Konrad's hand. Konrad as he grasped the weapon, felt
his spirits rise again, and he followed.

Presently they came to a group of masked men, and silently the party
went through a private door in the city walls. Their destination, though
Konrad knew it not, was the lonely house of the Kirk of Field, where
Darnley was lying slowly recovering from small-pox--an illness through
which the queen, forgetting her wrongs at his hands, had tenderly nursed
him.

Konrad, arrived at the house, helped to unload a horse of heavy packages
which he conjectured to contain plunder; but it was gunpowder that he
unwittingly handled.

Suddenly a piercing cry came from above. A moment later the startled
Konrad perceived Bothwell, his mask awry, his eyes glazed and haggard.

"Thou hast done well!" said Ormiston grimly.

"Well! My God!" groaned the earl.

"Away while I fire the train!" shouted Ormiston.

Like a fiery serpent the train glowed along the ground. Then, red and
lurid in the shadowy night, there flashed a volume of dazzling light;
then came a roar as if the earth was splitting.

Konrad fled in bewildered terror, and wandered about the outskirts of
the city until, in a little ruined chapel on the verge of a moor, he lay
down exhausted and fell asleep.

In the morning he was awakened by a rough grasp on his shoulder.

"We have meshed one of the knaves at least," said a stern voice. Konrad
found himself amidst knights and men-at-arms, and he was led back to the
city.

The citizens were in arms, furious at the outrage of the night before.
The appearance of a suspected murderer aroused their passion to the
utmost; Konrad's escort was overpowered and thrust aside. "Awa' wi' him
to the Papist's pillar!" cried a voice. Down they went with him to the
North Loch, and tied him there to an oaken stake about five feet deep in
the water--a spot where many a luckless Catholic had perished. The mob
retired, and Konrad was left alone, helpless, and to die.

Bothwell sat by the fire in his apartments at Holyrood, with knit brows
and muttering lips; the word he muttered was, "Murderer." The shriek of
the man whose death-blow he had struck still echoed in his ears.

Presently there entered the room one of his followers, Hepburn of
Bolton.

"The Norwegian hath been bound to the Papist's pillar," said he; "and by
this time he must be dead, for it rains heavily, and the loch fills
fast."

"One other life!" said the earl gloomily. "By he