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Mary Stuart

by Alexandre Dumas · English · Gutenberg #2744 · 429,919 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mary Stuart

Author: Alexandre Dumas


        
Release date: September 22, 2004 [eBook #2744]
                Most recently updated: November 27, 2016

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2744

Credits: Produced by David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MARY STUART ***




Produced by David Widger.





                             *MARY STUART*

                                  _By_

                        *Alexandre Dumas, Pere*

            _From the Eight Volume set "Celebrated Crimes"_


                                  1910




CONTENTS


    *MARY STUART--1587*
    CHAPTER I
    CHAPTER II
    CHAPTER III
    CHAPTER IV
    CHAPTER V
    CHAPTER VI
    CHAPTER VII
    CHAPTER VIII
    CHAPTER IX
    CHAPTER X




*MARY STUART--1587*




CHAPTER I


Some royal names are predestined to misfortune: in France, there is the
name "Henry". Henry I was poisoned, Henry II was killed in a tournament,
Henry III and Henry IV were assassinated. As to Henry V, for whom the
past is so fatal already, God alone knows what the future has in store
for him.

In Scotland, the unlucky name is "Stuart". Robert I, founder of the
race, died at twenty-eight of a lingering illness. Robert II, the most
fortunate of the family, was obliged to pass a part of his life, not
merely in retirement, but also in the dark, on account of inflammation
of the eyes, which made them blood-red. Robert III succumbed to grief,
the death of one son and the captivity of other. James I was stabbed by
Graham in the abbey of the Black Monks of Perth. James II was killed at
the siege of Roxburgh, by a splinter from a burst cannon. James III was
assassinated by an unknown hand in a mill, where he had taken refuge
during the battle of Sauchie. James IV, wounded by two arrows and a blow
from a halberd, fell amidst his nobles on the battlefield of Flodden.
James V died of grief at the loss of his two sons, and of remorse for
the execution of Hamilton. James VI, destined to unite on his head the
two crowns of Scotland and England, son of a father who had been
assassinated, led a melancholy and timorous existence, between the
scaffold of his mother, Mary Stuart, and that of his son, Charles I.
Charles II spent a portion of his life in exile. James II died in it.
The Chevalier Saint-George, after having been proclaimed King of
Scotland as James VIII, and of England and Ireland as James III, was
forced to flee, without having been able to give his arms even the
lustre of a defeat. His son, Charles Edward, after the skirmish at Derby
and the battle of Culloden, hunted from mountain to mountain, pursued
from rock to rock, swimming from shore to shore, picked up half naked by
a French vessel, betook himself to Florence to die there, without the
European courts having ever consented to recognise him as a sovereign.
Finally, his brother, Henry Benedict, the last heir of the Stuarts,
having lived on a pension of three thousand pounds sterling, granted him
by George III, died completely forgotten, bequeathing to the House of
Hanover all the crown jewels which James II had carried off when he
passed over to the Continent in 1688--a tardy but complete recognition
of the legitimacy of the family which had succeeded his.

In the midst of this unlucky race, Mary Stuart was the favourite of
misfortune. As Brantome has said of her, "Whoever desires to write about
this illustrious queen of Scotland has, in her, two very, large
subjects, the one her life, the other her death," Brantome had known her
on one of the most mournful occasions of her life--at the moment when
she was quitting France for Scotland.

It was on the 9th of August, 1561, after having lost her mother and her
husband in the same year, that Mary Stuart, Dowager of France and Queen
of Scotland at nineteen, escorted by her uncles, Cardinals Guise and
Lorraine, by the Duke and Duchess of Guise, by the Duc d'Aumale and M.
de Nemours, arrived at Calais, where two galleys were waiting to take
her to Scotland, one commanded by M. de Mevillon and the other by
Captain Albize. She remained six days in the town. At last, on the 15th
of the month, after the saddest adieus to her family, accompanied by
Messieurs d'Aumale, d'Elboeuf, and Damville, with many nobles, among
whom were Brantome and Chatelard, she embarked in M. Mevillon's galley,
which was immediately ordered to put out to sea, which it did with the
aid of oars, there not being sufficient wind to make use of the sails.

Mary Stuart was then in the full bloom of her beauty, beauty even more
brilliant in its mourning garb--a beauty so wonderful that it shed
around her a charm which no one whom she wished to please could escape,
and which was fatal to almost everyone. About this time, too, someone
made her the subject of a song, which, as even her rivals confessed,
contained no more than the truth. It was, so it was said, by M. de
Maison-Fleur, a cavalier equally accomplished in arms and letters: Here
it is:--

"In robes of whiteness, lo, Full sad and mournfully, Went pacing to and
fro Beauty's divinity; A shaft in hand she bore From Cupid's cruel
store, And he, who fluttered round, Bore, o'er his blindfold eyes And
o'er his head uncrowned, A veil of mournful guise, Whereon the words
were wrought: 'You perish or are caught.'"

Yes, at this moment, Mary Stuart, in her deep mourning of white, was
more lovely than ever; for great tears were trickling down her cheeks,
as, weaving a handkerchief, standing on the quarterdeck, she who was so
grieved to set out, bowed farewell to those who were so grieved to
remain.

At last, in half an hour's time, the harbour was left behind; the vessel
was out at sea. Suddenly, Mary heard loud cries behind her: a boat
coming in under press of sail, through her pilot's ignorance had struck
upon a rock in such a manner that it was split open, and after having
trembled and groaned for a moment like someone wounded, began to be
swallowed up, amid the terrified screams of all the crew. Mary,
horror-stricken, pale, dumb, and motionless, watched her gradually sink,
while her unfortunate crew, as the keel disappeared, climbed into the
yards and shrouds, to delay their death-agony a few minutes; finally,
keel, yards, masts, all were engulfed in the ocean's gaping jaws. For a
moment there remained some black specks, which in turn disappeared one
after another; then wave followed upon wave, and the spectators of this
horrible tragedy, seeing the sea calm and solitary as if nothing had
happened, asked themselves if it was not a vision that had appeared to
them and vanished.

"Alas!" cried Mary, falling on a seat and leaning both arms an the
vessel's stern, "what a sad omen for such a sad voyage!" Then, once more
fixing on the receding harbour her eyes, dried for a moment by terror,
and beginning to moisten anew, "Adieu, France!" she murmured, "adieu,
France!" and for five hours she remained thus, weeping and murmuring,
"Adieu, France! adieu, France!"

Darkness fell while she was still lamenting; and then, as the view was
blotted out and she was summoned to supper, "It is indeed now, dear
France," said she, rising, "that I really lose you, since jealous night
heaps mourning upon mourning, casting a black veil before my sight.
Adieu then, one last time, dear France; for never shall I see you more."

With these words, she went below, saying that she was the very opposite
of Dido, who, after the departure of AEneas, had done nothing but look
at the waves, while she, Mary, could not take her eyes off the land.
Then everyone gathered round her to try to divert and console her. But
she, growing sadder, and not being able to respond, so overcome was she
with tears, could hardly eat; and, having had a bed got ready on the
stern deck, she sent for the steersman, and ordered him if he still saw
land at daybreak, to come and wake her immediately. On this point Mary
was favoured; for the wind having dropped, when daybreak came the vessel
was still within sight of France.

It was a great joy when, awakened by the steersman, who had not
forgotten the order he had received, Mary raised herself on her couch,
and through the window that she had had opened, saw once more the
beloved shore. But at five o'clock in the morning, the wind having
freshened, the vessel rapidly drew farther away, so that soon the land
completely disappeared. Then Mary fell back upon her bed, pale as death,
murmuring yet once again--"Adieu, France! I shall see thee no more."

Indeed, the happiest years of her life had just passed away in this
France that she so much regretted. Born amid the first religious
troubles, near the bedside of her dying father, the cradle mourning was
to stretch for her to the grave, and her stay in France had been a ray
of sunshine in her night. Slandered from her birth, the report was so
generally spread abroad that she was malformed, and that she could not
live to grow up, that one day her mother, Mary of Guise, tired of these
false rumours, undressed her and showed her naked to the English
ambassador, who had come, on the part of Henry VIII, to ask her in
marriage for the Prince of Wales, himself only five years old. Crowned
at nine months by Cardinal Beaton, archbishop of St. Andrews, she was
immediately hidden by her mother, who was afraid of treacherous dealing
in the King of England, in Stirling Castle. Two years later, not finding
even this fortress safe enough, she removed her to an island in the
middle of the Lake of Menteith, where a priory, the only building in the
place, provided an asylum for the royal child and for four young girls
born in the same year as herself, having like her the sweet name which
is an anagram of the word "aimer," and who, quitting her neither in her
good nor in her evil fortune, were called the "Queen's Marys". They were
Mary Livingston, Mary Fleming, Mary Seyton, and Mary Beaton. Mary stayed
in this priory till Parliament, having approved her marriage with the
French dauphin, son of Henry II, she was taken to Dumbarton Castle, to
await the moment of departure. There she was entrusted to M. de Breze,
sent by Henry II to fetch her. Having set out in the French galleys
anchored at the mouth of the Clyde, Mary, after having been hotly
pursued by the English fleet, entered Brest harbour, 15th August, 1548,
one year after the death of Francis! Besides the queen's four Marys, the
vessels also brought to France three of her natural brothers, among whom
was the Prior of St. Andrews, James Stuart, who was later to abjure the
Catholic faith, and with the title of Regent, and under the name of the
Earl of Murray, to become so fatal to poor Mary. From Brest, Mary went
to St. Germain-en-Laye, where Henry II, who had just ascended the
throne, overwhelmed her with caresses, and then sent her to a convent
where the heiresses of the noblest French houses were brought up. There
Mary's happy qualities developed. Born with a woman's heart and a man's
head, Mary not only acquired all the accomplishments which constituted
the education of a future queen, but also that real knowledge which is
the object of the truly learned.

Thus, at fourteen, in the Louvre, before Henry II, Catherine de Medici,
and the whole court, she delivered a discourse in Latin of her own
composition, in which she maintained that it becomes women to cultivate
letters, and that it is unjust and tyrannical to deprive flowery of
their perfumes, by banishing young girls from all but domestic cares.
One can imagine in what manner a future queen, sustaining such a thesis,
was likely to be welcomed in the most lettered and pedantic court in
Europe. Between the literature of Rabelais and Marot verging on their
decline, and that of Ronsard and Montaigne reaching their zenith, Mary
became a queen of poetry, only too happy never to have to wear another
crown than that which Ronsard, Dubellay, Maison-Fleur, and Brantome
placed daily on her head. But she was predestined. In the midst of those
fetes which a waning chivalry was trying to revive came the fatal joust
of Tournelles: Henry II, struck by a splinter of a lance for want of a
visor, slept before his time with his ancestors, and Mary Stuart
ascended the throne of France, where, from mourning for Henry, she
passed to that for her mother, and from mourning for her mother to that
for her husband. Mary felt this last loss both as woman and as poet; her
heart burst forth into bitter tears and plaintive harmonies. Here are
some lines that she composed at this time:

    "Into my song of woe,
           Sung to a low sad air,
           My cruel grief I throw,
           For loss beyond compare;
           In bitter sighs and tears
           Go by my fairest years.

           Was ever grief like mine
           Imposed by destiny?
           Did ever lady pine,
           In high estate, like me,
           Of whom both heart and eye
           Within the coffin lie?

           Who, in the tender spring
           And blossom of my youth,
           Taste all the sorrowing
           Of life's extremest ruth,
           And take delight in nought
           Save in regretful thought.

           All that was sweet and gay
           Is now a pain to see;
           The sunniness of day
           Is black as night to me;
           All that was my delight
           Is hidden from my sight.

           My heart and eye, indeed,
           One face, one image know,
           The which this mournful weed
           On my sad face doth show,
           Dyed with the violet's tone
           That is the lover's own.

           Tormented by my ill,
           I go from place to place,
           But wander as I will
           My woes can nought efface;
           My most of bad and good
           I find in solitude.

           But wheresoe'er I stay,
           In meadow or in copse,
           Whether at break of day
           Or when the twilight drops,
           My heart goes sighing on,
           Desiring one that's gone.

           If sometimes to the skies
           My weary gaze I lift,
           His gently shining eyes
           Look from the cloudy drift,
           Or stooping o'er the wave
           I see him in the grave.

           Or when my bed I seek,
           And sleep begins to steal,
           Again I hear him speak,
           Again his touch I feel;
           In work or leisure,
           he is ever near to me.

           No other thing I see,
           However fair displayed,
           By which my heart will be
           A tributary made,
           Not having the perfection
           Of that, my lost affection.

           Here make an end, my verse,
           Of this thy sad lament,
           Whose burden shall rehearse
           Pure love of true intent,
           Which separation's stress
           Will never render less."

"It was then," says Brantome, "that it was delightful to see her; for
the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but
finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her
face vanquished the other. For it was thus," he adds, "that from the
moment she became a widow, I always saw her with her pale hue, as long
as I had the honour of seeing her in France, and Scotland, where she had
to go in eighteen months' time, to her very great regret, after her
widowhood, to pacify her kingdom, greatly divided by religious troubles.
Alas! she had neither the wish nor the will for it, and I have often
heard her say so, with a fear of this journey like death; for she
preferred a hundred times to dwell in France as a dowager queen, and to
content herself with Touraine and Poitou for her jointure, than to go
and reign over there in her wild country; but her uncles, at least some
of them, not all, advised her, and even urged her to it, and deeply
repented their error."

Mary was obedient, as we have seen, and she began her journey under such
auspices that when she lost sight of land she was like to die. Then it
was that the poetry of her soul found expression in these famous lines:

    "Farewell, delightful land of France,
     My motherland,
     The best beloved!
     Foster-nurse of my young years!
     Farewell, France, and farewell my happy days!
     The ship that separates our loves
     Has borne away but half of me;
     One part is left thee and is throe,
     And I confide it to thy tenderness,
     That thou may'st hold in mind the other part."'

_[Translator's note.-It has not been found possible to make a rhymed
version of these lines without sacrificing the simplicity which is their
chief charm.]_

This part of herself that Mary left in France was the body of the young
king, who had taken with him all poor Mary's happiness into his tomb.

Mary had but one hope remaining, that the sight of the English fleet
would compel her little squadron to turn back; but she had to fulfil her
destiny. This same day, a fog, a very unusual occurrence in summer-time,
extended all over the Channel, and caused her to escape the fleet; for
it was such a dense fog that one could not see from stern to mast. It
lasted the whole of Sunday, the day after the departure, and did not
lift till the following day, Monday, at eight o'clock in the morning.
The little flotilla, which all this time had been sailing haphazard, had
got among so many reefs that if the fog had lasted some minutes longer
the galley would certainly have grounded on some rock, and would have
perished like the vessel that had been seen engulfed on leaving port.
But, thanks to the fog's clearing, the pilot recognised the Scottish
coast, and, steering his four boats with great skill through all the
dangers, on the 20th August he put in at Leith, where no preparation had
been made for the queen's reception. Nevertheless, scarcely had she
arrived there than the chief persons of the town met together and came
to felicitate her. Meanwhile, they hastily collected some wretched nags,
with harness all falling in pieces, to conduct the queen to Edinburgh.

At sight of this, Mary could not help weeping again; for she thought of
the splendid palfreys and hackneys of her French knights and ladies, and
at this first view Scotland appeared to her in all its poverty. Next day
it was to appear to her in all its wildness.

After having passed one night at Holyrood Palace, "during which," says
Brantome, "five to six hundred rascals from the town, instead of letting
her sleep, came to give her a wild morning greeting on wretched fiddles
and little rebecks," she expressed a wish to hear mass. Unfortunately,
the people of Edinburgh belonged almost entirely to the Reformed
religion; so that, furious at the queen's giving such a proof of
papistry at her first appearance, they entered the church by force,
armed with knives, sticks and stones, with the intention of putting to
death the poor priest, her chaplain. He left the altar, and took refuge
near the queen, while Mary's brother, the Prior of St. Andrews, who was
more inclined from this time forward to be a soldier than an
ecclesiastic, seized a sword, and, placing himself between the people
and the queen, declared that he would kill with his own hand the first
man who should take another step. This firmness, combined with the
queen's imposing and dignified air, checked the zeal of the Reformers.

As we have said, Mary had arrived in the midst of all the heat of the
first religious wars. A zealous Catholic, like all her family on the
maternal side, she inspired the Huguenots with the gravest fears:
besides, a rumour had got about that Mary, instead of landing at Leith,
as she had been obliged by the fog, was to land at Aberdeen. There, it
was said, she would have found the Earl of Huntly, one of the peers who
had remained loyal to the Catholic faith, and who, next to the family of
Hamilton, was, the nearest and most powerful ally of the royal house.
Seconded by him and by twenty thousand soldiers from the north, she
would then have marched upon Edinburgh, and have re-established the
Catholic faith throughout Scotland. Events were not slow to prove that
this accusation was false.

As we have stated, Mary was much attached to the Prior of St. Andrews, a
son of James V and of a noble descendant of the Earls of Mar, who had
been very handsome in her youth, and who, in spite of the well-known
love for her of James V, and the child who had resulted, had none the
less wedded Lord Douglas of Lochleven, by whom she had had two other
sons, the elder named William and the younger George, who were thus
half-brothers of the regent. Now, scarcely had she reascended the throne
than Mary had restored to the Prior of St. Andrews the title of Earl of
Mar, that of his maternal ancestors, and as that of the Earl of Murray
had lapsed since the death of the famous Thomas Randolph, Mary, in her
sisterly friendship for James Stuart, hastened to add, this title to
those which she had already bestowed upon him.

But here difficulties and complications arose; for the new Earl of
Murray, with his character, was not a man to content himself with a
barren title, while the estates which were crown property since the
extinction of the male branch of the old earls, had been gradually
encroached upon by powerful neighbours, among whom was the famous Earl
of Huntly, whom we have already mentioned: the result was that, as the
queen judged that in this quarter her orders would probably encounter
opposition, under pretext of visiting her possessions in the north, she
placed herself at the head of a small army, commanded by her brother,
the Earl of Mar and Murray.

The Earl of Huntly was the less duped by the apparent pretext of this
expedition, in that his son, John Cordon, for some abuse of his powers,
had just been condemned to a temporary imprisonment. He,
notwithstanding, made every possible submission to the queen, sending
messengers in advance to invite her to rest in his castle; and following
up the messengers in person, to renew his invitation viva voce.
Unfortunately, at the very moment when he was about to join the queen,
the governor of Inverness, who was entirely devoted to him, was refusing
to allow Mary to enter this castle, which was a royal one. It is true
that Murray, aware that it does not do to hesitate in the face of such
rebellions, had already had him executed for high treason.

This new act of firmness showed Huntly that the young queen was not
disposed to allow the Scottish lords a resumption of the almost
sovereign power humbled by her father; so that, in spite of the
extremely kind reception she accorded him, as he learned while in camp
that his son, having escaped from prison, had just put himself at the
head of his vassals, he was afraid that he should be thought, as
doubtless he was, a party to the rising, and he set out the same night
to assume command of his troops, his mind made up, as Mary only had with
her seven to eight thousand men, to risk a battle, giving out, however,
as Buccleuch had done in his attempt to snatch James V from the hands of
the Douglases, that it was not at the queen he was aiming, but solely at
the regent, who kept her under his tutelage and perverted her good
intentions.

Murray, who knew that often the entire peace of a reign depends on the
firmness one displays at its beginning, immediately summoned all the
northern barons whose estates bordered on his, to march against Huntly.
All obeyed, for the house of Cordon was already so powerful that each
feared it might become still more so; but, however, it was clear that if
there was hatred for the subject there was no great affection for the
queen, and that the greater number came without fixed intentions and
with the idea of being led by circumstances.

The two armies encountered near Aberdeen. Murray at once posted the
troops he had brought from Edinburgh, and of which he was sure, on the
top of rising ground, and drew up in tiers on the hill slope all his
northern allies. Huntly advanced resolutely upon them, and attacked his
neighbours the Highlanders, who after a short resistance retired in
disorder. His men immediately threw away their lances, and, drawing
their swords, crying, "Cordon, Cordon!" pursued the fugitives, and
believed they had already gained the battle, when they suddenly ran
right against the main body of Murray's army, which remained motionless
as a rampart of iron, and which, with its long lances, had the advantage
of its adversaries, who were armed only with their claymores. It was
then the turn of the Cordons to draw back, seeing which, the northern
clans rallied and returned to the fight, each soldier having a sprig of
heather in his cap that his comrades might recognise him. This
unexpected movement determined the day: the Highlanders ran down the
hillside like a torrent, dragging along with them everyone who could
have wished to oppose their passage. Then Murray seeing that the moment
had come for changing the defeat into a rout, charged with his entire
cavalry: Huntly, who was very stout and very heavily armed, fell and was
crushed beneath the horses' feet; John Cordon, taken prisoner in his
flight, was executed at Aberdeen three days afterwards; finally, his
brother, too young to undergo the same fate at this time, was shut up in
a dungeon and executed later, the day he reached the age of sixteen.

Mary had been present at the battle, and the calm and courage she
displayed had made a lively impression on her wild defenders, who all
along the road had heard her say that she would have liked to be a man,
to pass her days on horseback, her nights under a tent, to wear a coat
of mail, a helmet, a buckler, and at her side a broadsword.

Mary made her entry into Edinburgh amid general enthusiasm; for this
expedition against the Earl of Huntly, who was a Catholic, had been very
popular among the inhabitants, who had no very clear idea of the real
motives which had caused her to undertake it: They were of the Reformed
faith, the earl was a papist, there was an enemy the less; that is all
they thought about. Now, therefore; the Scotch, amid their acclamations,
whether viva voce or by written demands, expressed the wish that their
queen, who was without issue by Francis II, should re-marry: Mary agreed
to this, and, yielding to the prudent advice of those about her, she
decided to consult upon this marriage Elizabeth, whose heir she was, in
her title of granddaughter of Henry VII, in the event of the Queen of
England's dying without posterity. Unfortunately, she had not always
acted with like circumspection; for at the death of Mary Tudor, known as
Bloody Mary, she had laid claim to the throne of Henry VIII, and,
relying on the illegitimacy of Elizabeth's birth, had with the dauphin
assumed sovereignty over Scotland, England, and Ireland, and had had
coins struck with this new title, and plate engraved with these new
armorial bearings.

Elizabeth was nine years older than Mary--that is to say, that at this
time she had not yet attained her thirtieth year; she was not merely her
rival as queen, then, but as woman. As regards education, she could
sustain comparison with advantage; for if she had less charm of mind,
she had more solidity of judgment: versed in politics, philosophy,
history; rhetoric, poetry and music, besides English, her maternal
tongue, she spoke and wrote to perfection Greek, Latin, French, Italian
and Spanish; but while Elizabeth excelled Mary on this point, in her
turn Mary was more beautiful, and above all more attractive, than her
rival. Elizabeth had, it is true, a majestic and agreeable appearance,
bright quick eyes, a dazzlingly white complexion; but she had red hair,
a large foot,--[Elizabeth bestowed a pair of her shoes on the University
of Oxford; their size would point to their being those of a man of
average stature.]--and a powerful hand, while Mary, on the contrary,
with her beautiful ashy-fair hair,--[Several historians assert that Mary
Stuart had black hair; but Brantome, who had seen it, since, as we have
said, he accompanied her to Scotland, affirms that it was fair. And, so
saying, he (the executioner) took off her headdress, in a contemptuous
manner, to display her hair already white, that while alive, however,
she feared not to show, nor yet to twist and frizz as in the days when
it was so beautiful and so fair.]--her noble open forehead, eyebrows
which could be only blamed for being so regularly arched that they
looked as if drawn by a pencil, eyes continually beaming with the
witchery of fire, a nose of perfect Grecian outline, a mouth so ruby red
and gracious that it seemed that, as a flower opens but to let its
perfume escape, so it could not open but to give passage to gentle
words, with a neck white and graceful as a swan's, hands of alabaster,
with a form like a goddess's and a foot like a child's, Mary was a
harmony in which the most ardent enthusiast for sculptured form could
have found nothing to reproach.

This was indeed Mary's great and real crime: one single imperfection in
face or figure, and she would not have died upon the scaffold. Besides,
to Elizabeth, who had never seen her, and who consequently could only
judge by hearsay, this beauty was a great cause of uneasiness and of
jealousy, which she could not even disguise, and which showed itself
unceasingly in eager questions. One day when she was chatting with James
Melville about his mission to her court, Mary's offer to be guided by
Elizabeth in her choice of a husband,--a choice which the queen of
England had seemed at first to wish to see fixed on the Earl of
Leicester,--she led the Scotch ambassador into a cabinet, where she
showed him several portraits with labels in her own handwriting: the
first was one of the Earl of Leicester. As this nobleman was precisely
the suitor chosen by Elizabeth, Melville asked the queen to give it him
to show to his mistress; but Elizabeth refused, saying that it was the
only one she had. Melville then replied, smiling, that being in
possession of the original she might well part with the copy; but
Elizabeth would on no account consent. This little discussion ended, she
showed him the portrait of Mary Stuart, which she kissed very tenderly,
expressing to Melville a great wish to see his mistress. "That is very
easy, madam," he replied: "keep your room, on the pretext that you are
indisposed, and set out incognito for Scotland, as King James V set out
for France when he wanted to see Madeleine de Valois, whom he afterwards
married."

"Alas!" replied Elizabeth, "I would like to do so, but it is not so easy
as you think. Nevertheless, tell your queen that I love her tenderly,
and that I wish we could live more in friendship than we have done up to
the present". Then passing to a subject which she seemed to have wanted
to broach for a long time, "Melville," she continued, "tell me frankly,
is my sister as beautiful as they say?"

"She has that reputation," replied Melville; "but I cannot give your
Majesty any idea of her beauty, having no point of comparison."

"I will give you one," the queen said. "Is she more beautiful than I?"

"Madam," replied Melville, "you are the most beautiful woman in England,
and Mary Stuart is the most beautiful woman in Scotland."

"Then which of the two is the taller?" asked Elizabeth, who was not
entirely satisfied by this answer, clever as it was.

"My mistress, madam," responded Melville; "I am obliged to confess it."

"Then she is too tall," Elizabeth said sharply, "for I am tall enough.
And what are her favourite amusements?" she continued.

"Madam," Melville replied, "hunting, riding, performing on the lute and
the harpsichord."

"Is she skilled upon the latter?" Elizabeth inquired. "Oh yes, madam,"
answered Melville; "skilled enough for a queen."

There the conversation stopped; but as Elizabeth was herself an
excellent musician, she commanded Lord Hunsdon to bring Melville to her
at a time when she was at her harpischord, so that he could hear her
without her seeming to have the air of playing for him. In fact, the
same day, Hunsdon, agreeably to her instructions, led the ambassador
into a gallery separated from the queen's apartment merely by tapestry,
so that his guide having raised it, Melville at his leisure could hear
Elizabeth, who did not turn round until she had finished the piece,
which, however, she was playing with much skill. When she saw Melville,
she pretended to fly into a passion, and even wanted to strike him; but
her anger calmed down by little and little at the ambassador's
compliments, and ceased altogether when he admitted that Mary Stuart was
not her equal. But this was not all: proud of her triumph, Elizabeth
desired also that Melville should see her dance. Accordingly, she kept
back her despatches for two days that he might be present at a ball that
she was giving. These despatches, as we have said, contained the wish
that Mary Stuart should espouse Leicester; but this proposal could not
be taken seriously. Leicester, whose personal worth was besides
sufficiently mediocre, was of birth too inferior to aspire to the hand
of the daughter of so many kings; thus Mary replied that such an
alliance would not become her. Meanwhile, something strange and tragic
came to pass.




CHAPTER II


Among the lords who had followed Mary Stuart to Scotland was, as we have
mentioned, a young nobleman named Chatelard, a true type of the nobility
of that time, a nephew of Bayard on his mother's side, a poet and a
knight, talented and courageous, and attached to Marshal Damville, of
whose household he formed one. Thanks to this high position, Chatelard,
throughout her stay in France, paid court to Mary Stuart, who, in the
homage he rendered her in verse, saw nothing more than those poetical
declarations of gallantry customary in that age, and with which she
especially was daily overwhelmed. But it happened that about the time
when Chatelard was most in love with the queen she was obliged to leave
France, as we have said. Then Marshal Damville, who knew nothing of
Chatelard's passion, and who himself, encouraged by Mary's kindness, was
among the candidates to succeed Francis II as husband, set out for
Scotland with the poor exile, taking Chatelard with him, and, not
imagining he would find a rival in him, he made a confidant of him, and
left him with Mary when he was obliged to leave her, charging the young
poet to support with her the interests of his suit. This post as
confidant brought Mary and Chatelard more together; and, as in her
capacity as poet, the queen treated him like a brother, he made bold in
his passion to risk all to obtain another title. Accordingly, one
evening he got into Mary Stuart's room, and hid himself under the bed;
but at the moment when the queen was beginning to undress, a little dog
she had began to yelp so loudly that her women came running at his
barking, and, led by this indication, perceived Chatelard. A woman
easily pardons a crime for which too great love is the excuse: Mary
Stuart was woman before being queen--she pardoned.

But this kindness only increased Chatelard's confidence: he put down the
reprimand he had received to the presence of the queen's women, and
supposed that if she had been alone she would have forgiven him still
more completely; so that, three weeks after, this same scene was
repeated. But this time, Chatelard, discovered in a cupboard, when the
queen was already in bed, was placed under arrest.

The moment was badly chosen: such a scandal, just when the queen was
about to re-marry, was fatal to Mary, let alone to Chatelard. Murray
took the affair in hand, and, thinking that a public trial could alone
save his sister's reputation, he urged the prosecution with such vigour,
that Chatelard, convicted of the crime of lese-majeste, was condemned to
death. Mary entreated her brother that Chatelard might be sent back to
France; but Murray made her see what terrible consequences such a use of
her right of pardon might have, so that Mary was obliged to let justice
take its course: Chatelard was led to execution. Arrived on the
scaffold, which was set up before the queen's palace, Chatelard, who had
declined the services of a priest, had Ronsard's Ode on Death read; and
when the reading, which he followed with evident pleasure, was ended, he
turned--towards the queen's windows, and, having cried out for the last
time, "Adieu, loveliest and most cruel of princesses!" he stretched out
his neck to the executioner, without displaying any repentance or
uttering any complaint. This death made all the more impression upon
Mary, that she did not dare to show her sympathy openly.

Meanwhile there was a rumour that the queen of Scotland was consenting
to a new marriage, and several suitors came forward, sprung from the
principal reigning families of Europe: first, the Archduke Charles,
third son of the Emperor of Germany; then the Duke of Anjou, who
afterwards became Henry III. But to wed a foreign prince was to give up
her claims to the English crown. So Mary refused, and, making a merit of
this to Elizabeth, she cast her eyes on a relation of the latter's,
Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, son of the Earl of Lennox. Elizabeth, who
had nothing plausible to urge against this marriage, since the Queen of
Scotland not only chose an Englishman for husband, but was marrying into
her own family, allowed the Earl of Lennox and his son to go to the
Scotch court, reserving it to herself, if matters appeared to take a
serious turn, to recall them both--a command which they would be
constrained to obey, since all their property was in England.

Darnley was eighteen years of age: he was handsome, well-made, elegant;
he talked in that attractive manner of the young nobles of the French
and English courts that Mary no longer heard since her exile in
Scotland; she let herself be deceived by these appearances, and did not
see that under this brilliant exterior Darnley hid utter insignificance,
dubious courage, and a fickle and churlish character. It is true that he
came to her under the auspices of a man whose influence was as striking
as the risen fortune which gave him the opportunity to exert it. We
refer to David Rizzio.

David Rizzio, who played such a great part in the life of Mary Stuart,
whose strange favour for him has given her enemies, probably without any
cause, such cruel weapons against her, was the son of a Turin musician
burdened with a numerous family, who, recognising in him a pronounced
musical taste, had him instructed in the first principles of the art. At
the age of fifteen he had left his father's house and had gone on foot
to Nice, where the Duke of Savoy held his court; there he entered the
service of the Duke of Moreto, and this lord having been appointed, some
years afterwards, to the Scottish embassy, Rizzio followed him to
Scotland. As this young man had a very fine voice, and accompanied on
the viol and fiddle songs of which both the airs and the words were of
his own composition, the ambassador spoke of him to Mary, who wished to
see him. Rizzio, full of confidence in himself, and seeing in the
queen's desire a road to success, hastened to obey her command, sang
before her, and pleased her. She begged him then of Moreto, making no
more of it than if she had asked of him a thoroughbred dog or a
well-trained falcon. Moreto presented him to her, delighted at finding
such an opportunity to pay his court; but scarcely was Rizzio in her
service than Mary discovered that music was the least of his gifts, that
he possessed, besides that, education if not profound at least varied, a
supple mind, a lively imagination, gentle ways, and at the same time
much boldness and presumption. He reminded her of those Italian artists
whom she had seen at the French court, and spoke to her the tongue of
Marot and Ronsard, whose most beautiful poems he knew by heart: this was
more than enough to please Mary Stuart. In a short time he became her
favourite, and meanwhile the place of secretary for the French
despatches falling vacant, Rizzio was provided for with it.

Darnley, who wished to succeed at all costs, enlisted Rizzio in his
interests, unconscious that he had no need of this support; and as, on
her side, Mary, who had fallen in love with him at first sight, fearing
some new intrigue of Elizabeth's, hastened on this union so far as the
proprieties permitted, the affair moved forward with wonderful rapidity;
and in the midst of public rejoicing, with the approbation of the
nobility, except for a small minority, with Murray at its head, the
marriage was solemnised under the happiest auspices, 29th July 1565. Two
days before, Darnley and his father, the Earl of Lennox, had received a
command to return to London, and as they had not obeyed it, a week after
the celebration of the marriage they learned that the Countess of
Lennox, the only one of the family remaining in Elizabeth's power, had
been arrested and taken to the Tower. Thus Elizabeth, in spite of her
dissimulation, yielding to that first impulse of violence that she
always had such trouble to overcome, publicly displayed her resentment.

However, Elizabeth was not the woman to be satisfied with useless
vengeance: she soon released the countess, and turned her eyes towards
Murray, the most discontented of the nobles in opposition, who by this
marriage was losing all his personal influence. It was thus easy for
Elizabeth to put arms in his hand. In fact, when he had failed in his
first attempt to seize Darnley, he called to his aid the Duke of
Chatellerault, Glencairn, Argyll, and Rothes, and collecting what
partisans they could, they openly rebelled against the queen. This was
the first ostensible act of that hatred which was afterwards so fatal to
Mary.

The queen, on her side, appealed to her nobles, who in response hastened
to rally to her, so that in a month's time she found herself at the head
of the finest army that ever a king of Scotland had raised. Darnley
assumed the command of this magnificent assembly, mounted on a superb
horse, arrayed in gilded armour; and accompanied by the queen, who, in a
riding habit, with pistols at her saddle-bow, wished to make the
campaign with him, that she might not quit his side for a moment. Both
were young, both were handsome, and they left Edinburgh amidst the
cheers of the people and the army.

Murray and his accomplices did not even try to stand against them, and
the campaign consisted of such rapid and complex marches and
counter-marches, that this rebellion is called the Run-about Raid-that
is to say, the run in every sense of the word. Murray and the rebels
withdrew into England, where Elizabeth, while seeming to condemn their
unlucky attempt, afforded them all the assistance they needed.

Mary returned to Edinburgh delighted at the success of her two first
campaigns, not suspecting that this new good fortune was the last she
would have, and that there her short-lived prosperity would cease.
Indeed, she soon saw that in Darnley she had given herself not a devoted
and very attentive husband, as she had believed, but an imperious and
brutal master, who, no longer having any motive for concealment, showed
himself to her just as he was, a man of disgraceful vices, of which
drunkenness and debauchery was the least. Accordingly, serious
differences were not long in springing up in this royal household.

Darnley in wedding Mary had not become king, but merely the queen's
husband. To confer on him authority nearly equalling a regent's, it was
necessary that Mary should grant him what was termed the crown
matrimonial--a crown Francis II had worn during his short royalty, and
that Mary, after Darnley's conduct to herself, had not the slightest
intention of bestowing on him. Thus, to whatever entreaties he made, in
whatever form they were wrapped, Mary merely replied with an unvaried
and obstinate refusal. Darnley, amazed at this force of will in a young
queen who had loved him enough to raise him to her, and not believing
that she could find it in herself, sought in her entourage for some
secret and influential adviser who might have inspired her with it. His
suspicions fell on Rizzio.

In reality, to whatever cause Rizzio owed his power (and to even the
most clear-sighted historians this point has always remained obscure),
be it that he ruled as lover, be it that he advised as minister, his
counsels as long as he lived were always given for the greater glory of
the queen. Sprung from so low, he at least wished to show himself
worthy, of having risen so high, and owing everything to Mary, he tried
to repay her with devotion. Thus Darnley was not mistaken, and it was
indeed Rizzio who, in despair at having helped to bring about a union
which he foresaw must become so unfortunate, gave Mary the advice not to
give up any of her power to one who already possessed much more than he
deserved, in possessing her person.

Darnley, like all persons of both weak and violent character,
disbelieved in the persistence of will in others, unless this will was
sustained by an outside influence. He thought that in ridding himself of
Rizzio he could not fail to gain the day, since, as he believed, he
alone was opposing the grant of this great desire of his, the crown
matrimonial. Consequently, as Rizzio was disliked by the nobles in
proportion as his merits had raised him above them, it was easy for
Darnley to organise a conspiracy, and James Douglas of Morton,
chancellor of the kingdom, consented to act as chief.

This is the second time since the beginning of our narrative that we
inscribe this name Douglas, so often pronounced, in Scottish history,
and which at this time, extinct in the elder branch, known as the Black
Douglases, was perpetuated in the younger branch, known as the Red
Douglases. It was an ancient, noble, and powerful family, which, when
the descent in the male line from Robert Bruce had lapsed, disputed the
royal title with the first Stuart, and which since then had constantly
kept alongside the throne, sometimes its support, sometimes its enemy,
envying every great house, for greatness made it uneasy, but above all
envious of the house of Hamilton, which, if not its equal, was at any
rate after itself the next most powerful.

During the whole reign of James V, thanks to the hatred which the king
bore them, the Douglases had not only lost all their influence, but had
also been exiled to England. This hatred was on account of their having
seized the guardianship of the young prince and kept him prisoner till
he was fifteen. Then, with the help of one of his pages, James V had
escaped from Falkland, and had reached Stirling, whose governor was in
his interests. Scarcely was he safe in the castle than he made
proclamation that any Douglas who should approach within a dozen miles
of it would be prosecuted for high treason. This was not all: he
obtained a decree from Parliament, declaring them guilty of felony, and
condemning them to exile; they remained proscribed, then, during the
king's lifetime, and returned to Scotland only upon his death. The
result was that, although they had been recalled about the throne, and
though, thanks to the past influence of Murray, who, one remembers, was
a Douglas on the mother's side, they filled the most important posts
there, they had not forgiven to the daughter the enmity borne them by
the father.

This was why James Douglas, chancellor as he was, and consequently
entrusted with the execution of the laws, put himself at the head of a
conspiracy which had for its aim the violation of all laws; human and
divine.

Douglas's first idea had been to treat Rizzio as the favourites of James
III had been treated at the Bridge of Lauder--that is to say, to make a
show of having a trial and to hang him afterwards. But such a death did
not suffice for Darnley's vengeance; as above everything he wished to
punish the queen in Rizzio's person, he exacted that the murder should
take place in her presence.

Douglas associated with himself Lord Ruthven, an idle and dissolute
sybarite, who under the circumstances promised to push his devotion so
far as to wear a cuirass; then, sure of this important accomplice, he
busied himself with finding other agents.

However, the plot was not woven with such secrecy but that something of
it transpired; and Rizzio received several warnings that he despised.
Sir James Melville, among others, tried every means to make him
understand the perils a stranger ran who enjoyed such absolute
confidence in a wild, jealous court like that of Scotland. Rizzio
received these hints as if resolved not to apply them to himself; and
Sir James Melville, satisfied that he had done enough to ease his
conscience, did not insist further. Then a French priest, who had a
reputation as a clever astrologer, got himself admitted to Rizzio, and
warned him that the stars predicted that he was in deadly peril, and
that he should beware of a certain bastard above all. Rizzio replied
that from the day when he had been honoured with his sovereign's
confidence, he had sacrificed in advance his life to his position; that
since that time, however, he had had occasion to notice that in general
the Scotch were ready to threaten but slow to act; that, as to the
bastard referred to, who was doubtless the Earl of Murray, he would take
care that he should never enter Scotland far enough for his sword to
reach him, were it as long as from Dumfries to Edinburgh; which in other
words was as much as to say that Murray should remain exiled in England
for life, since Dumfries was one of the principal frontier towns.

Meanwhile the conspiracy proceeded, and Douglas and Ruthven, having
collected their accomplices and taken their measures, came to Darnley to
finish the compact. As the price of the bloody service they rendered the
king, they exacted from him a promise to obtain the pardon of Murray and
the nobles compromised with him in the affair of the "run in every
sense". Darnley granted all they asked of him, and a messenger was sent
to Murray to inform him of the expedition in preparation, and to invite
him to hold himself in readiness to reenter Scotland at the first notice
he should receive. Then, this point settled, they made Darnley sign a
paper in which he acknowledged himself the author and chief of the
enterprise. The other assassins were the Earl of Morton, the Earl of
Ruthven, George Douglas the bastard of Angus, Lindley, and Andrew Carew.
The remainder were soldiers, simple murderers' tools, who did not even
know what was afoot. Darnley reserved it for himself to appoint the
time.

Two days after these conditions were agreed upon, Darnley having been
notified that the queen was alone with Rizzio, wished to make himself
sure of the degree of her favour enjoyed by the minister. He accordingly
went to her apartment by a little door of which he always kept the key
upon him; but though the key turned in the lock, the door did not open.
Then Darnley knocked, announcing himself; but such was the contempt into
which he had fallen with the queen, that Mary left him outside,
although, supposing she had been alone with Rizzio, she would have had
time to send him away. Darnley, driven to extremities by this, summoned
Morton, Ruthven, Lennox, Lindley, and Douglas's bastard, and fixed the
assassination of Rizzio for two days later.

They had just completed all the details, and had, distributed the parts
that each must play in this bloody tragedy, when suddenly, and at the
moment when they least expected it, the door opened and, Mary Stuart
appeared on the threshold.

"My lords," said she, "your holding these secret counsels is useless. I
am informed of your plots, and with God's help I shall soon apply a
remedy".

With these words, and before the conspirators had time to collect
themselves, she shut the door again, and vanished like a passing but
threatening vision. All remained thunderstruck. Morton was the first to
find his tongue.

"My lords," said he, "this is a game of life and death, and the winner
will not be the cleverest or the strongest, but the readiest. If we do
not destroy this man, we are lost. We must strike him down, this very
evening, not the day after to-morrow."

Everyone applauded, even Ruthven, who, still pale and feverish from
riotous living, promised not to be behindhand. The only point changed,
on Morton's suggestion, was that the murder should take place next day;
for, in the opinion of all, not less than a day's interval was needed to
collect the minor conspirators, who numbered not less than five hundred.

The next day, which was Saturday, March 9th, 1566, Mary Stuart, who had
inherited from her father, James V, a dislike of ceremony and the need
of liberty, had invited to supper with her six persons, Rizzio among the
number. Darnley, informed of this in the morning, immediately gave
notice of it to the conspirators, telling them that he himself would let
them into the palace between six and seven o'clock in the evening. The
conspirators replied that they would be in readiness.

The morning had been dark and stormy, as nearly all the first days of
spring are in Scotland, and towards evening the snow and wind redoubled
in depth and violence. So Mary had remained shut up with Rizzio, and
Darnley, who had gone to the secret door several times, could hear the
sound of instruments and the voice of the favourite, who was singing
those sweet melodies which have come down to our time, and which
Edinburgh people still attribute to him. These songs were for Mary a
reminder of her stay in France, where the artists in the train of the
Medicis had already brought echoes from Italy; but for Darnley they were
an insult, and each time he had withdrawn strengthened in his design.

At the appointed time, the conspirators, who had been given the password
during the day, knocked at the palace gate, and were received there so
much the more easily that Darnley himself, wrapped in a great cloak,
awaited them at the postern by which they were admitted. The five
hundred soldiers immediately stole into an inner courtyard, where they
placed themselves under some sheds, as much to keep themselves from the
cold as that they might not be seen on the snow-covered ground. A
brightly lighted window looked into this courtyard; it was that of the
queen's study: at the first signal given them from this window, the
soldiers were to break in the door and go to the help of the chief
conspirators.

These instructions given, Darnley led Morton, Ruthven, Lennox, Lindley,
Andrew Carew, and Douglas's bastard into the room adjoining the study,
and only separated from it by a tapestry hanging before the door. From
there one could overhear all that was being said, and at a single bound
fall upon the guests.

Darnley left them in this room, enjoining silence; then, giving them as
a signal to enter the moment when they should hear him cry, "To me,
Douglas!" he went round by the secret passage, so that seeing him come
in by his usual door the queen's suspicions might not be roused by his
unlooked-for visit.

Mary was at supper with six persons, having, say de Thou and Melville,
Rizzio seated on her right; while, on the contrary, Carapden assures us
that he was eating standing at a sideboard. The talk was gay and
intimate; for all were giving themselves up to the ease one feels at
being safe and warm, at a hospitable board, while the snow is beating
against the windows and the wind roaring in the chimneys. Suddenly Mary,
surprised that the most profound silence had succeeded to the lively and
animated flow of words among her guests since the beginning of supper,
and suspecting, from their glances, that the cause of their uneasiness
was behind her, turned round and saw Darnley leaning on the back of her
chair. The queen shuddered; for although her husband was smiling when
looking at Rizzio, this smile had assumed such a strange expression that
it was clear that something terrible was about to happen. At the same
moment, Mary heard in the next room a heavy, dragging step draw near the
cabinet, then the tapestry was raised, and Lord Ruthven, in armour of
which he could barely support the weight, pale as a ghost, appeared on
the threshold, and, drawing his sword in silence, leaned upon it.

The queen thought he was delirious.

"What do you want, my lord?" she said to him; "and why do you come to
the palace like this?"

"Ask the king, madam," replied Ruthven in an indistinct voice. "It is
for him to answer."

"Explain, my lord," Mary demanded, turning again towards Darnley; "what
does such a neglect of ordinary propriety mean?"

"It means, madam," returned Darnley, pointing to Rizzio, "that that man
must leave here this very minute."

"That man is mine, my lord," Mary said, rising proudly, "and
consequently takes orders only from me."

"To me, Douglas!" cried Darnley.

At these words, the conspirators, who for some moments had drawn nearer
Ruthven, fearing, so changeable was Darnley's character, lest he had
brought them in vain and would not dare to utter the signal--at these
words, the conspirators rushed into the room with such haste that they
overturned the table. Then David Rizzio, seeing that it was he alone
they wanted, threw himself on his knees behind the queen, seizing the
hem of her robe and crying in Italian, "Giustizia! giustizia!" Indeed,
the queen, true to her character, not allowing herself to be intimidated
by this terrible irruption, placed herself in front of Rizzio and
sheltered him behind her Majesty. But she counted too much on the
respect of a nobility accustomed to struggle hand to hand with its kings
for five centuries. Andrew Carew held a dagger to her breast and
threatened to kill her if she insisted on defending any longer him whose
death was resolved upon. Then Darnley, without consideration for the
queen's pregnancy, seized her round the waist and bore her away from
Rizzio, who remained on his knees pale and trembling, while Douglas's
bastard, confirming the prediction of the astrologer who had warned
Rizzio to beware of a certain bastard, drawing the king's own dagger,
plunged it into the breast of the minister, who fell wounded, but not
dead. Morton immediately took him by the feet and dragged him from the
cabinet into the larger room, leaving on the floor that long track of
blood which is still shown there; then, arrived there, each rushed upon
him as upon a quarry, and set upon the corpse, which they stabbed in
fifty-six places. Meanwhile Darnley held the queen, who, thinking that
all was not over, did not cease crying for mercy. But Ruthven came back,
paler than at first, and at Darnley's inquiry if Rizzio were dead, he
nodded in the affirmative; then, as he could not bear further fatigue in
his convalescent state, he sat down, although the queen, whom Darnley
had at last released, remained standing on the same spot. At this Mary
could not contain herself.

"My lord," cried she, "who has given you permission to sit down in my
presence, and whence comes such insolence?"

"Madam," Ruthven answered, "I act thus not from insolence, but from
weakness; for, to serve your husband, I have just taken more exercise
than my doctors allow". Then turning round to a servant, "Give me a
glass of wine," said he, showing Darnley his bloody dagger before
putting it back in its sheath, "for here is the proof that I have well
earned it". The servant obeyed, and Ruthven drained his glass with as
much calmness as if he had just performed the most innocent act.

"My lord," the queen then said, taking a step towards him, "it may be
that as I am a woman, in spite of my desire and my will, I never find an
opportunity to repay you what you are doing to me; but," she added,
energetically striking her womb with her hand, "he whom I bear there,
and whose life you should have respected, since you respect my Majesty
so little, will one day revenge me for all these insults". Then, with a
gesture at once superb and threatening, she withdrew by Darnley's door,
which she closed behind her.

At that moment a great noise was heard in the queen's room. Huntly,
Athol, and Bothwell, who, we are soon about to see, play such an
important part in the sequel of this history, were supping together in
another hall of the palace, when suddenly they had heard outcries and
the clash of arms, so that they had run with all speed. When Athol, who
came first, without knowing whose it was, struck against the dead body
of Rizzio, which was stretched at the top of the staircase, they
believed, seeing someone assassinated, that the lives of the king and
queen were threatened, and they had drawn their swords to force the door
that Morton was guarding. But directly Darnley understood what was going
on, he darted from the cabinet, followed by Ruthven, and showing himself
to the newcomers--

"My lords," he said, "the persons of the queen and myself are safe, and
nothing has occurred here but by our orders. Withdraw, then; you will
know more about it in time. As to him," he added, holding up Rizzio's
head by the hair, whilst the bastard of Douglas lit up the face with a
torch so that it could be recognised, "you see who it is, and whether it
is worth your while to get into trouble for him".

And in fact, as soon as Huntly, Athol, and Bothwell had recognised the
musician-minister, they sheathed their swords, and, having saluted the
king, went away.

Mary had gone away with a single thought in her heart, vengeance. But
she understood that she could not revenge herself at one and the same
time on her husband and his companions: she set to work, then, with all
the charms of her wit and beauty to detach the King from his
accomplices. It was not a difficult task: when that brutal rage which
often carried Darnley beyond all bounds was spent, he was frightened
himself at the crime he had committed, and while the assassins,
assembled by Murray, were resolving that he should have that greatly
desired crown matrimonial, Darnley, as fickle as he was violent, and as
cowardly as he was cruel, in Mary's very room, before the scarcely dried
blood, made another compact, in which he engaged to deliver up his
accomplices. Indeed, three days after the event that we have just
related, the murderers learned a strange piece of news--that Darnley and
Mary, accompanied by Lord Seyton, had escaped together from Holyrood
Palace. Three days later still, a proclamation appeared, signed by Mary
and dated from Dunbar, which summoned round the queen, in her own name
and the king's, all the Scottish lords and barons, including those who
had been compromised in the affair of the "run in every sense," to whom
she not only granted full and complete pardon, but also restored her
entire confidence. In this way she separated Murray's cause from that of
Morton and the other assassins, who, in their turn, seeing that there
was no longer any safety for them in Scotland, fled to England, where
all the queen's enemies were always certain to find a warm welcome, in
spite of the good relations which reigned in appearance between Mary and
Elizabeth. As to Bothwell, who had wanted to oppose the assassination,
he was appointed Warden of all the Marches of the Kingdom.

Unfortunately for her honour, Mary, always more the woman than the
queen, while, on the contrary, Elizabeth was always more the queen than
the woman, had no sooner regained her power than her first royal act was
to exhume Rizzio, who had been quietly buried on the threshold of the
chapel nearest Holyrood Palace, and to have him removed to the
burial-place of the Scottish kings, compromising herself still more by
the honours she paid him dead than by the favour she had granted him
living.

Such an imprudent demonstration naturally led to fresh quarrels between
Mary and Darnley: these quarrels were the more bitter that, as one can
well understand, the reconciliation between the husband and wife, at
least on the latter's side, had never been anything but a pretence; so
that, feeling herself in a stronger position still on account of her
pregnancy, she restrained herself no longer, and, leaving Darnley, she
went from Dunbar to Edinburgh Castle, where on June 19th, 1566, three
months after the assassination of Rizzio, she gave birth to a son who
afterwards became James VI.




CHAPTER III


Directly she was delivered, Mary sent for James Melville, her usual
envoy to Elizabeth, and charged him to convey this news to the Queen of
England, and to beg her to be godmother to the royal child at the same
time. On arriving in London, Melville immediately presented himself at
the palace; but as there was a court ball, he could not see the queen,
and contented himself with making known the reason for his journey to
the minister Cecil, and with begging him to ask his mistress for an
audience next day. Elizabeth was dancing in a quadrille at the moment
when Cecil, approaching her, said in a low voice, "Queen Mary of
Scotland has just given birth to a son". At these words she grew
frightfully pale, and, looking about her with a bewildered air, and as
if she were about to faint, she leaned against an arm-chair; then, soon,
not being able to stand upright, she sat down, threw back her head, and
plunged into a mournful reverie. Then one of the ladies of her court,
breaking through the circle which had formed round the queen, approached
her, ill at ease, and asked her of what she was thinking so sadly. "Ah!
madam," Elizabeth replied impatiently, "do you not know that Mary Stuart
has given birth to a son, while I am but a barren stock, who will die
without offspring?"

Yet Elizabeth was too good a politician, in spite of her liability to be
carried away by a first impulse, to compromise herself by a longer
display of her grief. The ball was not discontinued on that account, and
the interrupted quadrille was resumed and finished.

The next day, Melville had his audience. Elizabeth received him to
perfection, assuring him of all the pleasure that the news he brought
had caused her, and which, she said, had cured her of a complaint from
which she had suffered for a fortnight. Melville replied that his
mistress had hastened to acquaint her with her joy, knowing that she had
no better friend; but he added that this joy had nearly cost Mary her
life, so grievous had been her confinement. As he was returning to this
point for the third time, with the object of still further increasing
the queen of England's dislike to marriage--

"Be easy, Melville," Elizabeth answered him; "you need not insist upon
it. I shall never marry; my kingdom takes the place of a husband for me,
and my subjects are my children. When I am dead, I wish graven on my
tombstone: 'Here lies Elizabeth, who reigned so many years, and who died
a virgin.'"

Melville availed himself of this opportunity to remind Elizabeth of the
desire she had shown to see Mary, three or four years before; but
Elizabeth said, besides her country's affairs, which necessitated her
presence in the heart of her possessions, she did not care, after all
she had heard said of her rival's beauty, to expose herself to a
comparison disadvantageous to her pride. She contented herself, then,
with choosing as her proxy the Earl of Bedford, who set out with several
other noblemen for Stirling Castle, where the young prince was
christened with great pomp, and received the name of Charles James.

It was remarked that Darnley did not appear at this ceremony, and that
his absence seemed to scandalise greatly the queen of England's envoy.
On the contrary, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, had the most important
place there.

This was because, since the evening when Bothwell, at Mary's cries, had
run to oppose the murder of Rizzio, he had made great way in the queen's
favour; to her party he himself appeared to be really attached, to the
exclusion of the two others, the king's and the Earl of Murray's.
Bothwell was already thirty-five years old, head of the powerful family
of Hepburn, which had great influence in East Lothian and the county of
Berwick; for the rest, violent, rough, given to every kind of
debauchery, and capable of anything to satisfy an ambition that he did
not even give himself the trouble to hide. In his youth he had been
reputed courageous, but for long he had had no serious opportunity to
draw the sword.

If the king's authority had been shaken by Rizzio's influence, it was
entirely upset by Bothwell's. The great nobles, following the
favourite's example, no longer rose in the presence of Darnley, and
ceased little by little to treat him as their equal: his retinue was cut
down, his silver plate taken from him, and some officers who remained
about him made him buy their services with the most bitter vexations. As
for the queen, she no longer even took the trouble to conceal her
dislike for him, avoiding him without consideration, to such a degree
that one day when she had gone with Bothwell to Alway, she left there
again immediately, because Darnley came to join her. The king, however,
still had patience; but a fresh imprudence of Mary's at last led to the
terrible catastrophe that, since the queen's liaison with Bothwell, some
had already foreseen.

Towards the end of the month of October, 1566, while the queen was
holding a court of justice at Jedburgh, it was announced to her that
Bothwell, in trying to seize a malefactor called John Elliot of Park,
had been badly wounded in the hand; the queen, who was about to attend
the council, immediately postponed the sitting till next day, and,
having ordered a horse to be saddled, she set out for Hermitage Castle,
where Bothwell was living, and covered the distance at a stretch,
although it was twenty miles, and she had to go across woods, marshes,
and rivers; then, having remained some hours tete-a-tete with him, she
set out again with the same sped for Jedburgh, to which she returned in
the night.

Although this proceeding had made a great deal of talk, which was
inflamed still more by the queen's enemies, who chiefly belonged to the
Reformed religion, Darnley did not hear of it till nearly two months
afterwards--that is to say, when Bothwell, completely recovered,
returned with the queen to Edinburgh.

Then Darnley thought that he ought not to put up any longer with such
humiliations. But as, since his treason to his accomplices, he had not
found in all Scotland a noble who would have drawn the sword for him, he
resolved to go and seek the Earl of Lennox, his father, hoping that
through his influence he could rally the malcontents, of whom there were
a great number since Bothwell had been in favour. Unfortunately,
Darnley, indiscreet and imprudent as usual, confided this plan to some
of his officers, who warned Bothwell of their master's intention.
Bothwell did not seem to oppose the journey in any way; but Darnley was
scarcely a mile from Edinburgh when he felt violent pains none the less,
he continued his road, and arrived very ill at Glasgow. He immediately
sent for a celebrated doctor, called James Abrenets, who found his body
covered with pimples, and declared without any hesitation that he had
been poisoned. However, others, among them Walter Scott, state that this
illness was nothing else than smallpox.

Whatever it may have been, the queen, in the presence of the danger her
husband ran, appeared to forget her resentment, and at the risk of what
might prove troublesome to herself, she went to Darnley, after sending
her doctor in advance. It is true that if one is to believe in the
following letters, dated from Glasgow, which Mary is accused of having
written to Bothwell, she knew the illness with which he was attacked too
well to fear infection. As these letters are little known, and seem to
us very singular we transcribe them here; later we shall tell how they
fell into the power of the Confederate lords, and from their hands
passed into Elizabeth's, who, quite delighted, cried on receiving them,
"God's death, then I hold her life and honour in my hands!"

FIRST LETTER

"When I set out from the place where I had left my heart, judge in what
a condition I was, poor body without a soul: besides, during the whole
of dinner I have not spoken to anyone, and no one has dared to approach
me, for it was easy to see that there was something amiss. When I
arrived within a league of the town, the Earl of Lennox sent me one of
his gentlemen to make me his compliments, and to excuse himself for not
having come in person; he has caused me to be informed, moreover, that
he did not dare to present himself before me after the reprimand that I
gave Cunningham. This gentleman begged me, as if of his own accord, to
examine his master's conduct, to ascertain if my suspicions were well
founded. I have replied to him that fear was an incurable disease, that
the Earl of Lennox would not be so agitated if his conscience reproached
him with nothing, and that if some hasty words had escaped me, they were
but just reprisals for the letter he had written me.

"None of the inhabitants visited me, which makes me think they are all
in his interests; besides, they speak of him very favourably, as well as
of his son. The king sent for Joachim yesterday, and asked him why I did
not lodge with him, adding that my presence would soon cure him, and
asked me also with what object I had come: if it were to be reconciled
with him; if you were here; if I had taken Paris and Gilbert as
secretaries, and if I were still resolved to dismiss Joseph? I do not
know who has given him such accurate information. There is nothing, down
to the marriage of Sebastian, with which he has not made himself
acquainted. I have asked him the meaning of one of his letters, in which
he complains of the cruelty of certain people. He replied that he
was--stricken, but that my presence caused him so much joy that he
thought he should die of it. He reproached me several times for being
dreamy; I left him to go to supper; he begged me to return: I went back.
Then he told me the story of his illness, and that he wished to make a
will leaving me everything, adding that I was a little the cause of his
trouble, and that he attributed it to my coldness. 'You ask me,' added
he, 'who are the people of whom I complain: it is of you, cruel one, of
you, whom I have never been able to appease by my tears and my
repentance. I know that I have offended you, but not on the matter that
you reproach me with: I have also offended some of your subjects, but
that you have forgiven me. I am young, and you say that I always relapse
into my faults; but cannot a young man like me, destitute of experience,
gain it also, break his promises, repent directly, and in time improve?
If you will forgive me yet once more, I will promise to offend you never
again. All the favour I ask of you is that we should live together like
husband and wife, to have but one bed and one board: if you are
inflexible, I shall never rise again from here. I entreat you, tell me
your decision: God alone knows what I suffer, and that because I occupy
myself with you only, because I love and adore only you. If I have
offended you sometimes, you must bear the reproach; for when someone
offends me, if it were granted me to complain to you, I should not
confide my griefs to others; but when we are on bad terms, I am obliged
to keep them to myself, and that maddens me.'

"He then urged me strongly to stay with him and lodge in his house; but
I excused myself, and replied that he ought to be purged, and that he
could not be, conveniently, at Glasgow; then he told me that he knew I
had brought a letter for him, but that he would have preferred to make
the journey with me. He believed, I think, that I meant to send him to
some prison: I replied that I should take him to Craigmiller, that he
would find doctors there, that I should remain near him, and that we
should be within reach of seeing my son. He has answered that he will go
where I wish to take him, provided that I grant him what he has asked.
He does not, however, wish to be seen by anyone.

"He has told me more than a hundred pretty things that I cannot repeat
to you, and at which you yourself would be surprised: he did not want to
let me go; he wanted to make me sit up with him all night. As for me, I
pretended to believe everything, and I seemed to interest myself really
in him. Besides, I have never seen him so small and humble; and if I had
not known how easily his heart overflows, and how mine is impervious to
every other arrow than those with which you have wounded it, I believe
that I should have allowed myself to soften; but lest that should alarm
you, I would die rather than give up what I have promised you. As for
you, be sure to act in the same way towards those traitors who will do
all they can to separate you from me. I believe that all those people
have been cast in the same mould: this one always has a tear in his eye;
he bows down before everyone, from the greatest to the smallest; he
wishes to interest them in his favour, and make himself pitied. His
father threw up blood to-day through the nose and mouth; think what
these symptoms mean. I have not seen him yet, for he keeps to the house.
The king wants me to feed him myself; he won't eat unless I do. But,
whatever I may do, you will be deceived by it no more than I shall be
deceiving myself. We are united, you and I, to two kinds of very
detestable people [Mary means Miss Huntly, Bothwell's wife, whom he
repudiated, at the king's death, to marry the queen.]: that hell may
sever these knots then, and that heaven may form better ones, that
nothing can break, that it may make of us the most tender and faithful
couple that ever was; there is the profession of faith in which I would
die.

"Excuse my scrawl: you must guess more than the half of it, but I know
no help for this. I am obliged to write to you hastily while everyone is
asleep here: but be easy, I take infinite pleasure in my watch; for I
cannot sleep like the others, not being able to sleep as I would
like--that is to say, in your arms.

"I am going to get into bed; I shall finish my letter tomorrow: I have
too many things to tell to you, the night is too far advanced: imagine
my despair. It is to you I am writing, it is of myself that I converse
with you, and I am obliged to make an end.

"I cannot prevent myself, however, from filling up hastily the rest of
my paper. Cursed be the crazy creature who torments me so much! Were it
not for him, I could talk to you of more agreeable things: he is not
greatly changed; and yet he has taken a great deal of it. But he has
nearly killed me with the fetid smell of his breath; for now his is
still worse than your cousin's: you guess that this is a fresh reason
for my not approaching him; on the contrary, I go away as far as I can,
and sit on a chair at the foot of his bed.

"Let us see if I forget anything:

    "His father's messenger on the road;
     The question about Joachim;
     The-state of my house;
     The people of my suite;
     Subject of my arrival;
     Joseph;
     Conversation between him and me;
     His desire to please me and his repentance;
     The explanation of his letter;
     Mr. Livingston.

"Ah! I was forgetting that. Yesterday Livingston during supper told de
Rere in a low voice to drink to the health of one I knew well, and to
beg me to do him the honour. After supper, as I was leaning on his
shoulder near the fire, he said to me, 'Is it not true that there are
visits very agreeable for those who pay them and those who receive them?
But, however satisfied they seem with your arrival, I challenge their
delight to equal the grief of one whom you have left alone to-day, and
who will never be content till he sees you again.' I asked him of whom
he wished to speak to me. He then answered me by pressing my arm: 'Of
one of those who have not followed you; and among those it is easy for
you to guess of whom I want to speak.'

"I have worked till two o'clock at the bracelet; I have enclosed a
little key which is attached by two strings: it is not as well worked as
I should like, but I have not had time to make it better; I will make
you a finer one on the first occasion. Take care that it is not seen on
you; for I have worked at it before everyone, and it would be recognised
to a certainty.

"I always return, in spite of myself, to the frightful attempt that you
advise. You compel me to concealments, and above all to treacheries that
make me shudder; I would rather die, believe me, than do such things;
for it makes my heart bleed. He does not want to follow me unless I
promise him to have the selfsame bed and board with him as before, and
not to abandon him so often. If I consent to it, he says he will do all
I wish, and will follow me everywhere; but he has begged me to put off
my departure for two days. I have pretended to agree to all he wishes;
but I have told him not to speak of our reconciliation to anyone, for
fear it should make some lords uneasy. At last I shall take him
everywhere I wish.... Alas! I have never deceived anyone; but what would
I not do to please you? Command, and whatever happens, I shall obey. But
see yourself if one could not contrive some secret means in the shape of
a remedy. He must purge himself at Craigmiller and take baths there; he
will be some days without going out. So far as I can see, he is very
uneasy; but he has great trust in what I tell him: however, his
confidence does not go so far as to allow him to open his mind to me. If
you like, I will tell him every thing: I can have no pleasure in
deceiving someone who is trusting. However, it will be just as you wish:
do not esteem me the less for that. It is you advised it; never would
vengeance have taken me so far. Sometimes he attacks me in a very
sensitive place, and he touches me to the quick when he tells me that
his crimes are known, but that every day greater ones are committed that
one uselessly attempts to hide, since all crimes, whatsoever they be,
great or small, come to men's knowledge and form the common subject of
their discourse. He adds sometimes, in speaking to me of Madame de Rere,
'I wish her services may do you honour.' He has assured me that many
people thought, and that he thought himself, that I was not my own
mistress; this is doubtless because I had rejected the conditions he
offered me. Finally, it is certain that he is very uneasy about you know
what, and that he even suspects that his life is aimed at. He is in
despair whenever the conversation turns on you, Livingston, and my
brother. However, he says neither good nor ill of absent people; but, on
the contrary, he always avoids speaking of them. His father keeps to the
house: I have not seen him yet. A number of the Hamiltons are here, and
accompany me everywhere; all the friends of the other one follow me each
time I go to see him. He has begged me to be at his rising to-morrow. My
messenger will tell you the rest.

"Burn my letter: there would be danger in keeping it. Besides, it is
hardly worth the trouble, being filled only with dark thoughts.

"As for you, do not be offended if I am sad and uneasy to-day, that to
please you I rise above honour, remorse, and dangers. Do not take in bad
part what I tell you, and do not listen to the malicious explanations of
your wife's brother; he is a knave whom you ought not to hear to the
prejudice of the most tender and most faithful mistress that ever was.
Above all, do not allow yourself to be moved by that woman: her sham
tears are nothing in comparison with the real tears that I shed, and
with what love and constancy make me suffer at succeeding her; it is for
that alone that in spite of myself I betray all those who could cross my
love. God have mercy on me, and send you all the prosperity that a
humble and tender friend who awaits from you soon another reward wishes
you. It is very late; but it is always with regret that I lay down my
pen when I write to you; however, I shall not end my letter until I
shall have kissed your hands. Forgive me that it is so ill-written:
perhaps I do so expressly that you may be obliged to re-read it several
times: I have transcribed hastily what I had written down on my tablets,
and my paper has given out. Remember a tender friend, and write to her
often: love me as tenderly as I love you, and remember:

    "Madame de Rere's words;
     The English;
     His mother;
     The Earl of Argyll;
     The Earl of Bothwell;
     The Edinburgh dwelling."

SECOND LETTER

"It seems that you have forgotten me during your absence, so much the
more that you had promised me, at setting out, to let me know in detail
everything fresh that should happen. The hope of receiving your news was
giving me almost as much delight as your return could have brought me:
you have put it off longer than you promised me. As for me, although you
do not write, I play my part always. I shall take him to Craigmiller on
Monday, and he will spend the whole of Wednesday there. On that day I
shall go to Edinburgh to be bled there, unless you arrange otherwise at
least. He is more cheerful than usual, and he is better than ever.

"He says everything he can to persuade me that he loves me; he has a
thousand attentions for me, and he anticipates me in everything: all
that is so pleasant for me, that I never go to him but the pain in my
side comes on again, his company weighs on me so much. If Paris brought
me what I asked him, I should be soon cured. If you have not yet
returned when I go you know where, write to me, I beg you, and tell me
what you wish me to do; for if you do not manage things prudently, I
foresee that the whole burden will fall on me: look into everything and
weigh the affair maturely. I send you my letter by Beaton, who will set
out the day which has been assigned to Balfour. It only remains for me
to beg you to inform me of your journey.

"Glasgow, this Saturday morning."

THIRD LETTER

"I stayed you know where longer than I should have done, if it had not
been to get from him something that the bearer of these presents will
tell you it was a good opportunity for covering up our designs: I have
promised him to bring the person you know to-morrow. Look after the
rest, if you think fit. Alas! I have failed in our agreement, for you
have forbidden me to write to you, or to despatch a messenger to you.
However, I do not intend to offend you: if you knew with what fears I am
agitated, you would not have yourself so many doubts and suspicions. But
I take them in good part, persuaded as I am that they have no other
cause than love--love that I esteem more than anything on earth.

"My feelings and my favours are to me sure warrants for that love, and
answer to me for your heart; my trust is entire on this head: but
explain yourself, I entreat you, and open your soul to me; otherwise, I
shall fear lest, by the fatality of my star, and by the too fortunate
influence of the stars on women less tender and less faithful than I, I
may be supplanted in your heart as Medea was in Jason's; not that I wish
to compare you to a lover as unfortunate as Jason, and to parallel
myself with a monster like Medea, although you have enough influence
over me to force me to resemble her each time our love exacts it, and
that it concerns me to keep your heart, which belongs to me, and which
belongs to me only. For I name as belonging to me what I have purchased
with the tender and constant love with which I have burned for you, a
love more alive to-day than ever, and which will end only with my life;
a love, in short, which makes me despise both the dangers and the
remorse which will be perhaps its sad sequel. As the price of this
sacrifice, I ask you but one favour, it is to remember a spot not far
from here: I do not exact that you should keep your promise to-morrow;
but I want to see you to disperse your suspicions. I ask of God only one
thing: it is that He should make you read my heart, which is less mine
than yours, and that He should guard you from every ill, at least during
my life: this life is dear to me only in so far as it pleases you, and
as I please you myself. I am going to bed: adieu; give me your news
to-morrow morning; for I shall be uneasy till I have it. Like a bird
escaped from its cage, or the turtle-dove which has lost her mate, I
shall be alone, weeping your absence, short as it may be. This letter,
happier than I, will go this evening where I cannot go, provided that
the messenger does not find you asleep, as I fear. I have not dared to
write it in the presence of Joseph, of Sebastian, and of Joachim, who
had only just left me when I began it."

Thus, as one sees, and always supposing these letters to be genuine,
Mary had conceived for Bothwell one of those mad passions, so much the
stronger in the women who are a prey to them, that one the less
understands what could have inspired them. Bothwell was no longer young,
Bothwell was not handsome, and yet Mary sacrificed for him a young
husband, who was considered one of the handsomest men of his century. It
was like a kind of enchantment. Darnley, the sole obstacle to the union,
had been already condemned for a long time, if not by Mary, at least by
Bothwell; then, as his strong constitution had conquered the poison,
another kind of death was sought for.

The queen, as she announces in her letter to Bothwell, had refused to
bring back Darnley with her, and had returned alone to Edinburgh.
Arrived there, she gave orders for the king to be moved, in his turn, in
a litter; but instead of taking him to Stirling or Holyrood, she decided
to lodge him in the abbey of the Kirk of Field. The king made some
objections when he knew of this arrangement; however, as he had no power
to oppose it, he contented himself with complaining of the solitude of
the dwelling assigned him; but the queen made answer that she could not
receive him at that moment, either at Holyrood or at Stirling, for fear,
if his illness were infectious, lest he might give it to his son:
Darnley was then obliged to make the best of the abode allotted him.

It was an isolated abbey, and little calculated by its position to
dissipate the fears that the king entertained; for it was situated
between two ruined churches and two cemeteries: the only house, which
was distant about a shot from a cross-bow, belonged to the Hamiltons,
and as they were Darnley's mortal enemies the neighbourhood was none the
more reassuring: further, towards the north, rose some wretched huts,
called the "Thieves' cross-roads". In going round his new residence,
Darnley noticed that three holes, each large enough for a man to get
through, had been made in the walls; he asked that these holes, through
which ill-meaning persons could get in, should be stopped up: it was
promised that masons should be sent; but nothing was done, and the holes
remained open.

The day after his arrival at Kirk of Field, the king saw a light in that
house near his which he believed deserted; next day he asked Alexander
Durham whence it came, and he heard that the Archbishop of St. Andrew's
had left his palace in Edinburgh and had housed there since the
preceding evening, one didn't know why: this news still further
increased the king's uneasiness; the Archbishop of St. Andrew's was one
of his most declared enemies.

The king, little by little abandoned by all his servants lived on the
first floor of an isolated pavilion, having about him only this same
Alexander Durham, whom we have mentioned already, and who was his valet.
Darnley, who had quite a special friendship for him, and who besides, as
we have said, feared some attack on his life at every moment, had made
him move his bed into his own apartment, so that both were sleeping in
the same room.

On the night of the 8th February, Darnley awoke Durham: he thought he
heard footsteps in the apartment beneath him. Durham rose, took a sword
in one hand, a taper in the other, and went down to the ground floor;
but although Darnley was quite certain he had not been deceived, Durham
came up again a moment after, saying he had seen no one.

The morning of the next day passed without bringing anything fresh. The
queen was marrying one of her servants named Sebastian: he was an
Auvergnat whom she had brought with her from France, and whom she liked
very much. However, as the king sent word that he had not seen her for
two days, she left the wedding towards six o'clock in the evening, and
came to pay him a visit, accompanied by the Countess of Argyll and the
Countess of Huntly. While she was there, Durham, in preparing his bed,
set fire to his palliasse, which was burned as well as a part of the
mattress; so that, having thrown them out of the window all in flames,
for fear lest the fire should reach the rest of the furniture, he found
himself without a bed, and asked permission to return to the town to
sleep; but Darnley, who remembered his terror the night before, and who
was surprised at the promptness that had made Durham throw all his
bedding out of the window, begged him not to go away, offering him one
of his mattresses, or even to take him into his own bed. However, in
spite of this offer, Durham insisted, saying that he felt unwell, and
that he should like to see a doctor the same evening. So the queen
interceded for Durham, and promised Darnley to send him another valet to
spend the night with him: Darnley was then obliged to yield, and, making
Mary repeat that she would send him someone, he gave Durham leave for
that evening. At that moment Paris; of whom the queen speaks in her
letters, came in: he was a young Frenchman who had been in Scotland for
some years, and who, after having served with Bothwell and Seyton, was
at present with the queen. Seeing him, she got up, and as Darnley still
wished to keep her--

"Indeed, my lord, it is impossible," said she, "to come and see you. I
have left this poor Sebastian's wedding, and I must return to it; for I
promised to came masked to his ball."

The king dared not insist; he only reminded her of the promise that she
had made to send him a servant: Mary renewed it yet once again, and went
away with her attendants. As for Durham, he had set out the moment he
received permission.

It was nine o'clock in the evening. Darnley, left alone, carefully shut
the doors within, and retired to rest, though in readiness to rise to
let in the servant who should come to spend the night with him. Scarcely
was he in bed than the same noise that he had heard the night before
recommenced; this time Darnley listened with all the attention fear
gives, and soon he had no longer any doubt but that several men were
walking about beneath him. It was useless to call, it was dangerous to
go out; to wait was the only course that remained to the king. He made
sure again that the doors were well fastened, put his sword under his
pillow, extinguished his lamp for fear the light might betray him, and
awaited in silence for his servant's arrival; but the hours passed away,
and the servant did not come. At one o'clock in the morning, Bothwell,
after having talked some while with the queen, in the presence of the
captain of the guard, returned home to change his dress; after some
minutes, he came out wrapped up in the large cloak of a German hussar,
went through the guard-house, and had the castle gate opened. Once
outside, he took his way with all speed to Kirk of Field, which he
entered by the opening in the wall: scarcely had he made a step in the
garden than he met James Balfour, governor of the castle.

"Well," he said to him, "how far have we got?

"Everything is ready," replied Balfour, "and we were waiting for you to
set fire to the fuse". "That is well," Bothwell answered--"but first I
want to make sure that he is in his room."

At these words, Bothwell opened the pavilion door with a false key, and,
having groped his way up the stairs; he went to listen at Darnley's
door. Darnley, hearing no further noise, had ended by going to sleep;
but he slept with a jerky breathing which pointed to his agitation.
Little mattered it to Bothwell what kind of sleep it was, provided that
he was really in his room. He went down again in silence, then, as he
had come up, and taking a lantern from one of the conspirators, he went
himself into the lower room to see if everything was in order: this room
was full of barrels of powder, and a fuse ready prepared wanted but a
spark to set the whole on fire. Bothwell withdrew, then, to the end of
the garden with Balfour, David, Chambers, and three or four others,
leaving one man to ignite the fuse. In a moment this man rejoined them.

There ensued some minutes of anxiety, during which the five men looked
at one another in silence and as if afraid of themselves; then, seeing
that nothing exploded, Bothwell impatiently turned round to the
engineer, reproaching him for having, no doubt through fear, done his
work badly. He assured his master that he was certain everything was all
right, and as Bothwell, impatient, wanted to return to the house
himself, to make sure, he offered to go back and see how things stood.
In fact, he went back to the pavilion, and, putting his head through a
kind of air-hole, he saw the fuse, which was still burning. Some seconds
afterwards, Bothwell saw him come running back, making a sign that all
was going well; at the same moment a frightful report was heard, the
pavilion was blown to pieces, the town and the firth were lit up with a
clearness exceeding the brightest daylight; then everything fell back
into night, and the silence was broken only by the fall of stones and
joists, which came down as fast as hail in a hurricane.

Next day the body of the king was found in a garden in the
neighbourhood: it had been saved from the action of the fire by the
mattresses on which he was lying, and as, doubtless, in his terror he
had merely thrown himself on his bed wrapped in his dressing-gown and in
his slippers, and as he was found thus, without his slippers, which were
flung some paces away, it was believed that he had been first strangled,
then carried there; but the most probable version was that the murderers
simply relied upon powder--an auxiliary sufficiently powerful in itself
for them to have no fear it would fail them.

Was the queen an accomplice or not? No one has ever known save herself,
Bothwell, and God; but, yes or no, her conduct, imprudent this time as
always, gave the charge her enemies brought against her, if not
substance, at least an appearance of truth. Scarcely had she heard the
news than she gave orders that the body should be brought to her, and,
having had it stretched out upon a bench, she looked at it with more
curiosity than sadness; then the corpse, embalmed, was placed the same
evening, without pomp, by the side of Rizzio's.

Scottish ceremonial prescribes for the widows of kings retirement for
forty days in a room entirely closed to the light of day: on the twelfth
day Mary had the windows opened, and on the fifteenth set out with
Bothwell for Seaton, a country house situated five miles from the
capital, where the French ambassador, Ducroc, went in search of her, and
made her remonstrances which decided her to return to Edinburgh; but
instead of the cheers which usually greeted her coming, she was received
by an icy silence, and a solitary woman in the crowd called out, "God
treat her as she deserves!"

The names of the murderers were no secret to the people. Bothwell having
brought a splendid coat which was too large for him to a tailor, asking
him to remake it to his measure, the man recognised it as having
belonged to the king. "That's right," said he; "it is the custom for the
executioner to inherit from the condemned". Meanwhile, the Earl of
Lennox, supported by the people's murmurs, loudly demanded justice for
his son's death, and came forward as the accuser of his murderers. The
queen was then obliged, to appease paternal clamour and public
resentment, to command the Earl of Argyll, the Lord Chief Justice of the
kingdom, to make investigations; the same day that this order was given,
a proclamation was posted up in the streets of Edinburgh, in which the
queen promised two thousand pounds sterling to whoever would make known
the king's murderers. Next day, wherever this letter had been affixed,
another placard was found, worded thus:

"As it has been proclaimed that those who should make known the king's
murderers should have two thousand pounds sterling, I, who have made a
strict search, affirm that the authors of the murder are the Earl of
Bothwell, James Balfour, the priest of Flisk, David, Chambers,
Blackmester, Jean Spens, and the queen herself."

This placard was torn down; but, as usually happens, it had already been
read by the entire population.

The Earl of Lennox accused Bothwell, and public opinion, which also
accused him, seconded the earl with such violence, that Mary was
compelled to bring him to trial: only every precaution was taken to
deprive the prosecutor of the power of convicting the accused. On the
28th March, the Earl of Lennox received notice that the 12th April was
fixed for the trial: he was granted a fortnight to collect decisive
proofs against the most powerful man in all Scotland; but the Earl of
Lennox, judging that this trial was a mere mockery, did not appear.
Bothwell, on the contrary, presented himself at the court, accompanied
by five thousand partisans and two hundred picked fusiliers, who guarded
the doors directly he had entered; so that he seemed to be rather a king
who is about to violate the law than an accused who comes to submit to
it. Of course there happened what was certain to happen--that is to say,
the jury acquitted Bothwell of the crime of which everyone, the judges
included, knew him to be guilty.

The day of the trial, Bothwell had this written challenge placarded:

"Although I am sufficiently cleared of the murder of the king, of which
I have been falsely accused, yet, the better to prove my innocence, I
am, ready to engage in combat with whomsoever will dare to maintain that
I have killed the king."

The day after, this reply appeared:

"I accept the challenge, provided that you select neutral ground."

However, judgment had been barely given, when rumours of a marriage
between the queen and the Earl of Bothwell were abroad. However strange
and however mad this marriage, the relations of the two lovers were so
well known that no one doubted but that it was true. But as everyone
submitted to Bothwell, either through fear or through ambition, two men
only dared to protest beforehand against this union: the one was Lord
Herries, and the other James Melville.

Mary was at Stirling when Lord Herries, taking advantage of Bothwell's
momentary absence, threw himself at her feet, imploring her not to lose
her honour by marrying her husband's murderer, which could not fail to
convince those who still doubted it that she was his accomplice. But the
queen, instead of thanking Herries for this devotion, seemed very much
surprised at his boldness, and scornfully signing to him to rise, she
coldly replied that her heart was silent as regarded the Earl of
Bothwell, and that, if she should ever re-marry, which was not probable,
she would neither forget what she owed to her people nor what she owed
to herself.

Melville did not allow himself to be discouraged by this experience, and
pretended, to have received a letter that one of his friends, Thomas
Bishop, had written him from England. He showed this letter to the
queen; but at the first lines Mary recognised the style, and above all
the friendship of her ambassador, and giving the letter to the Earl of
Livingston, who was present, "There is a very singular letter," said
she. "Read it. It is quite in Melvine's manner."

Livingston glanced through the letter, but had scarcely read the half of
it when he took Melville by the hand, and drawing him into the embrasure
of a window,

"My dear Melville," said he, "you were certainly mad when you just now
imparted this letter to the queen: as soon as the Earl of Bothwell gets
wind of it, and that will not be long, he will have you assassinated.
You have behaved like an honest man, it is true; but at court it is
better to behave as a clever man. Go away, then, as quickly as possible;
it is I who recommend it."

Melville did not require to be told twice, and stayed away for a week.
Livingston was not mistaken: scarcely had Bothwell returned to the queen
than he knew all that had passed. He burst out into curses against
Melville, and sought for him everywhere; but he could not find him.

This beginning of opposition, weak as it was, none the less disquieted
Bothwell, who, sure of Mary's love, resolved to make short work of
things. Accordingly, as the queen was returning from Stirling to
Edinburgh some days after the scenes we have just related, Bothwell
suddenly appeared at the Bridge of Grammont with a thousand horsemen,
and, having disarmed the Earl of Huntly, Livingston, and Melville, who
had returned to his mistress, he seized the queen's horse by the bridle,
and with apparent violence he forced Mary to turn back and follow him to
Dunbar; which the queen did without any resistance--a strange thing for
one of Mary's character.

The day following, the Earls of Huntly, Livingston, Melville, and the
people in their train were set at liberty; then, ten days afterwards,
Bothwell and the queen, perfectly reconciled, returned to Edinburgh
together.

Two days after this return, Bothwell gave a great dinner to the nobles
his partisans in a tavern. When the meal was ended, on the very same
table, amid half-drained glasses and empty bottles, Lindsay, Ruthven,
Morton, Maitland, and a dozen or fifteen other noblemen signed a bond
which not only set forth that upon their souls and consciences Bothwell
was innocent, but which further denoted him as the most suitable husband
for the queen. This bond concluded with this sufficiently strange
declaration:

"After all, the queen cannot do otherwise, since the earl has carried
her off and has lain with her."

Yet two circumstances were still opposed to this marriage: the first,
that Bothwell had already been married three times, and that his three
wives were living; the second, that having carried off the queen, this
violence might cause to be regarded as null the alliance which she
should contract with him: the first of these objections was attended to,
to begin with, as the one most difficult to solve.

Bothwell's two first wives were of obscure birth, consequently he
scorned to disquiet himself about them; but it was not so with the
third, a daughter of that Earl of Huntly who been trampled beneath the
horses' feet, and a sister of Gordon, who had been decapitated.
Fortunately for Bothwell, his past behaviour made his wife long for a
divorce with an eagerness as great as his own. There was not much
difficulty, then, in persuading her to bring a charge of adultery
against her husband. Bothwell confessed that he had had criminal
intercourse with a relative of his wife, and the Archbishop of St.
Andrews, the same who had taken up his abode in that solitary house at
Kirk of Field to be present at Darnley's death, pronounced the marriage
null. The case was begun, pushed on, and decided in ten days.

As to the second obstacle, that of the violence used to the queen, Mary
undertook to remove it herself; for, being brought before the court, she
declared that not only did she pardon Bothwell for his conduct as
regarded her, but further that, knowing him to be a good and faithful
subject, she intended raising him immediately to new honours. In fact,
some days afterwards she created him Duke of Orkney, and on the 15th of
the same month--that is to say, scarcely four months after the death of
Darnley--with levity that resembled madness, Mary, who had petitioned
for a dispensation to wed a Catholic prince, her cousin in the third
degree, married Bothwell, a Protestant upstart, who, his divorce
notwithstanding, was still bigamous, and who thus found himself in the
position of having four wives living, including the queen.

The wedding was dismal, as became a festival under such outrageous
auspices. Morton, Maitland, and some base flatterers of Bothwell alone
were present at it. The French ambassador, although he was a creature of
the House of Guise, to which the queen belonged, refused to attend it.

Mary's delusion was short-lived: scarcely was she in Bothwell's power
than she saw what a master she had given herself. Gross, unfeeling, and
violent, he seemed chosen by Providence to avenge the faults of which he
had been the instigator or the accomplice. Soon his fits of passion
reached such a point, that one day, no longer able to endure them, Mary
seized a dagger from Erskine, who was present with Melville at one of
these scenes, and would have struck herself, saying that she would
rather die than continue living unhappily as she did; yet, inexplicable
as it seems, in spite of these miseries, renewed without ceasing, Mary,
forgetting that she was wife and queen, tender and submissive as a
child, was always the first to be reconciled with Bothwell.

Nevertheless, these public scenes gave a pretext to the nobles, who only
sought an opportunity for an outbreak. The Earl of Mar, the young
prince's tutor, Argyll, Athol, Glencairn, Lindley, Boyd, and even Morton
and Maitland themselves, those eternal accomplices of Bothwell, rose,
they said, to avenge the death of the king, and to draw the son from
hands which had killed the father and which were keeping the mother
captive. As to Murray, he had kept completely in the background during
all the last events; he was in the county of Fife when the king was
assassinated, and three days before the trial of Bothwell he had asked
and obtained from his sister permission to take a journey on the
Continent.

The insurrection took place in such a prompt and instantaneous manner,
that the Confederate lords, whose plan was to surprise and seize both
Mary and Bothwell, thought they would succeed at the first attempt.

The king and queen were at table with Lord Borthwick, who was
entertaining them, when suddenly it was announced that a large body of
armed men was surrounding the castle: Bothwell and Mary suspected that
they were aimed at, and as they had no means of resistance, Bothwell
dressed himself as a squire, Mary as a page, and both immediately taking
horse, escaped by one door just as the Confederates were coming in by
the other. The fugitives withdrew to Dunbar.

There they called together all Bothwell's friends, and made them sign a
kind of treaty by which they undertook to defend the queen and her
husband. In the midst of all this, Murray arrived from France, and
Bothwell offered the document to him as to the others; but Murray
refused to put his signature to it, saying that it was insulting him to
think he need be bound by a written agreement when it was a question of
defending his sister and his queen. This refusal having led to an
altercation between him and Bothwell, Murray, true to his system of
neutrality, withdrew into his earldom, and let affairs follow without
him the fatal decline they had taken.

In the meantime the Confederates, after having failed at Borthwick, not
feeling strong enough to attack Bothwell at Dunbar, marched upon
Edinburgh, where they had an understanding with a man of whom Bothwell
thought himself sure. This man was James Balfour, governor of the
citadel, the same who had presided over the preparation of the mine
which had blown up Darnley, and whom Bothwell had, met on entering the
garden at Kirk of Field. Not only did Balfour deliver Edinburgh Castle
into the hands of the Confederates, but he also gave them a little
silver coffer of which the cipher, an "F" crowned, showed that it had
belonged to Francis II; and in fact it was a gift from her first
husband, which the queen had presented to Bothwell. Balfour stated that
this coffer contained precious papers, which in the present
circumstances might be of great use to Mary's enemies. The Confederate
lords opened it, and found inside the three genuine or spurious letters
that we have quoted, the marriage contract of Mary and Bothwell, and
twelve poems in the queen's handwriting. As Balfour had said, therein
lay, for her enemies, a rich and precious find, which was worth more
than a victory; for a victory would yield them only the queen's life,
while Balfour's treachery yielded them her honour.




CHAPTER IV


Meanwhile Bothwell had levied some troops, and thought himself in a
position to hold the country: accordingly, he set out with his army,
without even waiting for the Hamiltons, who were assembling their
vassals, and June 15th, 1567, the two opposed forces were face to face.
Mary, who desired to try to avoid bloodshed, immediately sent the French
ambassador to the Confederate lords to exhort them to lay aside their
arms; but they replied "that the queen deceived herself in taking them
for rebels; that they were marching not against her, but against
Bothwell." Then the king's friends did what they could to break off the
negotiations and give battle: it was already too late; the soldiers knew
that they were defending the cause of one man, and that they were going
to fight for a woman's caprice, and not for the good of the country:
they cried aloud, then, that "since Bothwell alone was aimed at, it was
for Bothwell to defend his cause". And he, vain and blustering as usual,
gave out that he was ready to prove his innocence in person against
whomsoever would dare to maintain that he was guilty. Immediately
everyone with any claim to nobility in the rival camp accepted the
challenge; and as the honour was given to the bravest, Kirkcaldy of
Grange, Murray of Tullibardine, and Lord Lindsay of Byres defied him
successively. But, be it that courage failed him, be it that in the
moment of danger he did not himself believe in the justice of his cause,
he, to escape the combat, sought such strange pretexts that the queen
herself was ashamed; and his most devoted friends murmured.

Then Mary, perceiving the fatal humour of men's minds, decided not to
run the risk of a battle. She sent a herald to Kirkcaldy of Grange, who
was commanding an outpost, and as he was advancing without distrust to
converse with the queen, Bothwell, enraged at his own cowardice, ordered
a soldier to fire upon him; but this time Mary herself interposed,
forbidding him under pain of death to offer the least violence. In the
meanwhile, as the imprudent order given by Bothwell spread through the
army, such murmurs burst forth that he clearly saw that his cause was
for ever lost.

That is what the queen thought also; for the result of her conference
with Lord Kirkcaldy was that she should abandon Bothwell's cause, and
pass over into the camp of the Confederates, on condition that they
would lay down their arms before her and bring her as queen to
Edinburgh. Kirkcaldy left her to take these conditions to the nobles,
and promised to return next day with a satisfactory answer. But at the
moment of leaving Bothwell, Mary was seized again with that fatal love
for him that she was never able to surmount, and felt herself overcome
with such weakness, that, weeping bitterly, and before everyone, she
wanted Kirkcaldy to be told that she broke off all negotiations;
however, as Bothwell had understood that he was no longer safe in camp,
it was he who insisted that things should remain as they were; and,
leaving Mary in tears, he mounted, and setting off at full speed, he did
not stop till he reached Dunbar.

Next day, at the time appointed, the arrival of Lord Kirkcaldy of Grange
was announced by the trumpeters preceding him. Mary mounted directly and
went to meet him; them, as he alighted to greet her, "My lord;" said
she, "I surrender to you, on the conditions that you have proposed to me
on the part of the nobles, and here is my hand as a sign of entire
confidence". Kirkcaldy then knelt down, kissed the queen's hand
respectfully; and, rising, he took her horse by the bridle and led it
towards the Confederates' camp.

Everyone of any rank in the army received her with such marks of respect
as entirely to satisfy her; but it was not so at all with the soldiers
and common people. Hardly had the queen reached the second line, formed
by them, than great murmurs arose, and several voices cried, "To the
stake, the adulteress! To the stake, the parricide!" However, Mary bore
these outrages stoically enough but a more terrible trial yet was in
store for her. Suddenly she saw rise before her a banner, on which was
depicted on one side the king dead and stretched out in the fatal
garden, and on the other the young prince kneeling, his hands joined and
his eyes raised to heaven, with this inscription, "O Lord! judge and
revenge my cause!" Mary reined in her horse abruptly at this sight, and
wanted to turn back; but she had scarcely moved a few paces when the
accusing banner again blocked her passage. Wherever she went, she met
this dreadful apparition. For two hours she had incessantly under her
eyes the king's corpse asking vengeance, and the young prince her son
praying God to punish the murderers. At last she could endure it no
longer, and, crying out, she threw herself back, having completely lost
consciousness, and would have fallen, if someone had not caught hold of
her. In the evening she entered Edinburgh, always preceded by the cruel
banner, and she already had rather the air of a prisoner than of a
queen; for, not having had a moment during the day to attend to her
toilet, her hair was falling in disorder about her shoulders, her face
was pale and showed traces of tears; and finally, her clothes were
covered with dust and mud. As she proceeded through the town, the
hootings of the people and the curses of the crowd followed her. At
last, half dead with fatigue, worn out with grief, bowed down with
shame, she reached the house of the Lord Provost; but scarcely had she
got there when the entire population of Edinburgh crowded into the
square, with cries that from time to time assumed a tone of terrifying
menace. Several times, then, Mary wished to go to the window, hoping
that the sight of her, of which she had so often proved the influence,
would disarm this multitude; but each time she saw this banner unfurling
itself like a bloody curtain between herself and the people--a terrible
rendering of their feelings.

However, all this hatred was meant still more for Bothwell than for her:
they were pursuing Bothwell in Darnley's widow. The curses were for
Bothwell: Bothwell was the adulterer, Bothwell was the murderer,
Bothwell was the coward; while Mary was the weak, fascinated woman, who,
that same evening, gave afresh proof of her folly.

In fact, directly the falling night had scattered the crowd and a little
quiet was regained, Mary, ceasing to be uneasy on her own account,
turned immediately to Bothwell, whom she had been obliged to abandon,
and who was now proscribed and fleeing; while she, as she believed, was
about to reassume her title and station of queen. With that eternal
confidence of the woman in her own love, by which she invariably
measures the love of another, she thought that Bothwell's greatest
distress was to have lost, not wealth and power, but to have lost
herself. So she wrote him a long letter, in which, forgetful of herself,
she promised him with the most tender expressions of love never to
desert him, and to recall him to her directly the breaking up of the
Confederate lords should give her power to do so; then, this letter
written, she called a soldier, gave him a purse of gold, and charged him
to take this letter to Dunbar, where Bothwell ought to be, and if he
were already gone, to follow him until he came up with him.

Then she went to bed and slept more calmly; for, unhappy as she was, she
believed she had just sweetened misfortunes still greater than hers.

Next day the queen was awakened by the step of an armed man who entered
her room. Both astonished and frightened at this neglect of propriety,
which could augur nothing good, Mary sat up in bed, and parting the
curtains, saw standing before her Lord Lindsay of Byres: she knew he was
one of her oldest friends, so she asked him in a voice which she vainly
tried to make confident, what he wanted of her at such a time.

"Do you know this writing, madam?" Lord Lindsay asked in a rough voice,
presenting to the queen the letter she had written to Bothwell at night,
which the soldier had carried to the Confederate lords, instead of
taking to its address.

"Yes, doubtless, my lord," the queen answered; "but am I already a
prisoner, then, that my correspondence is intercepted? or is it no
longer allowed to a wife to write to her husband?"

"When the husband is a traitor," replied Lindsay, "no, madam, it is no
longer allowed to a wife to write to her husband--at least, however, if
this wife have a part in his treason; which seems to me, besides, quite
proved by the promise you make to this wretch to recall him to you."

"My lord," cried Mary, interrupting Lindsay, "do you forget that you are
speaking to your queen."

"There was a time, madam," Lindsay replied, "when I should have spoken
to you in a more gentle voice, and bending the knee, although it is not
in the nature of us old Scotch to model ourselves on your French
courtiers; but for some time, thanks to your changing loves, you have
kept us so often in the field, in harness, that our voices are hoarse
from the cold night air, and our stiff knees can no longer bend in our
armour: you must then take me just as I am, madam; since to-day, for the
welfare of Scotland, you are no longer at liberty to choose your
favourites."

Mary grew frightfully pale at this want of respect, to which she was not
yet accustomed; but quickly containing her anger, as far as possible--

"But still, my lord," said she, "however disposed I may be to take you
as you are, I must at least know by what right you come here. That
letter which you are holding in your hand would lead me to think it is
as a spy, if the ease with which you enter my room without being asked
did not make me believe it is as a gaoler. Have the goodness, then, to
inform me by which of these two names I must call you."

"Neither by one nor the other, madam; for I am simply your
fellow-traveller, chief of the escort which is to take you to Lochleven
Castle, your future residence. And yet, scarcely have I arrived there
than I shall be obliged to leave you to go and assist the Confederate
lords choose a regent for the kingdom."

"So," said Mary, "it was as prisoner and not as queen that I surrendered
to Lord Kirkcaldy. It seems to me that things were agreed upon
otherwise; but I am glad to see how much time Scotch noblemen need to
betray their sworn undertakings".

"Your Grace forgets that these engagements were made on one condition,"
Lindsay answered.

"On which?" Mary asked.

"That you should separate for ever from your husband's murderer; and
there is the proof," he added, showing the letter, "that you had
forgotten your promise before we thought of revoking ours."

"And at what o'clock is my departure fixed?" said Mary, whom this
discussion was beginning to fatigue.

"At eleven o'clock, madam."

"It is well, my lord; as I have no desire to make your lordship wait,
you will have the goodness, in withdrawing, to send me someone to help
me dress, unless I am reduced to wait upon myself."

And, in pronouncing these words, Mary made a gesture so imperious, that
whatever may have been Lindsay's wish to reply, he bowed and went out.
Behind him entered Mary Seyton.




CHAPTER V


At the time appointed the queen was ready: she had suffered so much at
Edinburgh that she left it without any regret. Besides, whether to spare
her the humiliations of the day before, or to conceal her departure from
any partisans who might remain to her, a litter had been made ready.
Mary got into it without any resistance, and after two hours' journey
she reached Duddington; there a little vessel was waiting for her, which
set sail directly she was on board, and next day at dawn she disembarked
on the other side of the Firth of Forth in the county of Fife.

Mary halted at Rosythe Castle only just long enough to breakfast, and
immediately recommenced her journey; for Lord Lindsay had declared that
he wished to reach his destination that same evening. Indeed, as the sun
was setting, Mary perceived gilded with his last rays the high towers of
Lochleven Castle, situated on an islet in the midst of the lake of the
same name.

No doubt the royal prisoner was already expected at Lochleven Castle,
for, on reaching the lake side, Lord Lindsay's equerry unfurled his
banner, which till then had remained in its case, and waved it from
right to left, while his master blew a little hunting bugle which he
wore hanging from his neck. A boat immediately put off from the island
and came towards the arrivals, set in motion by four vigorous oarsmen,
who had soon propelled it across the space which separated it from the
bank. Mary silently got into it, and sat down at the stern, while Lord
Lindsay and his equerry stood up before her; and as her guide did not
seem any more inclined to speak than she was herself to respond, she had
plenty of time to examine her future dwelling.

The castle, or rather the fortress of Lochleven, already somewhat gloomy
in its situation and architecture, borrowed fresh mournfulness still
from the hour at which it appeared to the queen's gaze. It was, so far
as she could judge amid the mists rising from the lake, one of those
massive structures of the twelfth century which seem, so fast shut up
are they, the stone armour of a giant. As she drew near, Mary began to
make out the contours of two great round towers, which flanked the
corners and gave it the severe character of a state prison. A clump of
ancient trees enclosed by a high wall, or rather by a rampart, rose at
its north front, and seemed vegetation in stone, and completed the
general effect of this gloomy abode, while, on the contrary, the eye
wandering from it and passing from islands to islands, lost itself in
the west, in the north, and in the south, in the vast plain of Kinross,
or stopped southwards at the jagged summits of Ben Lomond, whose
farthest slopes died down on the shores of the lake.

Three persons awaited Mary at the castle door: Lady Douglas, William
Douglas her son, and a child of twelve who was called Little Douglas,
and who was neither a son nor a brother of the inhabitants of the
castle, but merely a distant relative. As one can imagine, there were
few compliments between Mary and her hosts; and the queen, conducted to
her apartment, which was on the first floor, and of which the windows
overlooked the lake, was soon left with Mary Seyton, the only one of the
four Marys who had been allowed to accompany her.

However, rapid as the interview had been, and short and measured the
words exchanged between the prisoner and her gaolers, Mary had had time,
together with what she knew of them beforehand, to construct for herself
a fairly accurate idea of the new personages who had just mingled in her
history.

Lady Lochleven, wife of Lord William Douglas, of whom we have already
said a few words at the beginning of this history, was a woman of from
fifty-five to sixty years of age, who had been handsome enough in her
youth to fix upon herself the glances of King James V, and who had had a
son by him, who was this same Murray whom we have already seen figuring
so often in Mary's history, and who, although his birth was
illegitimate, had always been treated as a brother by the queen.

Lady Lochleven had had a momentary hope, so great was the king's love
for her, of becoming his wife, which upon the whole was possible, the
family of Mar, from which she was descended, being the equal of the most
ancient and the noblest families in Scotland. But, unluckily, perhaps
slanderously, certain talk which was circulating among the young
noblemen of the time came to James's ears; it was said that together
with her royal lover the beautiful favourite had another, whom she had
chosen, no doubt from curiosity, from the very lowest class. It was
added that this Porterfeld, or Porterfield, was the real father of the
child who had already received the name of James Stuart, and whom the
king was educating as his son at the monastery of St. Andrews. These
rumours, well founded or not, had therefore stopped James V at the
moment when, in gratitude to her who had given him a son, he was on the
point of raising her to the rank of queen; so that, instead of marrying
her himself, he had invited her to choose among the nobles at court; and
as she was very handsome, and the king's favour went with the marriage,
this choice, which fell on Lord William Douglas of Lochleven, did not
meet with any resistance on his part. However, in spite of this direct
protection, that James V preserved for her all his life, Lady Douglas
could never forget that she had fingered higher fortune; moreover, she
had a hatred for the one who, according to herself, had usurped her
place, and poor Mary had naturally inherited the profound animosity that
Lady Douglas bore to her mother, which had already come to light in the
few words that the two women had exchanged. Besides, in ageing, whether
from repentance for her errors or from hypocrisy, Lady Douglas had
become a prude and a puritan; so that at this time she united with the
natural acrimony of her character all the stiffness of the new religion
she had adopted.

William Douglas, who was the eldest son of Lord Lochleven, on his
mother's side half-brother of Murray, was a man of from thirty-five to
thirty-six years of age, athletic, with hard and strongly pronounced
features, red-haired like all the younger branch, and who had inherited
that paternal hatred that for a century the Douglases cherished against
the Stuarts, and which was shown by so many plots, rebellions, and
assassinations. According as fortune had favoured or deserted Murray,
William Douglas had seen the rays of the fraternal star draw near or
away from him; he had then felt that he was living in another's life,
and was devoted, body and soul, to him who was his cause of greatness or
of abasement. Mary's fall, which must necessarily raise Murray, was thus
a source of joy for him, and the Confederate lords could not have chosen
better than in confiding the safe-keeping of their prisoner to the
instinctive spite of Lady Douglas and to the intelligent hatred of her
son.

As to Little Douglas, he was, as we have said, a child of twelve, for
some months an orphan, whom the Lochlevens had taken charge of, and whom
they made buy the bread they gave him by all sorts of harshness. The
result was that the child, proud and spiteful as a Douglas, and knowing,
although his fortune was inferior, that his birth was equal to his proud
relatives, had little by little changed his early gratitude into lasting
and profound hatred: for one used to say that among the Douglases there
was an age for loving, but that there was none for hating. It results
that, feeling his weakness and isolation, the child was self-contained
with strength beyond his years, and, humble and submissive in
appearance, only awaited the moment when, a grown-up young man, he could
leave Lochleven, and perhaps avenge himself for the proud protection of
those who dwelt there. But the feelings that we have just expressed did
not extend to all the members of the family: as much as from the bottom
of his heart the little Douglas detested William and his mother, so much
he loved George, the second of Lady Lochleven's sons, of whom we have
not yet spoken, because, being away from the castle when the queen
arrived, we have not yet found an opportunity to present him to our
readers.

George, who at this time might have been about twenty-five or twenty-six
years old, was the second son of Lord Lochleven; but by a singular
chance, that his mother's adventurous youth had caused Sir William to
interpret amiss, this second son had none of the characteristic features
of the Douglases' full cheeks, high colour, large ears, and red hair.
The result was that poor George, who, on the contrary, had been given by
nature pale cheeks, dark blue eyes, and black hair, had been since
coming into the world an object of indifference to his father and of
dislike to his elder brother. As to his mother, whether she were indeed
in good faith surprised like Lord Douglas at this difference in race,
whether she knew the cause and inwardly reproached herself, George had
never been, ostensibly at least, the object of a very lively maternal
affection; so the young man, followed from his childhood by a fatality
that he could not explain, had sprung up like a wild shrub, full of sap
and strength, but uncultivated and solitary. Besides, from the time when
he was fifteen, one was accustomed to his motiveless absences, which the
indifference that everyone bore him made moreover perfectly explicable;
from time to time, however, he was seen to reappear at the castle, like
those migratory birds which always return to the same place but only
stay a moment, then take their way again without one's knowing towards
what spot in the world they are directing their flight.

An instinct of misfortune in common had drawn Little Douglas to George.
George, seeing the child ill-treated by everyone, had conceived an
affection for him, and Little Douglas, feeling himself loved amid the
atmosphere of indifference around him, turned with open arms and heart
to George: it resulted from this mutual liking that one day, when the
child had committed I do not know what fault, and that William Douglas
raised the whip he beat his dogs with to strike him, that George, who
was sitting on a stone, sad and thoughtful, had immediately sprung up,
snatched the whip from his brother's hands and had thrown it far from
him. At this insult William had drawn his sword, and George his, so that
these two brothers, who had hated one another for twenty years like two
enemies, were going to cut one another's throats, when Little Douglas,
who had picked up the whip, coming back and kneeling before William,
offered him the ignominious weapon, saying,

"Strike, cousin; I have deserved it."

This behaviour of the child had caused some minutes' reflection to the
two young men, who, terrified at the crime they were about to commit,
had returned their swords to their scabbards and had each gone away in
silence. Since this incident the friendship of George and Little Douglas
had acquired new strength, and on the child's side it had become
veneration.

We dwell upon all these details somewhat at length, perhaps, but no
doubt our readers will pardon us when they see the use to be made of
them.

This is the family, less George, who, as we have said, was absent at the
time of her arrival, into the midst of which the queen had fallen,
passing in a moment from the summit of power to the position of a
prisoner; for from the day following her arrival Mary saw that it was by
such a title she was an inmate of Lochleven Castle. In fact, Lady
Douglas presented herself before her as soon as it was morning, and with
an embarrassment and dislike ill disguised beneath an appearance of
respectful indifference, invited Mary to follow her and take stock of
the several parts of the fortress which had been chosen beforehand for
her private use. She then made her go through three rooms, of which one
was to serve as her bedroom, the second as sitting-room, and the third
as ante-chamber; afterwards, leading the way down a spiral staircase,
which looked into the great hall of the castle, its only outlet, she had
crossed this hall, and had taken Mary into the garden whose trees the
queen had seen topping the high walls on her arrival: it was a little
square of ground, forming a flower-bed in the midst of which was an
artificial fountain. It was entered by a very low door, repeated in the
opposite wall; this second door looked on to the lake and, like all the
castle doors, whose keys, however, never left the belt or the pillow of
William Douglas, it was guarded night and day by a sentinel. This was
now the whole domain of her who had possessed the palaces, the plains,
and the mountains of an entire kingdom.

Mary, on returning to her room, found breakfast ready, and William
Douglas standing near the table he was going to fulfil about the queen
the duties of carver and taster.

In spite of their hatred for Mary, the Douglases would have considered
it an eternal blemish on their honour if any accident should have
befallen the queen while she was dwelling in their castle; and it was in
order that the queen herself should not entertain any fear in this
respect that William Douglas, in his quality of lord of the manor, had
not only desired to carve before the queen, but even to taste first in
her presence, all the dishes served to her, as well as the water and the
several wines to be brought her. This precaution saddened Mary more than
it reassured her; for she understood that, while she stayed in the
castle, this ceremony would prevent any intimacy at table. However, it
proceeded from too noble an intention for her to impute it as a crime to
her hosts: she resigned herself, then, to this company, insupportable as
it was to her; only, from that day forward, she so cut short her meals
that all the time she was at Lochleven her longest dinners barely lasted
more than a quarter of an hour.

Two days after her arrival, Mary, on sitting down to table for
breakfast, found on her plate a letter addressed to her which had been
put there by William Douglas. Mary recognised Murray's handwriting, and
her first feeling was one of joy; for if a ray of hope remained to her,
it came from her brother, to whom she had always been perfectly kind,
whom from Prior of St. Andrew's she had made an earl in bestowing on him
the splendid estates which formed part of the old earldom of Murray, and
to whom, which was of more importance, she had since pardoned, or
pretended to pardon, the part he had taken in Rizzio's assassination.

Her astonishment was great, then, when, having opened the letter, she
found in it bitter reproaches for her conduct, an exhortation to do
penance, and an assurance several times repeated that she should never
leave her prison. He ended his letter in announcing to her that, in
spite of his distaste for public affairs, he had been obliged to accept
the regency, which he had done less for his country than for his sister,
seeing that it was the sole means he had of standing in the way of the
ignominious trial to which the nobles wished to bring her, as author, or
at least as chief accomplice, of Darnley's death. This imprisonment was
then clearly a great good fortune for her, and she ought to thank Heaven
for it, as an alleviation of the fate awaiting her if he had not
interceded for her.

This letter was a lightning stroke for Mary: only, as she did not wish
to give her enemies the delight of seeing her suffer, she contained her
grief, and, turning to William Douglas--

"My lord," said she, "this letter contains news that you doubtless know
already, for although we are not children by the same mother, he who
writes to me is related to us in the same degree, and will not have
desired to write to his sister without writing to his brother at the
same time; besides, as a good son, he will have desired to acquaint his
mother with the unlooked-for greatness that has befallen him."

"Yes, madam," replied William, "we know since yesterday that, for the
welfare of Scotland, my brother has been named regent; and as he is a
son as respectful to his mother as he is devoted to his country, we hope
that he will repair the evil that for five years favourites of every
sort and kind have done to both."

"It is like a good son, and at the same time like a courteous host, to
go back no farther into the history of Scotland," replied Mary Stuart,
"and not to make the daughter blush for the father's errors; for I have
heard say that the evil which your lordship laments was prior to the
time to which you assign it, and that King James V. also had formerly
favourites, both male and female. It is true that they add that the ones
as ill rewarded his friendship as the others his love. In this, if you
are ignorant of it, my lord, you can be instructed, if he is still
living, by a certain Porterfeld or Porterfield, I don't know which,
understanding these names of the lower classes too ill to retain and
pronounce them, but about which, in my stead, your noble mother could
give you information."

With these words, Mary Stuart rose, and, leaving William Douglas crimson
with rage, she returned into her bedroom, and bolted the door behind
her.

All that day Mary did not come down, remaining at her window, from which
she at least enjoyed a splendid view over the plains and village of
Kinross; but this vast extent only contracted her heart the more, when,
bringing her gaze back from the horizon to the castle, she beheld its
walls surrounded on all sides by the deep waters of the lake, on whose
wide surface a single boat, where Little Douglas was fishing, was
rocking like a speck. For some moments Mary's eyes mechanically rested
on this child, whom she had already seen upon her arrival, when suddenly
a horn sounded from the Kinross side. At the same moment Little Douglas
threw away his line, and began to row towards the shore whence the
signal had come with skill and strength beyond his years. Mary, who had
let her gaze rest on him absently, continued to follow him with her
eyes, and saw him make for a spot on the shore so distant that the boat
seemed to her at length but an imperceptible speck; but soon it
reappeared, growing larger as it approached, and Mary could then observe
that it was bringing back to the castle a new passenger, who, having in
his turn taken the oars, made the little skiff fly over the tranquil
water of the lake, where it left a furrow gleaming in the last rays of
the sun. Very soon, flying on with the swiftness of a bird, it was near
enough for Mary to see that the skilful and vigorous oarsman was a young
man from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, with long black hair,
clad in a close coat of green cloth, and wearing a Highlander's cap,
adorned with an eagle's feather; then, as with his back turned to the
window he drew nearer, Little Douglas, who was leaning on his shoulder,
said a few words which made him turn round towards the queen:
immediately Mary, with an instinctive movement rather than with the
dread of being an object of idle curiosity, drew back, but not so
quickly, however, but that she had been able to see the handsome pale
face of the unknown, who, when she returned to the window, had
disappeared behind one of the corners of the castle.

Everything is a cause of conjecture to a prisoner: it seemed to Mary
that this young man's face was not unknown to her, and that he had seen
her already; but though great the care with which she questioned her
memory, she could not recall any distinct remembrance, so much so that
the queen ended in thinking it the play of her imagination, or that some
vague and distinct resemblance had deceived her.

However, in spite of Mary, this idea had taken an important place in her
mind: she incessantly saw this little boat skimming the water, and the
young man and the child who were in it drawing near her, as if to bring
her help. It followed that, although there had been nothing real in all
these captive's dreams, she slept that night a calmer sleep than she had
yet done since she had been in Lochleven Castle.

Next day, on rising, Mary ran to her window: the weather was fine, and
everything seemed to smile on her, the water, the heavens and the earth.
But, without being able to account for the restraining motive, she did
not want to go down into the ga den before breakfast. When the door
opened, 'she turned quickly round: it was, as on the day before, William
Douglas, who came to fulfil his duty as taster.

The breakfast was a short and silent one; then, as soon as Douglas had
withdrawn, Mary descended in her turn: in crossing the courtyard she saw
two horses ready saddled, which pointed to the near departure of a
master and a squire. Was it the young man with the black hair already
setting out again? This is what Mary did not dare or did not wish to
ask. She consequently went her way, and entered the garden: at the first
glance she took it in in its full extent; it was deserted.

Mary walked there a moment; then, soon tiring of the promenade, she went
up again to her room: in passing back through the courtyard she had
noticed that the horses were no longer there. Directly she returned into
her apartment, she went then to the window to see if she could discover
anything upon the lake to guide her in her conjectures: a boat was in
fact receding, and in this boat were the two horses and the two
horsemen; one was William Douglas, the other a simple squire from the
house.

Mary continued watching the boat until it had touched the shore. Arrived
there, the two horsemen got out, disembarked their horses, and went away
at full gallop, taking the same road by which the queen had come; so
that, as the horses were prepared for a long journey, Mary thought that
William Douglas was going to Edinburgh. As to the boat, scarcely had it
landed its two passengers on the opposite shore than it returned towards
the castle.

At that moment Mary Seyton announced to the queen that Lady Douglas was
asking permission to visit her.

It was the second time, after long hatred on Lady Douglas's part and
contemptuous indifference on the queen's, that the two women were face
to face; therefore the queen, with that instinctive impulse of coquetry
which urges women, in whatever situation they find themselves, to desire
to be beautiful, above all for women, made a sign to Mary Seyton, and,
going to a little mirror fastened to the wall in a heavy Gothic frame,
she arranged her curls, and readjusted the lace of her collar; then;
having seated herself in the pose most favourable to her, in a great
arm-chair, the only one in her sitting-room, she said smilingly to Mary
Seyton that she might admit Lady Douglas, who was immediately
introduced.

Mary's expectation was not disappointed: Lady Douglas, in spite of her
hatred for James V's daughter, and mistress of herself as she thought
she as, could not prevent herself from showing by a movement of surprise
the impression that this marvelous beauty was making on her: she thought
she should find Mary crushed by her unhappiness, pallid from her
fatigues, humbled by captivity, and she saw her calm, lovely, and
haughty as usual. Mary perceived the effect that she was producing, and
addressing herself with an ironical smile partly to Mary Seyton, who was
leaning on the back of her chair, and partly to her who was paying her
this unforeseen visit.

"We are fortunate to-day," said she, "for we are going as it seems to
enjoy the society of our good hostess, whom we thank besides for having
kindly maintained with us the empty ceremony of announcing herself--a
ceremony with which, having the keys of our apartment, she could have
dispensed."

"If my presence is inconvenient to your grace," replied Lady Lochleven,
"I am all the more sorry for it, as circumstances will oblige me to
impose it twice daily, at least during the absence of my son, who is
summoned to Edinburgh by the regent; this is of what I came to inform
your grace, not with the empty ceremonial of the court, but with the
consideration which Lady Lochleven owes to everyone who has received
hospitality in her castle."

"Our good hostess mistakes our intention," Mary answered, with affected
good-nature; "and the regent himself can bear witness to the pleasure we
have always had in bringing nearer to us the persons who can recall to
us, even indirectly, our well-beloved father, James V. It will be
therefore unjustly that Lady Douglas will interpret in a manner
disagreeable to herself our surprise at seeing her; and the hospitality
that she offers us so obligingly does not promise us, in spite of her
goodwill, sufficient distractions that we should deprive ourselves of
those that her visits cannot fail to procure us."

"Unfortunately, madam," replied Lady Lochleven, whom Mary was keeping
standing before her, "whatever pleasure I myself derive from these
visits, I shall be obliged to deprive myself of, except at the times I
have mentioned. I am now too old to bear fatigue, and I have, always
been too proud to endure sarcasms."

"Really, Seyton," cried Mary, seeming to recollect herself, "we had not
dreamed that Lady Lochleven, having won her right to a stool at the
court of the king my father, would have need to preserve it in the
prison of the queen his daughter. Bring forward a seat, Seyton, that we
be not deprived so soon, and by a failure of memory on our part, of our
gracious hostess's company; or even," went on Mary, rising and pointing
out her own seat to Lady Lochleven, who was making a motion to withdraw,
"if a stool does not suit you, my lady, take this easy-chair: you will
not be the first member of your family to sit in my place."

At this last allusion, which recalled to her Murray's usurpation, Lady
Lochleven was no doubt about to make some exceedingly bitter reply, when
the young man with the dark hair appeared on the threshold, without
being announced, and, advancing towards Lady Lochleven, without saluting
Mary--

"Madam," said he, bowing to the former, "the boat which took my brother
has just returned, and one of the men in it is charged with a pressing
charge that Lord William forgot to make to you himself."

Then, saluting the old lady with the same respect, he immediately went
out of the room, without even glancing at the queen, who, hurt by this
impertinence, turned round to Mary Seyton, and, with her usual calm--

"What have they told us, Seyton, of injurious rumours which were spread
about our worthy hostess apropos of a child with a pale face and dark
hair? If this child, as I have every reason to believe, has become the
young man who just went out of the room, I am ready to affirm to all the
incredulous that he is a true Douglas, if not for courage, of which we
cannot judge, then for insolence, of which he has just given us proofs.
Let us return, darling," continued the queen, leaning on Mary Seyton's
arm; "for our good hostess, out of courtesy, might think herself obliged
to keep us company longer, while we know that she is impatiently awaited
elsewhere."

With these words, Mary went into her bedroom; while the old lady, still
quite stunned with the shower of sarcasms that the queen had rained on
her, withdrew, murmuring, "Yes, yes, he is a Douglas, and with God's
help he will prove it, I hope."

The queen had had strength as long as she was sustained by her enemy's
presence, but scarcely was she alone than she sank into a chair, and no
longer having any witness of her weakness than Mary Seyton, burst into
tears. Indeed, she had just been cruelly wounded: till then no man had
come near her who had not paid homage either to the majesty of her rank
or to the beauty of her countenance. But precisely he, on whom she had
reckoned, without knowing why, with instinctive hopes, insulted her at
one and the same time in her double pride of queen and woman: thus she
remained shut up till evening.

At dinner-time, just as Lady Lochleven had informed Mary, she ascended
to the queen's apartment, in her dress of honour, and preceding four
servants who were carrying the several dishes composing the prisoner's
repast, and who, in their turn, were followed by the old castle steward,
having, as on days of great ceremony, his gold chain round his neck and
his ivory stick in his hand. The servants placed the dishes on the
table, and waited in silence for the moment when it should please the
queen to come out of her room; but at this moment the door opened, and
in place of the queen Mary Seyton appeared.

"Madam," said she on entering, "her grace was indisposed during the day,
and will take nothing this evening; it will be useless, then, for you to
wait longer."

"Permit me to hope," replied Lady Lochleven, "that she will change her
decision; in any case, see me perform my office."

At these words, a servant handed Lady Lochleven bread and salt on a
silver salver, while the old steward, who, in the absence of William
Douglas, fulfilled the duties of carver, served to her on a plate of the
same metal a morsel from each of the dishes that had been brought; then,
this transaction ended.

"So the queen will not appear to-day?" Lady Lochleven inquired.

"It is her Majesty's resolve," replied Mary Seyton.

"Our presence is then needless," said the old lady; "but in any case the
table is served, and if her grace should have need of anything else, she
would have but to name it."

With these words, Lady Lochleven, with the same stiffness and the same
dignity with which she had come, withdrew, followed by her four servants
and her steward.

As Lady Lochleven had foreseen, the queen, yielding to the entreaties of
Mary Seyton, came out of her room at last, towards eight o'clock in the
evening, sat down to table, and, served by the only maid of honour left
her, ate a little; then, getting up, she went to the window.

It was one of those magnificent summer evenings on which the whole of
nature seems making holiday: the sky was studded with stars, which were
reflected in the lake, and in their midst, like a more fiery star, the
flame of the chafing-dish shone, burning at the stern of a little boat:
the queen, by the gleam of the light it shed, perceived George Douglas
and Little Douglas, who were fishing. However great her wish to profit
by this fine evening to breathe the pure night air, the sight of this
young man who had so grossly insulted her this very day made such a keen
impression on her that she shut her window directly, and, retiring into
her room, went to bed, and made her companion in captivity read several
prayers aloud; then, not being able to sleep, so greatly was she
agitated, she rose, and throwing on a mantle went again to the window.
The boat had disappeared.

Mary spent part of the night gazing into the immensity of the heavens,
or into the depths of the lake; but in spite of the nature of the
thoughts agitating her, she none the less found very great physical
alleviation in contact with this pure air and in contemplation of this
peaceful and silent night: thus she awoke next day calmer and more
resigned. Unfortunately, the sight of Lady Lochleven, who presented
herself at breakfast-time, to fulfil her duties as taster, brought back
her irritability. Perhaps, however, things would have gone on smoothly
if Lady Lochleven, instead of remaining standing by the sideboard, had
withdrawn after having tasted the various dishes of the courses; but
this insisting on remaining throughout the meal, which was at bottom a
mark of respect, seemed to the queen unbearable tyranny.

"Darling," said she, speaking to Mary Seyton, "have you already
forgotten that our good hostess complained yesterday of the fatigue she
felt in standing? Bring her, then, one of the two stools which compose
our royal furniture, and take care that it is not the one with the leg
broken". "If the furniture of Lochleven Castle is in such bad condition,
madam," the old lady replied, "it is the fault of the kings of Scotland:
the poor Douglases for nearly a century have had such a small part of
their sovereigns' favour, that they have not been able to keep up the
splendour of their ancestors to the level of that of private
individuals, and because there was in Scotland a certain musician, as I
am informed, who spent their income for a whole year in one month."

"Those who know how to take so well, my lady," the queen answered, "have
no need of being given to: it seems to me the Douglases have lost
nothing by waiting, and there is not a younger son of this noble family
who might not aspire to the highest alliances; it is truly vexatious
that our sister the queen of England has taken a vow of virginity; as is
stated."

"Or rather," interrupted Lady Lochleven, "that the Queen of Scotland is
not a widow by her third husband. But," continued the old lady,
pretending to recollect herself, "I do not say that to reproach your
grace. Catholics look upon marriage as a sacrament, and on this head
receive it as often as they can."

"This, then," returned Mary, "is the difference between them and the
Huguenots; for they, not having the same respect for it, think it is
allowed them to dispense with it in certain circumstances."

At this terrible sarcasm Lady Lochleven took a step towards Mary Stuart,
holding in her hand the knife which she had just been using to cut off a
piece of meat brought her to taste; but the queen rose up with so great
a calm and with such majesty, that either from involuntary respect or
shame of her first impulse, she let fall the weapon she was holding, and
not finding anything sufficiently strong in reply to express her
feelings, she signed to the servants to follow her, and went out of the
apartment with all the dignity that anger permitted her to summon to her
aid.

Scarcely had Lady Lochleven left the room than the queen sat down again,
joyful and triumphant at the victory she had just gained, and ate with a
better appetite than she had yet done since she was a prisoner, while
Mary Seyton deplored in a low tone and with all possible respect this
fatal gift of repartee that Mary had received, and which, with her
beauty, was one of the causes of all her misfortunes; but the queen did
nothing but laugh at all her observations, saying she was curious to see
the figure her good hostess would cut at dinnertime.

After breakfast, the queen went down into the garden: her satisfied
pride had restored some of her cheerfulness, so much so that, seeing,
while crossing the hall, a mandolin lying forgotten on a chair, she told
Mary Seyton to take it, to see, she said, if she could recall her old
talent. In reality the queen was one of the best musicians of the time,
and played admirably, says Brantome, on the lute and viol d'amour, an
instrument much resembling the mandolin.

Mary Seyton obeyed.

Arrived in the garden, the queen sat down in the deepest shade, and
there, having tuned her instrument, she at first drew from it lively and
light tones, which soon darkened little by little, at the same time that
her countenance assumed a hue of deep melancholy. Mary Seyton looked at
her with uneasiness, although for a long time she had been used to these
sudden changes in her mistress's humour, and she was about to ask the
reason of this gloomy veil suddenly spread over her face, when,
regulating her harmonies, Mary began to sing in a low voice, and as if
for herself alone, the following verses:

    "Caverns, meadows, plains and mounts,
     Lands of tree and stone,
     Rivers, rivulets and founts,
     By which I stray alone,
     Bewailing as I go,
     With tears that overflow,
     Sing will I
     The miserable woe
     That bids me grieve and sigh.

     Ay, but what is here to lend
     Ear to my lament?
     What is here can comprehend
     My dull discontent?
     Neither grass nor reed,
     Nor the ripples heed,
     Flowing by,
     While the stream with speed
     Hastens from my eye.

     Vainly does my wounded heart
     Hope, alas, to heal;
     Seeking, to allay its smart,
     Things that cannot feel.
     Better should my pain
     Bitterly complain,
     Crying shrill,
     To thee who dost constrain
     My spirit to such ill.

     Goddess, who shalt never die,
     List to what I say;
     Thou who makest me to lie
     Weak beneath thy sway,
     If my life must know
     Ending at thy blow,
     Cruellest!
     Own it perished so
     But at thy behest.

     Lo! my face may all men see
     Slowly pine and fade,
     E'en as ice doth melt and flee
     Near a furnace laid.
     Yet the burning ray
     Wasting me away
     Passion's glow,
     Wakens no display
     Of pity for my woe.

     Yet does every neighbour tree,
     Every rocky wall,
     This my sorrow know and see;
     So, in brief, doth all
     Nature know aright
     This my sorry plight;
     Thou alone
     Takest thy delight
     To hear me cry and moan.

     But if it be thy will,
     To see tormented still
     Wretched me,
     Then let my woful ill
     Immortal be."

This last verse died away as if the queen were exhausted, and at the
same time the mandolin slipped from her hands, and would have fallen to
the ground had not Mary Seyton thrown herself on her knees and prevented
it. The young girl remained thus at her mistress's feet for some time,
gazing at her silently, and as she saw that she was losing herself more
and more in gloomy reverie--

"Have those lines brought back to your Majesty some sad remembrance?"
she asked hesitatingly.

"Oh, yes," answered the queen; "they reminded me of the unfortunate
being who composed them."

"And may I, without indiscretion, inquire of your grace who is their
author?"

"Alas! he was a noble, brave, and handsome young man, with a faithful
heart and a hot head, who would defend me to-day, if I had defended him
then; but his boldness seemed to me rashness, and his fault a crime.
What was to be done? I did not love him. Poor Chatelard! I was very
cruel to him."

"But you did not prosecute him, it was your brother; you did not condemn
him, the judges did."

"Yes, yes; I know that he too was Murray's victim, and that is no doubt
the reason that I am calling him to mind just now. But I was able to
pardon him, Mary, and I was inflexible; I let ascend the scaffold a man
whose only crime was in loving me too well; and now I am astonished and
complain of being abandoned by everyone. Listen, darling, there is one
thing that terrifies me: it is, that when I search within myself I find
that I have not only deserved my fate, but even that God did not punish
me severely enough."

"What strange thoughts for your grace!" cried Mary; "and see where those
unlucky lines which returned to your mind have led you, the very day
when you were beginning to recover a little of your cheerfulness."

"Alas!" replied the queen, shaking her head and uttering a deep sigh,
"for six years very few days have passed that I have not repeated those
lines to myself, although it may be for the first time to-day that I
repeat them aloud. He was a Frenchman too, Mary: they have exiled from
me, taken or killed all who came to me from France. Do you remember that
vessel which was swallowed up before our eyes when we came out of Calais
harbour? I exclaimed then that it was a sad omen: you all wanted to
reassure me. Well, who was right, now, you or I?"

The queen was in one of those fits of sadness for which tears are the
sole remedy; so Mary Seyton, perceiving that not only would every
consolation be vain, but also unreasonable, far from continuing to react
against her mistress's melancholy, fully agreed with her: it followed
that the queen, who was suffocating, began to weep, and that her tears
brought her comfort; then little by little she regained self-control,
and this crisis passed as usual, leaving her firmer and more resolute
than ever, so that when she went up to her room again it was impossible
to read the slightest alteration in her countenance.

The dinner-hour was approaching, and Mary, who in the morning was
looking forward impatiently to the enjoyment of her triumph over Lady
Lochleven, now saw her advance with uneasiness: the mere idea of again
facing this woman, whose pride one was always obliged to oppose with
insolence, was, after the moral fatigues of the day, a fresh weariness.
So she decided not to appear for dinner, as on the day before: she was
all the more glad she had taken this resolution, that this time it was
not Lady Lochleven who came to fulfil the duties enjoined on a member of
the family to make the queen easy, but George Douglas, whom his mother
in her displeasure at the morning scene sent to replace her. Thus, when
Mary Seyton told the queen that she saw the young man with dark hair
cross the courtyard on his way to her, Mary still further congratulated
herself on her decision; for this young man's insolence had wounded her
more deeply than all his mother's haughty insults. The queen was not a
little astonished, then, when in a few minutes Mary Seyton returned and
informed her that George Douglas, having sent away the servants, desired
the honour of speaking to her on a matter of importance. At first the
queen refused; but Mary Seyton told her that the young man's air and
manner this time were so different from what she had seen two days
before, that she thought her mistress would be wrong to refuse his
request.

The queen rose then, and with the pride and majesty habitual to her,
entered the adjoining room, and, having taken three steps, stopped with
a disdainful air, waiting for George to address her.

Mary Seyton had spoken truly: George Douglas was now another man. To-day
he seemed to be as respectful and timid as the preceding day he had
seemed haughty and proud. He, in his turn, made a step towards the
queen; but seeing Mary Seyton standing behind her--

"Madam," said he, "I wished to speak with your Majesty alone: shall I
not obtain this favour?"

"Mary Seyton is not a stranger to me, Sir: she is my sister, my friend;
she is more than all that, she is my companion in captivity."

"And by all these claims, madam, I have the utmost veneration for her;
but what I have to tell you cannot be heard by other ears than yours.
Thus, madam, as the opportunity furnished now may perhaps never present
itself again, in the name of what is dearest to you, grant me what I
ask."

There was such a tone of respectful prayer in George's voice that Mary
turned to the young girl, and, making her a friendly sign with her
hand--

"Go, then, darling," said she; "but be easy, you will lose nothing by
not hearing. Go."

Mary Seyton withdrew; the queen smilingly looked after her, till the
door was shut; then, turning to George--

"Now, sir," said she, "we are alone, speak."

But George, instead of replying, advanced to the queen, and, kneeling on
one knee, drew from his breast a paper which he presented to her. Mary
took it with amazement, unfolded it, glancing at Douglas, who remained
in the same posture, and read as follows:

We, earls, lords, and barons, in consideration that our queen is
detained at Lochleven, and that her faithful subjects cannot have access
to her person; seeing, on the other hand, that our duty pledges us to
provide for her safety, promise and swear to employ all reasonable means
which will depend on us to set her at liberty again on conditions
compatible with the honour of her Majesty, the welfare of the kingdom,
and even with the safety of those who keep her in prison, provided that
they consent to give her up; that if they refuse, we declare that we are
prepared to make use of ourselves, our children, our friends, our
servants, our vassals, our goods, our persons, and our lives, to restore
her to liberty, to procure the safety of the prince, and to co-operate
in punishing the late king's murderers. If we are assailed for this
intent, whether as a body or in private, we promise to defend ourselves,
and to aid one another, under pain of infamy and perjury. So may God
help us.

"Given with our own hands at Dumbarton,

"St. Andrews, Argyll, Huntly, Arbroath, Galloway, Ross, Fleming,
Herries, Stirling, Kilwinning, Hamilton, and Saint-Clair, Knight."

"And Seyton!" cried Mary, "among all these signatures, I do not see that
of my faithful Seyton."

Douglas, still kneeling, drew from his breast a second paper, and
presented it to the queen with the same marks of respect. It contained
only these few words:

"Trust George Douglas; for your Majesty has no more devoted friend in
the entire kingdom. "SEYTON."

Mary lowered her eyes to Douglas with an expression which was hers only;
then, giving him her hand to raise him--

"Ah!" said she, with a sigh more of joy than of sadness, "now I see that
God, in spite of my faults, has not yet abandoned me. But how is it, in
this castle, that you, a Douglas.... oh! it is incredible!"

"Madam," replied George, "seven years have passed since I saw you in
France for the first time, and for seven years I have loved you". Mary
moved; but Douglas put forth his hand and shook his head with an air of
such profound sadness, that she understood that she might hear what the
young man had to say. He continued: "Reassure yourself, madam; I should
never have made this confession if, while explaining my conduct to you,
this confession would not have given you greater confidence in me. Yes,
for seven years I have loved you, but as one loves a star that one can
never reach, a madonna to whom one can only pray; for seven years I have
followed you everywhere without you ever having paid attention to me,
without my saying a word or making a gesture to attract your notice. I
was on the knight of Mevillon's galley when you crossed to Scotland; I
was among the regent's soldiers when you beat Huntly; I was in the
escort which accompanied you when you went to see the sick king at
Glasgow; I reached Edinburgh an hour after you had left it for
Lochleven; and then it seemed to me that my mission was revealed to me
for the first time, and that this love for which till then, I had
reproached myself as a crime, was on the contrary a favour from God. I
learned that the lords were assembled at Dumbarton: I flew thither. I
pledged my name, I pledged my honour, I pledged my life; and I obtained
from them, thanks to the facility I had for coming into this fortress,
the happiness of bringing you the paper they have just signed. Now,
madam, forget all I have told you, except the assurance of my devotion
and respect: forget that I am near you; I am used to not being seen:
only, if you have need of my life, make a sign; for seven years my life
has been yours."

"Alas!" replied Mary, "I was complaining this morning of no longer being
loved, and I ought to complain, on the contrary, that I am still loved;
for the love that I inspire is fatal and mortal. Look back, Douglas, and
count the tombs that, young as I am, I have already left on my
path--Francis II, Chatelard, Rizzio, Darnley.... Oh to attach one's self
to my fortunes more than love is needed now heroism and devotion are
requisite so much the more that, as you have said, Douglas, it is love
without any possible reward. Do you understand?"

"Oh, madam, madam," answered Douglas, "is it not reward beyond my
deserts to see you daily, to cherish the hope that liberty will be
restored to you through me, and to have at least, if I do not give it
you, the certainty of dying in your sight?"

"Poor young man!" murmured Mary, her eyes raised to heaven, as if she
were reading there beforehand the fate awaiting her new defender.

"Happy Douglas, on the contrary," cried George, seizing the queen's hand
and kissing it with perhaps still more respect than love, "happy
Douglas! for in obtaining a sigh from your Majesty he has already
obtained more than he hoped."

"And upon what have you decided with my friends?" said the queen,
raising Douglas, who till then had remained on his knees before her.

"Nothing yet," George replied; "for we scarcely had time to see one
another. Your escape, impossible without me, is difficult even with me;
and your Majesty has seen that I was obliged publicly to fail in
respect, to obtain from my mother the confidence which gives me the good
fortune of seeing you to-day: if this confidence on my mother's or my
brother's part ever extends to giving up to me the castle keys, then you
are saved! Let your Majesty not be surprised at anything, then: in the
presence of others, I shall ever be always a Douglas, that is an enemy;
and except your life be in danger, madam, I shall not utter a word, I
shall not make a gesture which might betray the faith that I have sworn
you; but, on your side, let your grace know well, that present or
absent, whether I am silent or speak, whether I act or remain inert, all
will be in appearance only, save my devotion. Only," continued Douglas,
approaching the window and showing to the queen a little house on
Kinross hill,--"only, look every evening in that direction, madam, and
so long as you see a light shine there, your friends will be keeping
watch for you, and you need not lose hope."

"Thanks, Douglas, thanks," said the queen; "it does one good to meet
with a heart like yours from time to time--oh! thanks."

"And now, madam," replied the young man, "I must leave your Majesty; to
remain longer with you would be to raise suspicions, and a single doubt
of me, think of it well, madam, and that light which is your sole beacon
is extinguished, and all returns into night."

With these words, Douglas bowed more respectfully than he had yet done,
and withdrew, leaving Mary full of hope, and still more full of pride;
for this time the homage that she had just received was certainly for
the woman and not for the queen.

As the queen had told him, Mary Seyton was informed of everything, even
the love of Douglas, and, the two women impatiently awaited the evening
to see if the promised star would shine on the horizon. Their hope was
not in vain: at the appointed time the beacon was lit. The queen
trembled with joy, for it was the confirmation of her hopes, and her
companion could not tear her from the window, where she remained with
her gaze fastened on the little house in Kinross. At last she yielded to
Mary Seyton's prayers, and consented to go to bed; but twice in the
night she rose noiselessly to go to the window: the light was always
shining, and was not extinguished till dawn, with its sisters the stars.

Next day, at breakfast, George announced to the queen the return of his
brother, William Douglas: he arrived the same evening; as to himself,
George, he had to leave Lochleven next morning, to confer with the
nobles who had signed the declaration, and who had immediately separated
to raise troops in their several counties. The queen could not attempt
to good purpose any escape but at a time when she would be sure of
gathering round her an army strong enough to hold the country; as to
him, Douglas, one was so used to his silent disappearances and to his
unexpected returns, that there was no reason to fear that his departure
would inspire any suspicion.

All passed as George had said: in the evening the sound of a bugle
announced the arrival of William Douglas; he had with him Lord Ruthven,
the son of him who had assassinated Rizzio, and who, exiled with Morton
after the murder, died in England of the sickness with which he was
already attacked the day of the terrible catastrophe in which we have
seen him take such a large share. He preceded by one day Lord Lindsay of
Byres and Sir Robert Melville, brother of Mary's former ambassador to
Elizabeth: all three were charged with a mission from the regent to the
queen.

On the following day everything fell back into the usual routine, and
William Douglas reassumed his duties as carver. Breakfast passed without
Mary's having learned anything of George's departure or Ruthven's
arrival. On rising from the table she went to her window: scarcely was
she there than she heard the sound of a horn echoing on the shores of
the lake, and saw a little troop of horsemen halt, while waiting for the
boat to come and take those who were going to the castle.

The distance was too great for Mary to recognise any of the visitors;
but it was clear, from the signs of intelligence exchanged between the
little troop and the inhabitants of the fortress, that the newcomers
were her enemies. This was a reason why the queen, in her uneasiness,
should not lose sight for a moment of the boat which was going to fetch
them. She saw only two men get into it; and immediately it put off again
for the castle.

As the boat drew nearer, Mary's presentiments changed to real fears, for
in one of the men coming towards her she thought she made out Lord
Lindsay of Byres, the same who, a week before, had brought her to her
prison. It was indeed he himself, as usual in a steel helmet without a
visor, which allowed one to see his coarse face designed to express
strong passions, and his long black beard with grey hairs here and
there, which covered his chest: his person was protected, as if it were
in time of war, with his faithful suit of armour, formerly polished and
well gilded, but which, exposed without ceasing to rain and mist, was
now eaten up with rust; he had slung on his back, much as one slings a
quiver, a broadsword, so heavy that it took two hands to manage it, and
so long that while the hilt reached the left shoulder the point reached
the right spur: in a word, he was still the same soldier, brave to
rashness but brutal to insolence, recognising nothing but right and
force, and always ready to use force when he believed himself in the
right.

The queen was so much taken up with the sight of Lord Lindsay of Byres,
that it was only just as the boat reached the shore that she glanced at
his companion and recognised Robert Melville: this was some consolation,
for, whatever might happen, she knew that she should find in him if not
ostensible at least secret sympathy. Besides, his dress, by which one
could have judged him equally with Lord Lindsay, was a perfect contrast
to his companion's. It consisted of a black velvet doublet, with a cap
and a feather of the same hue fastened to it with a gold clasp; his only
weapon, offensive or defensive, was a little sword, which he seemed to
wear rather as a sign of his rank than for attack or defence. As to his
features and his manners, they were in harmony with this peaceful
appearance: his pale countenance expressed both acuteness and
intelligence; his quick eye was mild, and his voice insinuating; his
figure slight and a little bent by habit rather than by years, since he
was but forty-five at this time, indicated an easy and conciliatory
character.

However, the presence of this man of peace, who seemed entrusted with
watching over the demon of war, could not reassure the queen, and as to
get to the landing-place, in front of the great door of the castle, the
boat had just disappeared behind the corner of a tower, she told Mary
Seyton to go down that she might try to learn what cause brought Lord
Lindsay to Lochleven, well knowing that with the force of character with
which she was endowed, she need know this cause but a few minutes
beforehand, whatever it might be, to give her countenance that calm and
that majesty which she had always found to influence her enemies.

Left alone, Mary let her glance stray back to the little house in
Kinross, her sole hope; but the distance was too great to distinguish
anything; besides, its shutters remained closed all day, and seemed to
open only in the evening, like the clouds, which, having covered the sky
for a whole morning, scatter at last to reveal to the lost sailor a
solitary star. She had remained no less motionless, her gaze always
fixed on the same object, when she was drawn from this mute
contemplation by the step of Mary Seyton.

"Well, darling?" asked the queen, turning round.

"Your Majesty is not mistaken," replied the messenger: "it really was
Sir Robert Melville and Lord Lindsay; but there came yesterday with Sir
William Douglas a third ambassador, whose name, I am afraid, will be
still more odious to your Majesty than either of the two I have just
pronounced."

"You deceive yourself, Mary," the queen answered: "neither the name of
Melville nor that of Lindsay is odious to me. Melville's, on the
contrary, is, in my present circumstances, one of those which I have
most pleasure in hearing; as to Lord Lindsay's, it is doubtless not
agreeable to me, but it is none the less an honourable name, always
borne by men rough and wild, it is true, but incapable of treachery.
Tell me, then, what is this name, Mary; for you see I am calm and
prepared."

"Alas! madam," returned Mary, "calm and prepared as you may be, collect
all your strength, not merely to hear this name uttered, but also to
receive in a few minutes the man who bears it; for this name is that of
Lord Ruthven."

Mary Seyton had spoken truly, and this name had a terrible influence
upon the queen; for scarcely had it escaped the young girl's lips than
Mary Stuart uttered a cry, and turning pale, as if she were about to
faint, caught hold of the window-ledge.

Mary Seyton, frightened at the effect produced by this fatal name,
immediately sprang to support the queen; but she, stretching one hand
towards her, while she laid the other on her heart--

"It is nothing," said she; "I shall be better in a moment. Yes, Mary,
yes, as you said, it is a fatal name and mingled with one of my most
bloody memories. What such men are coming to ask of me must be dreadful
indeed. But no matter, I shall soon be ready to receive my brother's
ambassadors, for doubtless they are sent in his name. You, darling,
prevent their entering, for I must have some minutes to myself: you know
me; it will not take me long."

With these words the queen withdrew with a firm step to her bedchamber.

Mary Seyton was left alone, admiring that strength of character which
made of Mary Stuart, in all other respects so completely woman-like, a
man in the hour of danger. She immediately went to the door to close it
with the wooden bar that one passed between two iron rings, but the bar
had been taken away, so that there was no means of fastening the door
from within. In a moment she heard someone coming up the stairs, and
guessing from the heavy, echoing step that this must be Lord Lindsay,
she looked round her once again to see if she could find something to
replace the bar, and finding nothing within reach, she passed her arm
through the rings, resolved to let it be broken rather than allow anyone
to approach her mistress before it suited her. Indeed, hardly had those
who were coming up reached the landing than someone knocked violently,
and a harsh voice cried:

"Come, come, open the door; open directly."

"And by what right," said Mary Seyton, "am I ordered thus insolently to
open the Queen of Scotland's door?"

"By the right of the ambassador of the regent to enter everywhere in his
name. I am Lord Lindsay, and I am come to speak to Lady Mary Stuart."

"To be an ambassador," answered Mary Seyton, "is not to be exempted from
having oneself announced in visiting a woman, and much more a queen; and
if this ambassador is, as he says, Lord Lindsay, he will await his
sovereign's leisure, as every Scottish noble would do in his place."

"By St. Andrew!" cried Lord Lindsay, "open, or I will break in the
door."

"Do nothing to it, my lord, I entreat you," said another voice, which
Mary recognised as Meville's. "Let us rather wait for Lord Ruthven, who
is not yet ready."

"Upon my soul," cried Lindsay, shaking the door, "I shall not wait a
second". Then, seeing that it resisted, "Why did you tell me, then, you
scamp," Lindsay went on, speaking to the steward, "that the bar had been
removed?

"It is true," replied he.

"Then," returned Lindsay, "with what is this silly wench securing the
door?"

"With my arm, my lord, which I have passed through the rings, as a
Douglas did for King James I, at a time when Douglases had dark hair
instead of red, and were faithful instead of being traitors."

"Since you know your history so well," replied Lindsay, in a rage," you
should remember that that weak barrier did not hinder Graham, that
Catherine Douglas's arm was broken like a willow wand, and that James I
was killed like a dog."

"But you, my lord," responded the courageous young girl, "ought also to
know the ballad that is still sung in our time--

"'Now, on Robert Gra'am, The king's destroyer, shame! To Robert Graham
cling Shame, who destroyed our king.'"

"Mary," cried the queen, who had overheard this altercation from her
bedroom,--"Mary, I command you to open the door directly: do you hear?"

Mary obeyed, and Lord Lindsay entered, followed by Melville, who walked
behind him, with slow steps and bent head. Arrived in the middle of the
second room, Lord Lindsay stopped, and, looking round him--

"Well, where is she, then?" he asked; "and has she not already kept us
waiting long enough outside, without making us wait again inside? Or
does she imagine that, despite these walls and these bars, she is always
queen?"

"Patience, my lord," murmured Sir Robert: "you see that Lord Ruthven has
not come yet, and since we can do nothing without him, let us wait."

"Let wait who will," replied Lindsay, inflamed with anger; "but it will
not be I, and wherever she may be, I shall go and seek her."

With these words, he made some steps towards Mary Stuart's bedroom; but
at the same moment the queen opened the door, without seeming moved
either at the visit or at the insolence of the visitors, and so lovely
and so full of majesty, that each, even Lindsay himself, was silent at
her appearance, and, as if in obedience to a higher power, bowed
respectfully before her.

"I fear I have kept you waiting, my lord," said the queen, without
replying to the ambassador's salutation otherwise than by a slight
inclination of the head; "but a woman does not like to receive even
enemies without having spent a few minutes over her toilet. It is true
that men are less tenacious of ceremony," added she, throwing a
significant glance at Lord Lindsay's rusty armour and soiled and pierced
doublet. "Good day, Melville," she continued, without paying attention
to some words of excuse stammered by Lindsay; "be welcome in my prison,
as you were in my palace; for I believe you as devoted to the one as to
the other".

Then, turning to Lindsay, who was looking interrogatively at the door,
impatient as he was for Ruthven to come--

"You have there, my lord," said she, pointing to the sword he carried
over his shoulder, "a faithful companion, though it is a little heavy:
did you expect, in coming here, to find enemies against whom to employ
it? In the contrary case, it is a strange ornament for a lady's
presence. But no matter, my lord, I, am too much of a Stuart to fear the
sight of a sword, even if it were naked, I warn you."

"It is not out of place here, madam," replied Lindsay, bringing it
forward and leaning his elbow on its cross hilt, "for it is an old
acquaintance of your family."

"Your ancestors, my lord, were brave and loyal enough for me not to
refuse to believe what you tell me. Besides, such a good blade must have
rendered them good service."

"Yes, madam, yes, surely it has done so, but that kind of service that
kings do not forgive. He for whom it was made was Archibald
Bell-the-Cat, and he girded himself with it the day when, to justify his
name, he went to seize in the very tent of King James III, your
grandfather, his unworthy favourites, Cochran, Hummel, Leonard, and
Torpichen, whom he hanged on Louder Bridge with the halters of his
soldiers' horses. It was also with this sword that he slew at one blow,
in the lists, Spens of Kilspindie, who had insulted him in the presence
of King James IV, counting on the protection his master accorded him,
and which did not guard him against it any more than his shield, which
it split in two. At his master's death, which took place two years after
the defeat of Flodden, on whose battlefield he left his two sons and two
hundred warriors of the name of Douglas, it passed into the hands of the
Earl of Angus, who drew it from the scabbard when he drove the Hamiltons
out of Edinburgh, and that so quickly and completely that the affair was
called the 'sweeping of the streets.' Finally, your father James V saw
it glisten in the fight of the bridge over the Tweed, when Buccleuch,
stirred up by him, wanted to snatch him from the guardianship of the
Douglases, and when eighty warriors of the name of Scott remained on the
battlefield."

"But," said the queen, "how is it that this weapon, after such exploits,
has not remained as a trophy in the Douglas family? No doubt the Earl of
Angus required a great occasion to decide him to renounce in your favour
this modern Excalibur". [History of Scotland, by Sir Walter Scott.--"The
Abbott": historical part.]

"Yes, no doubt, madam, it was upon a great occasion," replied Lindsay,
in spite of the imploring signs made by Melville, "and this will have at
least the advantage of the others, in being sufficiently recent for you
to remember. It was ten days ago, on the battlefield of Carberry Hill,
madam, when the infamous Bothwell had the audacity to make a public
challenge in which he defied to single combat whomsoever would dare to
maintain that he was not innocent of the murder of the king your
husband. I made him answer then, I the third, that he was an assassin.
And as he refused to fight with the two others under the pretext that
they were only barons, I presented myself in my turn, I who am earl and
lord. It was on that occasion that the noble Earl of Morton gave me this
good sword to fight him to the death. So that, if he had been a little
more presumptuous or a little less cowardly, dogs and vultures would be
eating at this moment the pieces that, with the help of this good sword,
I should have carved for them from that traitor's carcass."

At these words, Mary Seyton and Robert Melville looked at each other in
terror, for the events that they recalled were so recent that they were,
so to speak, still living in the queen's heart; but the queen, with
incredible impassibility and a smile of contempt on her lips--

"It is easy, my lord," said she, "to vanquish an enemy who does not
appear in the lists; however, believe me, if Mary had inherited the
Stuarts' sword as she has inherited their sceptre, your sword, long as
it is, would yet have seemed to you too short. But as you have only to
relate to us now, my lord, what you intended doing, and not what you
have done, think it fit that I bring you back to something of more
reality; for I do not suppose you have given yourself the trouble to
come here purely and simply to add a chapter to the little treatise Des
Rodomontades Espagnolles by M. de Brantome."

"You are right, madam," replied Lindsay, reddening with anger, "and you
would already know the object of our mission if Lord Ruthven did not so
ridiculously keep us waiting. But," added he, "have patience; the matter
will not be long now, for here he is."

Indeed, at that moment they heard steps mounting the staircase and
approaching the room, and at the sound of these steps, the queen, who
had borne with such firmness Lindsay's insults, grew so perceptibly
paler, that Melville, who did not take his eyes off her,--put out his
hand towards the arm-chair as if to push it towards her; but the queen
made a sign that she had no need of it, and gazed at the door with
apparent calm. Lord Ruthven appeared; it was the first time that she had
seen the son since Rizzio had been assassinated by the father.

Lord Ruthven was both a warrior and a statesman, and at this moment his
dress savoured of the two professions: it consisted of a close coat of
embroidered buff leather, elegant enough to be worn as a court undress,
and on which, if need were, one could buckle a cuirass, for battle: like
his father, he was pale; like his father, he was to die young, and, even
more than his father, his countenance wore that ill-omened melancholy by
which fortune-tellers recognise those who are to die a violent death.

Lord Ruthven united in himself the polished dignity of a courtier and
the inflexible character of a minister; but quite resolved as he was to
obtain from Mary Stuart, even if it were by violence, what he had come
to demand in the regent's name, he none the less made her, on entering,
a cold but respectful greeting, to which the queen responded with a
courtesy; then the steward drew up to the empty arm-chair a heavy table
on which had been prepared everything necessary for writing, and at a
sign from the two lords he went out, leaving the queen and her companion
alone with the three ambassadors. Then the queen, seeing that this table
and this arm-chair were put ready for her, sat down; and after a moment,
herself breaking this silence more gloomy than any word could have
been--

"My lords," said she, "you see that I wait: can it be that this message
which you have to communicate to me is so terrible that two soldiers as
renowned as Lord Lindsay and Lord Ruthven hesitate at the moment of
transmitting it?"

"Madam," answered Ruthven, "I am not of a family, as you know, which
ever hesitates to perform a duty, painful as it may be; besides, we hope
that your captivity has prepared you to hear what we have to tell you on
the part of the Secret Council."

"The Secret Council!" said the queen. "Instituted by me, by what right
does it act without me? No matter, I am waiting for this message: I
suppose it is a petition to implore my mercy for the men who have dared
to reach to a power that I hold only from God."

"Madam," replied Ruthven, who appeared to have undertaken the painful
role of spokesman, while Lindsay, mute and impatient, fidgeted with the
hilt of his long sword, "it is distressing to me to have to undeceive
you on this point: it is not your mercy that I come to ask; it is, on
the contrary, the pardon of the Secret Council that I come to offer
you."

"To me, my lord, to me!" cried Mary: "subjects offer pardon to their
queen! Oh! it is such a new and wonderful thing, that my amazement
outweighs my indignation, and that I beg you to continue, instead of
stopping you there, as perhaps I ought to do."

"And I obey you so much the more willingly, madam," went on Ruthven
imperturbably, "that this pardon is only granted on certain conditions,
stated in these documents, destined to re-establish the tranquillity of
the State, so cruelly compromised by the errors that they are going to
repair."

"And shall I be permitted, my lord, to read these documents, or must I,
allured by my confidence in those who present them to me, sign them with
my eyes shut?"

"No, madam," Ruthven returned; "the Secret Council desire, on the
contrary, that you acquaint yourself with them, for you must sign them
freely."

"Read me these documents, my lord; for such a reading is, I think,
included in the strange duties you have accepted."

Lord Ruthven took one of the two papers that he had in his hand, and
read with the impassiveness of his usual voice the following:

"Summoned from my tenderest youth to the government of the kingdom and
to the crown of Scotland, I have carefully attended to the
administration; but I have experienced so much fatigue and trouble that
I no longer find my mind free enough nor my strength great enough to
support the burden of affairs of State: accordingly, and as Divine
favour has granted us a son whom we desire to see during our lifetime
bear the crown which he has acquired by right of birth, we have resolved
to abdicate, and we abdicate in his favour, by these presents, freely
and voluntarily, all our rights to the crown and to the government of
Scotland, desiring that he may immediately ascend the throne, as if he
were called to it by our natural death, and not as the effect of our own
will; and that our present abdication may have a more complete and
solemn effect, and that no one should put forward the claim of
ignorance, we give full powers to our trusty and faithful cousins, the
lords Lindsay of Byres and William Ruthven, to appear in our name before
the nobility, the clergy, and the burgesses of Scotland, of whom they
will convoke an assembly at Stirling, and to there renounce, publicly
and solemnly, on our part, all our claims to the crown and to the
government of Scotland.

"Signed freely and as the testimony of one of our last royal wishes, in
our castle of Lochleven, the ___ June 1567". (The date was left blank.)

There was a moment's silence after this reading, then

"Did you hear, madam?" asked Ruthven.

"Yes," replied Mary Stuart,--"yes, I have heard rebellious words that I
have not understood, and I thought that my ears, that one has tried to
accustom for some time to a strange language, still deceived me, and
that I have thought for your honour, my lord William Ruthven, and my
lord Lindsay of Byres."

"Madam," answered Lindsay, out of patience at having kept silence so
long, "our honour has nothing to do with the opinion of a woman who has
so ill known how to watch over her own."

"My lord!" said Melville, risking a word.

"Let him speak, Robert," returned the queen. "We have in our conscience
armour as well tempered as that with which Lord Lindsay is so prudently
covered, although, to the shame of justice, we no longer have a sword.
Continue, my lord," the queen went on, turning to Lord Ruthven: "is this
all that my subjects require of me? A date and a signature? Ah!
doubtless it is too little; and this second paper, which you have kept
in order to proceed by degrees, probably contains some demand more
difficult to grant than that of yielding to a child scarcely a year old
a crown which belongs to me by birthright, and to abandon my sceptre to
take a distaff."

"This other paper," replied Ruthven, without letting himself be
intimidated by the tone of bitter irony adopted by the queen, "is the
deed by which your Grace confirms the decision of the Secret Council
which has named your beloved brother, the Earl of Murray, regent of the
kingdom."

"Indeed!" said Mary. "The Secret Council thinks it needs my confirmation
to an act of such slight importance? And my beloved brother, to bear it
without remorse, needs that it should be I who add a fresh title to
those of Earl of Mar and of Murray that I have already bestowed upon
him? But one cannot desire anything more respectful and touching than
all this, and I should be very wrong to complain. My lords," continued
the queen, rising and changing her tone, "return to those who have sent
you, and tell them that to such demands Mary Stuart has no answer to
give."

"Take care, madam," responded Ruthven; "for I have told you it is only
on these conditions that your pardon can be granted you."

"And if I refuse this generous pardon," asked Mary, "what will happen?"

"I cannot pronounce beforehand, madam; but your Grace has enough
knowledge of the laws, and above all of the history of Scotland and
England, to know that murder and adultery are crimes for which more than
one queen has been punished with death."

"And upon what proofs could such a charge be founded, my lord? Pardon my
persistence, which takes up your precious time; but I am sufficiently
interested in the matter to be permitted such a question."

"The proof, madam?" returned Ruthven. "There is but one, I know; but
that one is unexceptionable: it is the precipitate marriage of the widow
of the assassinated with the chief assassin, and the letters which have
been handed over to us by James Balfo

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