Bothwell: Not of our minute—not of that, I say.
Mary: No, then, not of that.
- (Bothwell again takes her in his arms, she giving herself passionately. After a moment they part, as Mary Beaton's voice is heard)
Beaton (calling from without): Madam—Madam.
Mary: Yes, what is it?
Beaton: Madam.
Mary: Yes, yes—come in.
Beaton (entering): Madam, the King is crossing the yard—he may be coming here.
Mary (to Bothwell): You must go.
Bothwell: Why should we slink about for any king?
Mary: No—you must. There are confusions enough. (She looks out from the window.) Yes, he is coming. Go through the close—quickly. At midnight, remember.
- (Bothwell kisses her hand and goes)
Beaton: You play very dangerously, Madam.
Mary: Beaton, love should be lucky for you.
