘What news of your house and
country have you for me?’
‘I hope I shall content your Majesty,’ he said, rubbing his fine
hands. ‘We of the west have been junketing. We have killed fatlings
for a marriage.’
She was interested, suspecting nothing. ‘Ah, you have made a
marriage! and I was not told! You used me ill, cousin.’
‘Madam,’ he pleaded somewhat confusedly, ‘it was done in haste:
there were many reasons for that. Take one—my poor health and
hastening years. Nor did time serve to make Hamilton a house. It
was a fortalice, and must remain a fortalice for my lifetime. But for
your Grace——’ He stopped, seeing that she did not listen.
She made haste to turn him on again. ‘Whom did you marry? Not
my Lord of Arran, for he is pranking here. And you design him for
me, if I remember.’
‘Oh, madam!’ He was greatly upset by such plain talk. ‘No, no. It
was my daughter Margaret. My son Arran! Ah, that’s a greater thing.
My daughter Margaret, madam——’
‘Yes, yes. But the man—the man!’
‘Madam, the Lord of Gordon took her.’ He beamed with pride and
contentment. ‘Yes, yes, the Lord of Gordon—a pact of amity
between two houses not always too happily engaged.’
 There is no doubt she blenched at the name—momentarily, as one
may at a sudden flash of lightning. She got up at once. ‘I think you
have mistook his name, cousin. His name is Beelzebub. He is called
after his father.’ She left him holding his head, and went swiftly
towards the door.
The dreary Châtelard crept after her. ‘My prince—my lord!’
‘No, no; I cannot hear you now.’ She waved him off.
Bowing, he shivered at his plight; but ‘Courage, my child,’ he bade
himself: ‘“Not now,” she saith.’
All dancing stopped, all secret talk, all laughing, teasing, and love-
making. They opened her a broad way. The Earl of Bothwell swept
the floor with his thyrsus: he was disguised as the Theban god. But
she cried out the more vehemently, ‘No, no! I am pressed; I cannot
hear you now. You cannot avail me any more,’ and flashed through
the doorway. ‘Send me Livingstone to my closet,’ she called over her
shoulder, ‘and send me Lethington.’ She ran up her privy stair, and
waited for her servants, tapping her foot, irresolute, in the middle of
the floor.
Mary Livingstone flew in breathless. ‘What is it? What is it, my
lamb?’
‘Get me a great cloak, child, and hide up all this foolery; and let
Mr. Secretary wait until I call him.’
Mary Livingstone covered her from neck to foot, took off the
scarlet cap, coifed her head seemly, brought a stool for her feet: hid
the boy in the lady, you see, and all done without a word, admirable
girl!
The Queen had been in a hard stare the while. ‘Now let me see M.
de Lethington. But stay you with me.’
‘Ay, till they cut me down,’ says Livingstone, and fetched in the
Secretary.
 She began at once. ‘I find, Mr. Secretary, that there is room for
more knaves yet in Scotland.’
‘Alack, madam,’ says he, ‘yes, truly. They can lie close, do you see,
like mushrooms, and thrive the richlier. Knaves breed knavishly, and
Scotland is a kindly nurse.’
‘There are likely to be more. Here hath the Duke married his
daughter, and the Lord of Huntly that brave son of his whom of late
he offered to me. Is this knavery or the ecstasy of a fool? What! Do
they think to win from me by insult what they have not won by open
dealing?’
Mr. Secretary, who had known this piece of news for a month or
more, did not think it well to overact surprise. He contented himself
with, ‘Upon my word!’ but added, after a pause, ‘This seems to me
rash folly rather than a reasoned affront.’
The Queen fumed, and in so doing betrayed what had really
angered her. ‘Knave or fool, what is it to me? A false fine rogue! All
rogues together. Ah, he professed my good service, declared himself
worthy of trust—declared himself my lover! Heavens and earth, are
lovers here of this sort?’
Mary Livingstone stooped towards her. ‘Think no more of him—ah
me, think of none of them! They seek not your honour, nor love, nor
service, but just the sweet profit they can suck from you.’
The Queen put her chin upon her two clasped hands. ‘I have
heard my aunt, Madame de Ferrara, declare,’ she said, with a
metallic ring in her voice which was new to it, ‘that in the marshes
about that town the peasant women, and girls also, do trade their
legs by standing in the lagoon and gathering the leeches that fasten
upon them to suck blood. These they sell for a few pence and give
their lovers food. But my lovers in Scotland are the leeches; so here
stand I, trading myself, with all men draining me of profit to fatten
themselves.’
‘Madam——’ said Lethington quickly, then stopped.
 ‘Well?’ says the Queen.
‘I would say, madam, the fable is a good one. Gather your leeches
and sell them for pence. Afterwards, if it please you, trade no more
in the swamps, but royally, in a royal territory. Ah, trade you with
princes, madam! I hope to set up a booth for your Majesty’s
commerce, and to find a chafferer of your own degree.’
She understood very well that he spoke of an English alliance for
her, and that this was not to be had without a husband of English
providing. ‘I think you are right,’ she replied. ‘If the Queen of
England, my good sister, come half-way towards me, I will go the
other half. This you may tell to Mr. Randolph if you choose.’
‘Be sure that I tell him, madam.’
‘Good dreams to you, Mr. Secretary.’
‘And no dreams at all to your Majesty—but sweet, careless sleep!’
The Queen, turning for consolation to her Livingstone, won the
relief of tears. They talked in low tones to each other for a little
while, the mistress’s head on the maid’s shoulder, and her two hands
held. The Queen was out of heart with Scotland, with love, with all
this skirting of perils. She was for prudence just now—prudence and
the English road. Then came in the tirewoman for the unrobing, and
then a final argument for England.
Monsieur de Châtelard, who truly (as he had told Des-Essars) was
a foredoomed man, lay hidden at this moment where no man should
have lain unsanctified. I shall not deal with him and his whereabouts
further than to say that, just as Frenchmen are slow to see a joke,
so they are loath to let it go. He had proposed on this, of all nights
of the year, to push his joke of the ballroom into chamber-practice.
Some further silly babble about ‘wifely duty’ was to extenuate his
great essay. If jokes had been his common food, I suppose he would
have known the smell of a musty one. As it was, he had to suffer in
the fire which old Huntly and his Hamilton-marriage had lit: his joke
was burnt up as it left his lips. For the Queen’s words, when she
found him, clung about him like flames about an oil-cask, scorched
him, blistered him, shrivelled him up. He fell before them, literally,
and lay, dry with fear, at her discretion. She spurned him with her
heel. ‘Oh, you weed,’ she said, ‘not worthy to be burned, go, or I
send for the maids with besoms to wash you into the kennel.’ He
crept away to the shipping next day, pressing only the hand of Des-
Essars, who could hardly refuse him. ‘His only success on this
miserable occasion,’ the young man wrote afterwards, ‘was to divert
the Queen’s rage from Monsieur de Gordon, and to turn her
thoughts, by ever so little more, in the direction of the English
marriage. He was one of those fools whose follies serve to show
every man more or less ridiculous, just as a false sonnet makes
sonneteering jejune.’

Lent opened, therefore, with omens; and with more came Lady
Day and the new year. The Gordons, being summoned, did not
answer; the Gordons, then, were put to the horn. The Queen was
bitter as winter against them, with no desire but to have them at her
knees. As for lovers and their loves, after George Gordon, after the
crowning shame of Monsieur de Châtelard, ice-girdled Artemis was
not chaster than she. My Lord of Bothwell, after an essay or two,
shrugged and sought the border; the Queen was all for high
alliances just now, and Mr. Secretary, their apostle, was in favour. He
was hopeful, as he told Mary Fleming, to see two Queens at York;
and who could say what might not come of that? And while fair
Fleming wondered he was most hopeful, for like a delicate tree he
needed genial air to make him bud. You saw him at such seasons at
his best—a shrewd, nervous man, with a dash of poetry in him. The
Queen of England always inspired him; he was frequently eloquent
upon the theme. His own Queen talked freely about her ‘good sister,’
wrote her many civil letters, and treasured a few stately replies. One
wonders, reading them now, that they should have found warmer
quarters than a pigeon-hole, that they could ever have lain upon
Queen Mary’s bosom and been beat upon by her ardent heart. Yet
so it was. They know nothing of Queen Mary who know her not as
the Huntress, never to be thrown out by a cold scent. Mr. Secretary,
knowing her well, harped as long as she would dance. ‘Ah, madam,
there is a golden trader! Thence you may win an argosy indeed.
What a bargain to be struck there! Sister kingdoms, sister queens—
oh, if the Majesty of England were but lodged in a man’s heart! But
so in essence it is. Her royal heart is like a strong fire, leaping within
a frame of steel. And your Grace’s should be the jewel which that
fire would guard, the Cor Cordis, the Secret of the Rose, the
Sweetness in the Strong!’
Mary Fleming, glowing to hear such periods, saw her mistress
catch light from them.
‘You speak well and truly,’ said Queen Mary. ‘I would I had the
Queen of England for my husband; I would love her well.’ She spoke
softly, blushing like a maiden.
‘Sister and spouse!’ cries Lethington with ardour. ‘Sister and
spouse!’
For the sake of some such miraculous consummation she gave up
all thoughts of Don Carlos, put away the Archduke, King Charles, the
Swedish prince. Her sister of England should marry her how she
would. Lethington, on the day it was decided that Sir James Melvill
should go to London upon the business, knelt before his sovereign in
a really honest transport, transfigured in the glory of his own fancy.
‘I salute on my knees the Empress of the Isles! I touch the sacred
stem of the Tree of the New World!’
Very serious, very subdued, very modest, the Queen cast virginal
eyes to her lap.
‘God willing, Mr. Secretary, I will do His pleasure in all things,’ she
said.
The Lord James, observing her melting mood, made a stroke for
the Earldom of Moray. Were the Gordons to defy the Majesty of
Scotland? With these great hopes new born, with old shames dead
and buried—never, never! The Queen said she would go to the North
and hound the Gordons out.
 CHAPTER VII
GORDON’S BANE

On the morning of Lammas Day the Queen heard mass in the

Chapel Royal with a special intention, known only to herself. Red
mass it should have been, since she felt sore need of the Holy
Ghost; but she had given up the solemn ornament of music for the
sake of peace. So Father Lesley read the office before the very few
faithful: her maids, Erskine, Herries, the esquires, the pages, the
French Ambassador, the Ambassador of Savoy—with him a certain
large, full-blooded Italian, of whom there will be something to say
anon. Mr. Knox had been scaring off the waverers of late: the
Catholic religion was languid in the realm.
She knelt before the altar on her faldstool very stiffly, and looked
more solitary than she felt. Her high mood and high endeavour still
holding, there was but one man in Scotland who could make her feel
her isolation, make her pity herself so nearly that the tears filled her
eyes. Her brother James and his party, ostentatiously aloof, she
could reckon with. All was said of them long ago by that old friend of
hers now facing God in the mass: ‘Your brother stands on the left of
your throne; but he looks for ever to the right.’ With this key to the
cipher of my Lord James, what mystery in his sayings or doings?
Then the grim Mr. Knox, who had worked her secret desires, and
since then railed at her, scolded her, made her cry—she had his
measure too. He liked her through all, and she trusted him in spite
of all: at a pinch she could win him over. Whom, then, need she
consider? The Earl of Bothwell—ah, the Earl of Bothwell, who
laughed at everything, and had looked drolly on at her efforts to be
a queen, and chosen to do nothing to help or hinder: there was a
man to be feared indeed! She never knew herself less a queen or
more a girl than when he was before her. Laughed he or frowned,
was he eloquent or dumb as a fish, he intimidated her, diminished
her, drove her cowering into herself to queen it alone. Christ was not
so near, God not so far off, as this confident, free-living, shameless
lord. Therefore now, because she dared not falter in what she was
about to do, or see herself less than she desired to be, she had sent
him into Liddesdale to hold the Justice-Court, and had not cared
even to receive him when he came to take his leave. Lady Argyll,
who had stood in her place, reported that he had gone out gaily,
humming a French air. With him safely away, she had faced her duty
—duty of a Prince, as she conceived it. And here she knelt in prayer,
prone before the Holy Ghost—solitary (but that is the safeguard of
the King!)—and searched the altar for a sign of assurance.
Over that altar hung Christ, enigmatic upon His cross. The red
priest bent his head down to his book, and made God apace.
The Queen’s lips moved. ‘My Saviour Christ, I offer Thee the
intention of my heart, a clean oblation. If I do amiss in error, O
Bread of Heaven, visit it not upon me. I have been offended, I have
been disobeyed; they call upon me to claim my just requital. But be
not Thou offended with me, my Lord, and pardon Thou my
disobedience. As for my punishment, I suffer it in seeking to punish.’
It is not often that women pray in words: an urgency, a
subjection, a passionate reception is the most they do—and the
best. But she prayed so now, because she felt the need of justifying
herself before Heaven, and the ability to do it. For Bothwell was in
far Liddesdale, and she on her throne.
In three days’ time she was to go to the North; and, though the
country knew it not, she would go in force to punish the Gordons.
You may judge by her prayers whether she was satisfied with the
work. Plainly she was not. Her anger had had time to cool; she
might have forgotten the very name of the clan, except that their
men had had honest faces, and that two of them had certainly loved
her once. But she had not been allowed to forget: the record
remained, held up ever before her eyes in the white hand of Lord
James. Contumacy! Contumacy! Old Huntly had been traitor before,
when he trafficked with the enemies of her mother, and tried to sell
herself to the English king. The Gordons would not surrender; they
had mated with the Hamiltons, a stock next to hers for the throne.
Was there not a shameful plot here? Would she not be stifled
between these two houses? Yes, yes, she knew all that. But they
were Catholics, they had shown her honest faces, two of them had
loved her. She was not satisfied; she must have a sign from heaven.
God was made, the bell proclaimed Him enthroned, Queen Mary
bowed her head. Now, now, if the Gordons were true men, let God
make a sign! The tale was told that once, when a priest lifted up the
Host above his head, the thin film dissolved, and took flesh in the
shape of a naked child, who stood, burning white, upon the man’s
two hands. Let some such marvel fall now! Intimacies between God
and the Prince had been known. She hid her face, laid down her
soul; the vague swam over her, the dark—a swooning, drowning
sense. In that, for a moment, as vivid clouds chased each other
across her field, she saw a face, a shape—mocking red mouth,
vivacious, satirical hands, the gleam of two twinkling eyes: Bothwell,
hued like a fiend, shadowing the world. She shuddered; God passed
over, as the bell called up the people. With them she lifted her head,
stiffened herself. The spell was broken. Without being more
superstitious than her brethren, she may be pardoned for finding in
this experience an ominous beginning of adventure.
Nevertheless, she so faced the heights of her task that, on the day
appointed, she set out as bravely as to a hunting of stags. Jeddart
pikes, bowmen from the Forest, her Lothian bodyguard—she had
some five hundred men about her; too many for a progress, too few
to make war. She herself rode in hunting trim, with two maids, two
pages, two esquires; her brother, of course, in command; with him,
of course, the Secretary. At fixed points along the road certain lords
joined her: Atholl at Stirling, Glencairn and Ruthven at Perth, these
with their companies. Lying at Coupar-Angus, at Glamis, at Edzell,
her spirits rose as she breasted the rising country, saw the cloud-
shadowed hills, the swollen rivers, the wind-swept trees, the sullen
moors, the rocks. She grew happy even, for motion, newness, and
physical exertion always excited her, and she was never happy
unless she was excited. No fatigue daunted her. She sat out the
driving days of rain, bent neither to the heat nor to the cold fog. She
was always in front, always looking forward, seemed like the keen
breath of war, driven before it as the wind by a rain-storm.
Lethington likened her to Diana on Taygetus shrilling havoc; but the
Lord James said: ‘Such similitudes are distasteful. We are serious
men upon a serious business.’ She rode astraddle like a young man,
longed for a breastplate and steel bonnet. She made Ruthven
exercise her with the broadsword, teach her to stamp her foot and
cry, ‘Ha! a touch!’ and cajoled her brother into letting her sleep one
night afield. Folded in a military plaid, so indeed she did; and
watched with thrills the stars shoot their autumn flights, and listened
to the owls calling each other as they coursed the shrew-mice over
the moor. She pillowed her head on Mary Livingstone’s knee at last,
and fell asleep at about three o’clock in the morning.
In the grey mirk—sharply cold, and a fine mist drizzling—
Lethington and his master came to rouse her. Mary Livingstone lifted
a finger of warning. The Queen was soundly asleep, smiling a little,
with parted lips and the hasty breathing of a child. Mary Seton, too,
was deep, her face buried in her arm. The two men looked down at
the group.
‘Come away, my lord: give them time,’ said the Secretary.
But my Lord James did not hear him. He stood broodingly,
muttering to himself: ‘A girl’s frolic—this romping, fond girl! And
Scotland’s neck for her footstool—and earnest men for her pastime.
O King eternal, is it just? Man!’ he said aloud, ‘there’s no reason in
this.’
Mr. Secretary misunderstood him, not observing his wild looks.
‘Give them a short half-hour, my lord. There are two of them
sleeping; and this poor watcher hath the need of it.’
The Lord James turned upon him. ‘Who sought to have women
sleeping here? Are men to wait for the like of this? Are men to wait
for ever? She should have counted the cost. I shall waken her. Ay!
let her have the truth.’
 ‘She will wake soon enough,’ says Lethington, ‘and have the truth
soon enough.’
The Lord James gave him one keen glance. ‘I command here, Mr.
Secretary, under the Queen’s authority. Bid them sound.’
The trumpet rang; the Queen stretched herself, moved her head,
yawned, and sat up. She was wide awake directly, laughed at
Livingstone for looking so glum, at Seton’s tumbled hair. She kissed
them both, said her prayers with Father Roche, and was ready when
the order to march was given.
When she came to Aberdeen she was told that a messenger from
the Earl of Huntly was waiting for her with his chief’s humble duty,
and a prayer that she would lodge in his castle of Strathbogie. This
was very insolent or very foolish: she declined to receive the man.
Let the Earl and his son Findlater render themselves up at Stirling
Castle forthwith, she would receive them there. No more tidings
came directly; but she learned from her brother news of the country
which made her cheeks tingle. It was the confident belief of all the
Gordon kindred, she was given to know, that her Majesty had come
into the North to marry Sir John Gordon of Findlater. He was to be
created Earl of Moray and Duke of Rothesay to that end. True news
or false, she was in the mood to believe it, and cried out, with hot
tears in her eyes, that she could have no peace until that rogue’s
head was off. Needing no prompter at her side, she took instant
action, marched on Inverness and summoned the keys of the castle.
They told her that the Lord of Findlater was keeper; none could
come in but by his leave. Findlater! But the man was out of his
mind! She grew very quiet when, after many repetitions of it, she
could bring herself to believe this report; then she sent for
Lethington and bade him raise the country. The counsel was her
brother’s, and meant that the clans—Forbeses, Grants, MacIntoshes
—were to be supported and turned against the Gordons. The Lord
James considered that his work was as good as done. So did the
captain of the castle of Inverness; and rightly, for when his charge
was surrendered he was hanged. The town did its best to appease
the Queen with humble addresses and crocks full of gold pieces; but
she concealed from nobody now that she had come up with war in
her hands. Captains and their levies were sent for from the south;
roads marked out for Kirkcaldy of Grange, Lord John Stuart, Hay of
Ormiston; rendezvous given at Aberdeen. And presently she went
down to meet them, full of the purpose she had.
Old Huntly came out to watch. They saw his men, some hundred
or more, in loose order at the ford of Spey. Queen Mary’s heart leapt
for battle, real crossing of swords to crown all this feigning and
waiting; but the enemy drew off to the woods, and nobody barred
her road to Aberdeen. Uncomfortably for herself, she lodged at
Spynie on the way, where Bishop Patrick of Moray made her very
welcome. He was Lord Bothwell’s uncle, true Hepburn, a scapegrace
old Catholic, anathema to the good Lord James, and proud of it.
Something of Bothwell’s gleam was in his cushioned eyes, something
of Bothwell’s infectious gaiety in his rich laugh. Like Bothwell, too, he
was a mocker, who saw things sacred and profane a uniform,
ridiculous drab, shrugged at the ruin of the faith in Scotland, and
supposed Huntly had been paid to be a traitor. The Queen’s fine
temper made her sensitive to depreciation of the things she strove
at; under such rough fingers she was bruised. She felt cheapened by
her intercourse with this bishop; and not only so, but her business
sickened her. The old pagan made light of it.
‘’Tis but a day in the hedgerows for ye, madam. Send your terriers
—Lethington and siclike—into the bury, you shall see the Gordons
bolt to your nets like rabbits, and old Huntly squealing loudest of all.’
Now, the Gordons had been fair in her sight, noble friends and
hardy foes. But if George Gordon was to squeal like a rabbit, then
war was playing at soldiers, and she a tomboy out for a romp. She
left Spynie feeling that she hated the Gordons, hated their fault,
hated their chastisement, and hated above all men under the tent-
roof of heaven the whole race of Hepburn.
‘Vile, vile scoffers at God and His vicars! They make a toy of me,
these Hepburns. Uncle and nephew—I am a plaything for them.’
 ‘Just a Honeypot, madam,’ said Livingstone, and was snapped at
for her respect.
‘Am I “Madam” to you now? What have I done to make you so
petulant?’
‘I wish you would be more “Madam” to the Hepburns,’ replied the
maid. ‘I could curse the whole brood of them.’

John Gordon defended two good castles, Findlater and

Auchindoune. He expected, and was prepared for, a siege; but when
the reinforcements came up from the Lowlands, somewhat to his
consternation the Queen joined them at Aberdeen and hung about
that region indefinitely, as if the autumn were but begun. Perhaps
the suspense, the menace, told on old Huntly’s nerves; at any rate,
something brought him to his knees. He sent petition after petition,
promise upon promise; was reported by Ormiston to be very much
aged, tremulous, given to sobbing, and when not so engaged,
incoherent. This worthy went to Strathbogie, hoping to surprise him;
failed to find him at home, but saw the Countess and a young girl,
strangely beautiful, the Lady Jean, sole unmarried daughter of the
house. The Countess took him into the chapel.
‘Do you see that, Captain Hay?’ says she.
‘What in particular, ma’am?’
There were lighted candles on the altar, a cross, the priest’s
vestments of cloth of gold laid ready. She pointed to these
adornments.
‘There is why they hunt us down, Captain Hay, because my lord is
a faithful Christian gentleman. And woe,’ cried she, ‘woe upon her
who, following wicked counsels, persecutes her own holy religion! It
had been better for her that she had never been born. Tell your
mistress that. Tell her that Gordon’s bane is her own bane. Ah, tell
her that.’
 He repeated the piece to the Queen in council, and she received it
in a cold silence, looking furtively round about her at the lords
present, for all the world (says Hay of Ormiston) as if she would see
whether they believed the words or not. Her brother sat on her left,
Morton the Chancellor on her right; Argyll was there, Ruthven,
Atholl, Cassilis, Eglinton. Not one of them looked up from the table,
or saw her anxious peering. Atholl whispered Cassilis without moving
his head, and Cassilis nodded and stared on. What did she think
during that constrained silence? Gordon’s bane her own bane! Could
it be true? Perhaps the gibe of old Bishop Hepburn came to her
timely help: ‘Rabbits in a bury, and old Huntly squealing first and
loudest.’
She threw up her head, like a fretful horse. ‘My lords,’ she said in
her ringing, boyish voice, ‘you have heard the message sent me by
the Countess of Huntly. I am not of her mind. Gordon has tried to be
my bane, but is not so now. I think Gordon’s bane is Gordon’s self,
and fear not what he can do against me. And if not I, why need you
fear? Take order now, how best to make an end of it all.’ Order was
taken.
Huntly was summoned before the council, and sent his wife. The
Queen would not see her. The royal forces moved out of Aberdeen;
John Gordon cut to pieces an outlying party; then the Earl joined
hands with his son, and the pair marched on Aberdeen. The fight
was on the rolling hills of Corrichie, down in the swampy valley
between, over and up a burn. Their cry of ‘Aboyne! Aboyne!’ bore
the Gordons into battle; their pride made them heroic; their pride
caused them to fall. It was a case, one of the first, of the ordnance
against the pipes. No gallantry—and they were gallant; no screaming
of music, no slogan nor sword-work, nor locking of arms, could hold
out against Kirkcaldy’s cannon or Lord James’s horse. They huddled
about their standard and so died; some few fled into the lonely hills;
but Huntly was taken, and two of his tall sons, and all three brought
to the Queen. John of Findlater and Adam were in chains; the old
man needed none, for he was dead. They say that when he was
taken he was frantic, struggled with his captors to the last, induced
so an apoplexy, stiffened and died in their arms. They guessed by
the weight of him that he was dead. All this they told her. She
neither looked at the body nor chose to see the two prisoners;
received the news in dull silence. ‘Where is the Lord Gordon?’ She
did ask that; and was told that he had not been engaged.
‘Coward as well as traitor,’ she gloomed; ‘what else is left him to
adorn?’
‘Madam, tumbril and gallows,’ croaked Ruthven, like a hoody crow.
Next morning she awoke utterly disenchanted of the whole affair.
Nothing would content her but to be quit of it. ‘I seem to smell of
blood and filthy reek,’ she said to her brother James. ‘Take what
measures you choose. Ruin the ruins to your heart’s content. The
house was Catholic, and I suppose the stones and mortar are
abominable in your eyes. Pull them down; do as you choose—but let
me go.’
He asked her desire concerning the prisoners. This caught villain
Findlater, for instance.
‘You seek more blood?’ she asked bitterly. ‘Take his, then. He has
had his fill of it in his day; now let him afford you a share.’
Adam Gordon? She took fire at his name. ‘You shall not touch a
hair of his head. I do not choose—I will not suffer it. He is for me to
deal with.’
He swore that she should be obeyed; but she called in Lethington,
and put the lad in his personal charge, to be brought after her to
Stirling. At this time Lethington was the only man she could trust.
Lastly, her brother hinted at the reward of his humble services to
her realm.
‘Oh, yes, yes, brother, you shall have your bonny earldom. God
knows how you have wrought for it. But if you keep me here one
more hour, I declare I shall bestow it on Mr. Secretary.’
 He thanked her, saying that he hoped to deserve such
condescension by ever closer attention to her business. She chafed
and fidgeted till he was gone, then set about her escape. With a
very small escort, she pushed them to the last extreme in her
anxiety to be south.
There should have been something of the pathetic in this struggle
of a girl to get out of throne-room and council-chamber; one might
almost hear the shrilling of wings; but Scots gentlemen fearful of
their treadings must be excused for disregarding it. They told her at
Dundee that the Duke of Châtelherault lay there, awaiting her
censures. Hateful reminder!
‘What can he want with me at such an hour, in such a place as
this?’
‘Madam, it is for his son-in-law’s sake he hath come so far.’
She flamed forth in her royalest rage. ‘Is the Lord Gordon so poor
in heart? Can he not beg for himself? Can he not lie? Can he not
run? He can hide himself, I know, while his kinsmen take the field.
Let him learn to whine also, and then he will be armed cap-à-pie.’
The old Duke was refused: let the Lord Gordon surrender himself at
Stirling Castle.
Thither went she, shivering in the cold which followed her late
fires; and sat in the kingly seat to make an end of the Gordons.
Thither then came the young lord whom she had once chosen to
bewitch, walking upright, without his sword. He could not take his
eyes from her face when he stood before her; nor could she restrain
her fury, though many were present; no, but she leaned forward,
holding by the balls of the chair, and drove in her hateful words
fiercely and quick.
‘Ah, false heart, you dare to meet me at last!’
He said, ‘I have offended you, and am here at your mercy.’
‘What mercy for a liar?’
‘There should be none.’
 ‘For a disobedient servant?’
‘None, madam, none.’
‘For a craven that hides when war is adoing?’
He answered her steadily. ‘Whether is that man the greater
coward who fears such taunts as these, and for fear of them does
hardily; or he that refuses to draw sword upon his sovereign, though
she throw in his face his refusal? If I was able to dare your enmity, it
is a small thing to me that now I must have your scorn. There is no
man in this place shall call me craven; but from your Majesty I care
not to receive the name, because I am proud to have deserved it.’
This was well spoken, had she not been too fretful to know it.
‘Do you think, sir,’ cried she, ‘to scold me? Do you think me so
light as to forget? I am of longer memory than you. Trust Gordon,
said you! Trust Gordon? I would as lief trust Judas that sold his
master, or Zimri that slew his.’
 Young Gordon held his peace, not knowing how to wrangle with a
woman. At the door there was some commotion—hackbutters
looking about for orders, the captain of the guard forbidding the
entry, his hand uplifted to shut men out. They told her that Lady
Huntly was there.
‘Let her in,’ says the Queen. ‘I will show her this son of hers.’
The widow came, feeling her way down the hall; distracted with
grief, using her hands like a blind man. Beside her, really leading her,
was a tall girl, exceedingly handsome, dark-haired, pale, with proud,
shut lips. She looked before her, at nothing in particular—neither at
the young Queen stormy on her throne, nor at the circle of watchful
men about her, nor at her brother’s bowed head, nor at the full
doorways. She saw nothing, seemed to take no part, to feel no
shame. Except the Queen only, she seemed the youngest there; with
the Queen, whose eyes she held from the beginning, she was the
only girl among these grim-regarding men.
‘Who is that? Who is that girl?’ the Queen asked Lethington,
without ceasing to look.
‘Madam, it is the Lady Jean Gordon.’
‘She has a frozen look, then. Why does she not see me? Is she
blind?’
‘They say she is proud, madam.’
‘Proud? What, to be a Gordon?’
She watched her the whole time of the process, finding her a cold
copy of her brother, admitting freely her great beauty, admiring
(while she grudged) her impassivity. She herself was all on edge,
quivering and intense as a blown flame, her face hued like the dawn,
her eyes frosty bright. The other was so still! But the Queen was
never quiet. Her eyelids fluttered, the wings of her nose; her foot
tapped the stool; she saw everything, heard every breath. Jean
Gordon had no colour, and might have been carved in stone—a
sightless, patient and dumb goddess, staring forward out of a temple
porch. Huddling in her great chair, resting her chin on her hand, her
elbow on her knee, Queen Mary watched her closely, sensing an
enemy; and all this while Lady Huntly called upon God and man to
testify to Gordon’s bane.
‘Malice,’—thus she ended her wailing,—‘Malice hath wrought this
woe; far-reaching, insatiable malice! There was one that craved a
fair earldom, and another the fair trappings of a house: there was
one must have the land, and another the good blood. Foul fare they
all—they have their desires in this world! Where is Huntly? He is
dead. Where is my fine son John? Dead! dead! Where is Adam, my
pretty boy? Fetters on his ankles, madam, the rats at his young
knees. Come, come, come: you shall have all the Gordons. There
you have the heir, and here the widow, and here the fatherless lass.
Let them plead for your mercy if they care. I have no voice left but a
cry, and no tears but bloody tears. What should I weep but blood?’
The Queen still looked at Jean Gordon. ‘Do you plead, mistress?’
she asked her.
‘I do not, madam.’
She turned unwillingly to Gordon. ‘What do you plead, sir?’
‘Nothing, madam.’
She flew out at them all. ‘Insolence! This is not to be borne. You
think to save your faces by this latter pride. You should have been
proud before—proud enough not to promise and to lie. You expect
me to be humble, to sue you to plead! If my mercy is not worth your
asking, it is not worth your receiving. My Lord Gordon, surrender
yourself to the law’s discretion. Madam, you gain nothing by your
reproaches; and you, young mistress, nothing by your silence. The
council is dissolved.’
Lord Gordon walked into ward. The Queen told Lethington that all
the forms of law must be observed; by which Lord Gordon’s
execution was to be understood.
 When she reached Holyrood she sent for Adam Gordon: this
shows you that a thaw had set in. She received him in private,
alone. This proves that she wanted something yet from the Gordons.
The lad stood shamefully by the door, red with shame, and by
shame made sullen. But the Queen had melted before he came; the
tears stood waiting in her eyes. ‘Oh, Adam, Adam Gordon, they have
hurt you! And you have hurt me!’ She held out her arms.
He looked at her askance, he fired up, he gulped a sob; and then
he jumped forward into the shelter of her and cried his heart out
upon her bosom. After a time of mothering and such-like, he sat by
her knee and told her everything.
His father’s exorbitant pride, Findlater’s ambitions, the clamours of
the clan and want of ready pence, had undone the house of Huntly.
Findlater was restless. He knew that the country would have him
chief; he knew that he was a better man than his father or the heir;
and old Huntly knew it too, and would never lag behind. His brother
Gordon, said Adam, was an honest man. For why? He had refused to
bear arms against her Majesty, when it came to that or ruin. That
hurt him so much with the kindred that he had gone away. If he was
a coward, Adam held, such cowardice was very noble courage. ‘And
be you sure, madam, from what I am telling you, that he loves you
over-well.’
‘He should love his wife, my child.’
‘His wife, indeed! Not he!’ cried Adam. ‘Why, he loved your
Majesty from the very first, and begged you to trust him. And should
he go back upon his word?’
‘Well,’ said the Queen, smiling, ‘maybe I will try him again.’
‘So please your Majesty, think of this,’ Adam said. ‘A man, they
say, weds with his hand. But he loves not with the hand.’
‘Would you wed with the hand, boy?’
He blushed. ‘I would, madam, if I must. But I would cut it off first.’
 The Queen was delighted with him. She asked about his sister—
was very curious. How old was his sister Jean? She was told.
Nineteen years! Younger than herself, then—and looking so much
older. Was she affianced? Not yet? What made the men such
laggards in the North? She looked proud and cold: was she so
indeed?
‘She is cold,’ says Adam, ‘until you warm her.’
‘A still girl,’ says the Queen.
And Adam, ‘Ay, deep and still.’
The Queen became pensive.
‘I think I might be pleased with her in time.’
Adam knew better. ‘No, no, madam. She is not one for your
Majesty.’
‘How so?’
‘Madam, so please your Majesty, when you love it is easy seen,
and when you hate also. All your heart beats in your face. But Jean
hides her heart. If she loves, you will never see it. If she hates, you
will never know it, until the time comes.’
‘And when should that be, Adam?’
‘Eh,’ says he, ‘when she has you fast and sure.’
This singular character attracted the Queen. She thought much of
Lady Jean Gordon, and for many days.

Hateful ceremonies were enacted over the ruins of the house of

Huntly. The old Earl in his coffin was set up in the Parliament-house
and indicted of his life’s offence: a brawling indeed in the quiet
garden of death. They flung shame upon the witless old head; they
stripped the heedless old body of the insignia it wore. The Queen
made a wry face when she heard of it.
 ‘Whose is the vulture-mind in this?’ she asked, but received no
reply from her stony brother. She bade them stop their nasty play
and deliver up the corpse to Lady Huntly to be buried. Then she
learned that the widow and her daughter and the condemned lord
had been present. She turned pale: ‘I had no hand in this—I had no
hand!’ she cried out breathlessly, and was for telling the mourners.
Adam Gordon told her that they would be very sure of it.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I will trust them to be as true-minded as thou.’
She shortly refused to allow Gordon’s execution, and told her
brother so.
‘You and your friends,’ said she, ‘have paddled your hands long
enough. Go you to your homes and wash. The Lord Gordon shall go
to Dunbar to await my pleasure.’
‘Tell him,’ she said to Adam, ‘that because he asked not his life I
give it him; and say also that I trust him to make no escape from
Dunbar. Remind him of his words to me aforetime. If I trust him
again he must not prove me a fool.’
They say that, at this pungent instance of royal clemency, Lady
Huntly broke down, fell before her, and would have kissed her feet.
The Queen whipped them under her gown.
‘Get up, madam. But get up! That is no place for the afflicted. You
do not see your daughter there.’
It was very true. Lady Jean stood, composed and serious.
‘How shall I find the way into that fenced heart?’ thinks the
Queen.
But now she turned her face eagerly towards England, whither, Mr.
Secretary Lethington assured her, ran an open, smiling road.
 CHAPTER VIII
THE DIVORCE OF MARY LIVINGSTONE
(To an Italian Air)

The ranging eye of the Muse, sweeping up the little with the big,
rediscerns Monsieur de Châtelard, like a derelict ladybird, tide-swept
into Scotland once more. It is true, unfortunately, that you have not
yet done with this poet, though the time is at hand.
He came warily pricking back in October; and, nosing here and
there, found a friend in a certain portly Italian gentleman, by name
Signior David, who professed to be deeply attached to him on very
short notice, and whose further employment was, discoverably, that
of foreign secretary to her Majesty. Needing alliances—for his
venture was most perilous—Monsieur de Châtelard had sought him
out; and found him writing in a garret, wrapped in ample fur. A cup
of spiced wine stood by him, a sword and toothpick lay to hand: no
Italian needs more. He was a fine, pink, fleshy man, with a red
beard, fluff of red hair in his ears, light eyelashes, blue eyes. His
hair, darker than his beard, was strenuous and tossed.
He was not very clean, but his teeth were admirable. Monsieur de
Châtelard, coming in with great ceremony, credentials in hand,
hoped that he might have the satisfaction of making Signior David a
present.
The Italian was franchise itself. ‘Per la Madonna, my lord, you may
make me many presents. I will tire you out at that pastime.’ He ran
his eye over the Marquis D’Elbœuf’s letter. ‘Aha, we have here
Monsieur de Châtelard, poet, and companion of princes! Sir,’ said he,
‘let two adventurous explorers salute each other. If I were not a
brave man I should not be here; still less would your honour. A
salute seems little testimony between two such champions. You are
Amadis, I am Splandian. We should embrace, Monsieur de
Châtelard.’
 They did; the poet was much affected. ‘I come with my life in my
hands, Signior David.’
‘Say, rather, on the tips of your fingers, dear sir!’
‘You see in me,’ continued the Frenchman, ‘a brave man. You said
as much, and I thank you. But you see more. You see a poet.’
‘Aha!’ cries the other, tapping his chest with one finger; ‘and here
is the little fellow who will sing your verses as merrily as you make
them.’
‘Allow me to perorate,’ says Monsieur de Châtelard. ‘You see also,
signore, a disgraced lover of the Queen, who nevertheless returns to
kiss the hand that smote him.’
‘Sanguinaccio! my good friend,’ Signior David replied: ‘I hope I
don’t see a fool.’
Monsieur de Châtelard considered this aspiration with that gravity
it deserved. He hesitated before he made answer. ‘I hope not,
Signior David,’ he said wistfully; ‘but, as a lover, I am in some doubt.
For a lover, as you very well know, is not (by the nature of his case)
many removes from a fool. He may be—he is—a divine fool. Fire has
touched his lips, to make him mad. He speaks—but what? Noble
folly! He does—but what? Glorious rashness!’
‘Undoubtedly,’ said the Italian. ‘But does he not know—when a
Queen is in the case—that he has a neck to be wrung?’
‘He knows nothing of such things. This is the sum of his
knowledge—I love! I love! I love!’
The Italian looked at him with calmness. ‘I speak for my nation,’
he said, ‘when I assure you that an Italian lover knows more than
that. He considers means, and ends too. Hungry he may be; but
how shall he be filled if you slit open his belly? He may be thirsty;
but if you cut his throat? However, I am speaking into the air. Let us
be reasonable. How can I serve you, dear sir?’
 ‘Signior David,’ says the poet, ‘I shall speak openly to you.
Howsoever brave a man may be, howsoever dedicated to impossible
adventure, there is one wind which, blowing through the forest,
must chill him to the heart. It is the wind of Indifference. By heaven,
sir, can you sing before mutes, or men maimed of their hands? And
how are you and I to do admirable things, if no one admires, or
cares whether we do them or not? The thought is absurd. Here, in
this grey Scotland, which is Broceliande, the enchanted forest hiding
my princess, I suffer acutely from my solitude. Formerly I had
friends; now I have none. Sir, I offer you my friendship, and ask
yours again. Be my friend. Thus you may serve me, if you will.’
The Italian took up the fringe of his beard and brushed his nose
with it. ‘I must know one little thing first. What do you want with
your enchanted princess in the middle of your forest? Everything?’
Monsieur de Châtelard opened wide his arms, strained them
forward, clasped them over his bosom, and hugged himself with
them.
‘Everything,’ he said; and the Italian nodded, and sank into
thought.
‘If I assist you to that, good sir,’ says he presently, looking at his
client, ‘it will be a very friendly act on my part.’
‘Sir,’ replied the Frenchman, ‘I require a friendly act.’
Signior David looked down, ever so lightly, at the jewel in his
hand, which the poet had put there. ‘But!’ and he raised his
eyebrows over it, ‘it will be impossible for future rhapsodists to
devise an act more friendly than this! It might be—I do not say that
it will be, for I am a simple scribe, as you see—it might be a
partaking which Achilles would never have allowed to Patroclus.’
‘But you, signore, are not Achilles,’ urged Monsieur de Châtelard.
The Italian shrugged. ‘I have not yet found Achilles in this
country; but many have offered themselves to be Patroclus. ‘Come,’
he added, with a pleasant grin, ‘Come, I will serve you. We will be
friends. For the moment I recommend discretion. Her Majesty
returned but two days ago, and is already in the midst of affairs.
This annoys her extremely. She thought she had done with business
and might begin her dancing. But I cannot think that she will dance
very long, the way matters are tending.’
Monsieur de Châtelard went away, to brace himself for the
opening scene of a new act. He came often back again to see his
friend, to submit to his judgment such and such a theory. How
should the lover encounter his mistress, against whose person he
had dared, but not dared enough, the storming of the sweet citadel?
Here was the gist of all his inquiry.
‘Show yourself, dear sir, show yourself!’ was his friend’s advice,
whose own tactics consisted in never showing himself and in making
his absence felt.
The Frenchman, finally, did show himself, with very little result one
way or the other. The Queen, occupied as she had been with
Huntly’s ruin, and now with the patching up of a comfortable
fragment out of it, hardly knew that he was there. This was the way
of it. A lightly-built young man with a bush of crimped hair sprang
out of the press in hall at the hour of the coucher, and fell upon his
knees. ‘Ha, Monsieur de Châtelard, you return?’ If she smiled upon
him, it was because she smiled on all the world when the world
allowed it.
‘Sovereign, the poor minstrel returns!’
‘I hope he will sing more tunefully. I hope he will follow the notes.’
‘All the notes of the gamut, Princess; faithfully and to the
utterance.’
She nods and goes her way, to think no more about him.
From this unsubstantial colloquy, the infatuated gentleman drew
the highest significance. Why, what are the notes of the chant which
a lover must follow? There is but one note; the air is a wailing
monotone: Hardiesse, Hardiesse, Hardiesse! O Queen, potent in
Cyprus, give your vassal effrontery!
Amantium iræ! She had hopes that the piping times were come,
with an air cleaner for the late storms. She had won back young
Adam Gordon, as you know, and sealed him to her by kisses and
tears. She had hopes of his elder brother, now a faithful prisoner at
Dunbar. James Earl of Moray proved a kinder brother than Lord
James Stuart had ever been; Ruthven was gorged, somnolent now,
like a sated eagle, above the picked bones of Huntly. Morton was at
Dalkeith, out of sight, out of mind; Mr. Secretary wrote daily to
England, where Sir James Melvill haggled with bridegrooms; Mr.
Knox reported his commission faithfully done. He had laboured, he
said, and not in vain. Her Majesty knew that the two lords, Bothwell
and Arran, had been reconciled. He took leave to say that, since her
expedition to the North, he had rarely seen a closer band of
friendship between two men, seeming dissimilar, than had been
declared to every eye between the Earls Arran and Bothwell.
The news was good, as far as it went; it made for the peace which
every sovereign lady must desire. So much she could tell Mr. Knox,
with truth and without trouble. But—but—the Earl of Bothwell came
not to the Court. He had been seen in town, in September, when she
was fast in the hills; he was now supposed to be at Hailes; had been
at Hamilton, at Dumbarton, at Bothwell in Clydesdale. Why should
he absent himself? If by staying away he hoped to be the more
present, he had his desire. The Queen grew very restless, and
complained of pains in the back. What he could have had to do with
these is not clear; but the day came very soon when she had a pain
in the side—his work.
That was a day when there was clamour in the quadrangle,
sudden rumour: the raving of a man, confused comment, starting of
horses, grounding of arms; the guard turned out. The Queen was at
prayers—which is more than can be said for the priest who should
have lifted up her suffrages; for if she prayed the mass through, he
did not. The poor wretch thought the Genevans were after him, and
his last office a-saying. Whatever she thought, Queen Mary never
moved, even though (as the fact was) she heard quick voices at the
chapel doors, and the shout, ‘Hold back those men!’
She found Lethington waiting in the antechapel when she entered
it. He was perturbed.
‘Well, Mr. Secretary, what have my loving subjects now on hand?’
He laughed his dismay. ‘Madam, here is come, with foam on his
lips, my Lord of Arran, the Duke’s son.’
‘Doth he foam so early?’ says she. ‘Give him a napkin, and I will
see him clean.’
Presently they admitted the disordered man, frowning and
muttering, much out of breath, and his hair all over his face.
Kirkcaldy of Grange held his arm; the Secretary and Lord Lindsay
hovered about him; through the half-open door there spied the
anxious face of Des-Essars.
‘Speak, my Lord Arran,’ says the Queen.
‘God save us all, I must, I must!’ spluttered Arran, and plunged
afresh upon his nightmare.
If that can be called speech which comes in gouts of words, like
tin gobbling of water from a neck too narrow, then Lord Arran
spoke. He wept also and slapped his head, he raved, he adjured
high God—all this from his two knees. Mystery! He had wicked lips
to unlock. He must reveal horrid fact, devilish machination,
misprision of treason! God knew the secret of his heart; God knew
he would meet that bloody man half-way. In that he was a sinner, let
him die the death. Oh, robber, curious robber! To dare that sacred
person, to encompass it with greedy hands—robbery! God is not to
be robbed—and who shall dare rob the King, anointed of God? Such
a man would steal the Host from the altar. Sorcery! sorcery! sorcery!
When he stopped to gasp and roll his eyeballs in their sockets, the
Queen had her opportunity. She was already fatigued, and hated
noises at any time. ‘Hold your words, my lord, I beg of you. Who is
your bloody man? Who steals from a king, and from what king steals
he? Who is your sorcerer, and whom has he bewitched? Yourself, by
chance?’
Arran turned her the whites of his eyes—a dreadful apparition.
‘The Earl of Bothwell’—he spoke it in a whisper—‘the Earl of Bothwell
did beguile me.’
‘Then I think he did very idly,’ said the Queen. ‘He has been
profuse of his sorcery. Tell your tale to the Lord of Lethington, and
spare me.’
And away she went in a pet. Let the Earl of Bothwell come to her
or not, she did not choose to get news of him through a fool.
Yet the fool had had seed for his folly. He was examined, produced
witnesses; and his story bore so black a look that the council
confined him on their own discretion until the Queen’s pleasure
could be known. Then her brother, Mr. Secretary and others came
stately into her cabinet with their facts. Mr. Knox, said they, had
waited upon the Earl of Bothwell to urge a reconciliation with Lord
Arran. The Hepburn had been very willing, had laughed a good deal
over the cause of enmity—a kiss to a pretty woman, etc.—in a
friendly manner. The two lords had met, certain overtures were
made and accepted. Very well; her Majesty had observed with what
success Mr. Knox had done his part. But wait a little! Friendship grew
apace, until at last it seemed that the one Earl cared not to lose
sight of the other. Incongruous partnership! but there were reasons.
A few weeks later my Lord of Bothwell invites his friend to supper,
and then and there proposes the ravishment of the Queen’s person
—no less a thing!
At this point of the recital her hand, which had been very fidgety,
went up to her lip, pinched and held it.
‘Continue, my lord,’ she said, ‘but—continue!’
‘I am slow to name what I have been slow to believe,’ says my
lord of Moray, conscious of his new earldom, ‘and yet I can show
your Majesty the witness.’
 The plan had been to surprise her on her way from Perth to the
South, take her to Hamilton, and marry her there by force to the Earl
of Arran. Bothwell was to have been made Chancellor for his share.
He had asked no greater reward. The Queen looked down to her lap
when she heard this. What more? My lord of Arran concealed his
alarms for the moment, and told no one; but the secrecy, the weight
of the burden, worked upon him until he could not bear himself.
Before the plot was ripe he had confessed it to half-a-dozen persons.
Bothwell threatened him ravenously; his mind gave way—hence his
frantic penance. Here was a budget of treason for the Queen to take
in her hands, and ponder, wildly and alone. Alone she pondered it, in
spite of all the shocked elders about her.
If he had done it! If he had—if he had! Ah, the adventure of it,
the rush of air, the pounding horse, and the safe, fierce arms! Marry
her to Arran, forsooth, and possess her at his magnificent leisure: for
of course that was the meaning of it. Arran and his Hamiltons were
dust in the eyes of Scotland, but necessary dust. He could not have
moved without them. Thus, then, it was planned—and oh! if he had
done it! So well had she learned to school her face that not a man of
them, watching for it, expecting it, could be sure for what it was that
her heart beat the tattoo, and that the royal colours ran up the staff
on the citadel, and flew there, straining to the gale. Was it maiden
alarm, was it queenly rage, that made her cheeks so flamy-hot? It
was neither: she knew perfectly well what it was. And what was she
going to do in requital of this scandalous scheme? None of them
knew that either; but she again knew perfectly well what she was
about. She was about to give herself the most exquisite pleasure in
life—to deal freely, openly, and as of right, with her secret joy; to
handle in the face of all men the forbidden thing, and to read into
every stroke she dealt her darling desire. None would understand
her pleasure, none could forbid it her; for none could under-read her
masked words. And her face, as glacial-keen as Athena’s, like
Antigone’s rapt for sacrifice; her thoughtful, reluctant eyes, her
patient smile, clasped hands, considered words—a mask, a mask!