his room, he barricaded the door, and sat waiting for his fate.
It was not long in finding him. The tramp of steps sounded along the gallery; a voice summoned him to open. 'Who calls?' he cried. 'Leslie!' was the answer. 'Is it Norman?' he said. The Master of Rothes was but a boy, and he might hope to soften him. But Norman was below in the court; it was John, who had sworn to give Wishart's murderer the last sacrament with his poniard, and with him James Melville and Carmichael—names, both of them, of equally portentous omen.
The Cardinal did not move; the door was strong; and he cried out to know if they would spare his life. 'Perhaps,' Leslie answered. 'Nay,' exclaimed the wretched voice, 'but swear that you will; ' swear by God's wounds.' 'That which was said is unsaid,' shouted the avenger. He called for fire; a pan of burning charcoal was laid against the panels, and the crackling of the blazing wood soon told the hopelessness of resistance. A boy who was in the room drew back the bolts; the armed men strode in through the smoke, and their victim stood before them half-dressed and trembling. In the hard eyes and the drawn swords he read his doom. He sank back into a chair. 'I am a priest! I am a priest!' he said; 'ye will not slay me.' Leslie and Carmichael darted forward, without speaking, and each stabbed him. They drew back their arms to repeat their blows, when James Melville, 'being a man,' says Knox, 'of nature most gentle and modest,' per-
