A week after the events we have related, as nine o'clock in the evening
had just sounded from the castle bell, and the queen and Mary Seyton
were sitting at a table where they were working at their tapestry, a
stone thrown from the courtyard passed through the window bars, broke a
pane of glass, and fell into the room. The queen's first idea was to
believe it accidental or an insult; but Mary Seyton, turning round,
noticed that the stone was wrapped up in a paper: she immediately picked
it up. The paper was a letter from George Douglas, conceived in these
terms:
"You have commanded me to live, madam: I have obeyed, and your Majesty
has been able to tell, from the Kinross light, that your servants
continue to watch over you. However, not to raise suspicion, the
soldiers collected for that fatal night dispersed at dawn, and will not
gather again till a fresh attempt makes their presence necessary. But,
alas! to renew this attempt now, when your Majesty's gaolers are on
their guard, would be your ruin. Let them take every precaution, then,
madam; let them sleep in security, while we, we, in our devotion, shall
go on watching.
"Patience and courage!"
"Brave and loyal heart!" cried Mary, "more constantly devoted to
misfortune than others are to prosperity! Yes, I shall have patience and
courage, and so long as that light shines I shall still believe in
liberty."
This letter restored to the queen all her former courage: she had means
of communication with George through Little Douglas; for no doubt it was
he who had thrown that stone. She hastened, in her turn, to write a
letter to George, in which she both charged him to express her gratitude
to all the lords who had signed the protestation; and begged them, in
the name of the fidelity they had sworn to her, not to cool in their
devotion, promising them, for her part, to await the result with that
patience and courage they asked of her.
The queen was not mistaken: next day, as she was at her window, Little
Douglas came to play at the foot of the tower, and, without raising his
head, stopped just beneath her to dig a trap to catch birds. The queen
looked to see if she were observed, and assured that that part of the
courtyard was deserted, she let fall the stone wrapped in her letter: at
first she feared to have made a serious error; for Little Douglas did
not even turn at the noise, and it was only after a moment, during which
the prisoner's heart was torn with frightful anxiety, that
indifferently, and as if he were looking for something else, the child
laid his hand on the stone, and without hurrying, without raising his
head, without indeed giving any sign of intelligence to her who had
thrown it, he put the letter in his pocket, finishing the work he had
begun with the greatest calm, and showing the queen, by this coolness
beyond his years, what reliance she could place in him.
From that moment the queen regained fresh hope; but days, weeks, months
passed without bringing any change in her situation: winter came; the
prisoner saw snow spread over the plains and mountains, and the lake
afforded her, if she had only been able to pass the door, a firm road to
gain the other bank; but no letter came during all this time to bring
her the consoling news that they were busy about her deliverance; the
faithful light alone announced to her every evening that a friend was
keeping watch.
Soon nature awoke from her death-sleep: some forward sun-rays broke
through the clouds of this sombre sky of Scotland; the snow melted, the
lake broke its ice-crust, the first buds opened, the green turf
reappeared; everything came out of its prison at the joyous approach of
spring, and it was a great grief to Mary to see that she alone was
condemned to an eternal winter.
At last; one evening, she thought she observed in the motions of the
light that something fresh was happening: she had so often questioned
this poor flickering star, and she had so often let it count her
heart-beats more than twenty times, that to spare herself the pain of
disappointment, for a long time she had no longer interrogated it;
however, she resolved to make one last attempt, and, almost hopeless,
she put her light near the window, and immediately took it away; still,
faithful to the signal, the other disappeared at the same moment, and
reappeared at the eleventh heart-beat of the queen. At the same time, by
a strange coincidence, a stone passing through the window fell at Mary
Seyton's feet. It was, like the first, wrapped in a letter from George:
the queen took it from her companion's hands, opened it, and read:
"The moment draws near; your adherents are assembled; summon all your
courage."
"To-morrow, at eleven o'clock in the evening, drop a cord from your
window, and draw up the packet that will be fastened to it."
There remained in the queen's apartments the rope over and above what
had served for the ladder taken away by the guards the evening of the
frustrated escape: next day, at the appointed hour, the two prisoners
shut up the lamp in the bedroom, so that no light should betray them,
and Mary Seyton, approaching the window, let down the cord. After a
minute, she felt from its movements that something was being attached to
it. Mary Seyton pulled, and a rather bulky parcel appeared at the bars,
which it could not pass on account of its size. Then the queen came to
her companion's aid. The parcel was untied, and its contents,
separately, got through easily. The two prisoners carried them into the
bedroom, and, barricaded within, commenced an inventory. There were two
complete suits of men's clothes in the Douglas livery. The queen was at
a loss, when she saw a letter fastened to the collar of one of the two
coats. Eager to know the meaning of this enigma, she immediately opened
it, and read as follows:
"It is only by dint of audacity that her Majesty can recover her
liberty: let her Majesty read this letter, then, and punctually follow,
if she deign to adopt them, the instructions she will find therein.
"In the daytime the keys of the castle do not leave the belt of the old
steward; when curfew is rung and he has made his rounds to make sure
that all the doors are fast shut, he gives them up to William Douglas,
who, if he stays up, fastens them to his sword-belt, or, if he sleeps,
puts them under his pillow. For five months, Little Douglas, whom
everyone is accustomed to see working at the armourer's forge of the
castle, has been employed in making some keys like enough to the others,
once they are substituted for them, for William to be deceived.
Yesterday Little Douglas finished the last.
"On the first favourable opportunity that her Majesty will know to be
about to present itself, by carefully questioning the light each day,
Little Douglas will exchange the false keys for the true, will enter the
queen's room, and will find her dressed, as well as Miss Mary Seyton, in
their men's clothing, and he will go before them to lead them, by the
way which offers the best chances for their escape; a boat will be
prepared and will await them.
"Till then, every evening, as much to accustom themselves to these new
costumes as to give them an appearance of having been worn, her Majesty
and Miss Mary Seyton will dress themselves in the suits, which they must
keep on from nine o'clock till midnight. Besides, it is possible that,
without having had time to warn them, their young guide may suddenly
come to seek them: it is urgent, then, that he find them ready.
"The garments ought to fit perfectly her Majesty and her companion, the
measure having been taken on Miss Mary Fleming and Miss Mary Livingston,
who are exactly their size.
"One cannot too strongly recommend her Majesty to summon to her aid on
the supreme occasion the coolness and courage of which she has given
such frequent proofs at other times."
The two prisoners were astounded at the boldness of this plan: at first
they looked at one another in consternation, for success seemed
impossible. They none the less made trial of their disguise: as George
had said, it fitted each of them as if they had been measured for it.
Every evening the queen questioned the light, as George had urged, and
that for a whole long month, during which each evening the queen and
Mary Seyton, although the light gave no fresh tidings, arrayed
themselves in their men's clothes, as had been arranged, so that they
both acquired such practice that they became as familiar to them as
those of their own sex.
At last, the 2nd May, 1568, the queen was awakened by the blowing of a
horn: uneasy as to what it announced, she slipped on a cloak and ran to
the window, where Mary Seyton joined her directly. A rather numerous
band of horsemen had halted on the side of the lake, displaying the
Douglas pennon, and three boats were rowing together and vying with each
other to fetch the new arrivals.
This event caused the queen dismay: in her situation the least change in
the castle routine was to be feared, for it might upset all the
concerted plans. This apprehension redoubled when, on the boats drawing
near, the queen recognised in the elder Lord Douglas, the husband of
Lady Lochleven, and the father of William and George. The venerable
knight, who was Keeper of the Marches in the north, was coming to visit
his ancient manor, in which he had not set foot for three years.
It was an event for Lochleven; and, some minutes after the arrival of
the boats, Mary Stuart heard the old steward's footsteps mounting the
stairs: he came to announce his master's arrival to the queen, and, as
it must needs be a time of rejoicing to all the castle inhabitants when
its master returned, he came to invite the queen to the dinner in
celebration of the event: whether instinctively or from distaste, the
queen declined.
All day long the bell and the bugle resounded: Lord Douglas, like a true
feudal lord, travelled with the retinue of a prince. One saw nothing but
new soldiers and servants passing and repassing beneath the queen's
windows: the footmen and horsemen were wearing, moreover, a livery
similar to that which the queen and Mary Seyton had received.
Mary awaited the night with impatience. The day before, she had
questioned her light, and it had informed her as usual, in reappearing
at her eleventh or twelfth heart-beat, that the moment of escape was
near; but she greatly feared that Lord Douglas's arrival might have
upset everything, and that this evening's signal could only announce a
postponement. But hardly had she seen the light shine than she placed
her lamp in the window; the other disappeared directly, and Mary Stuart,
with terrible anxiety, began to question it. This anxiety increased when
she had counted more than fifteen beats. Then she stopped, cast down,
her eyes mechanically fixed on the spot where the light had been. But
her astonishment was great when, at the end of a few minutes, she did
not see it reappear, and when, half an hour having elapsed, everything
remained in darkness. The queen then renewed her signal, but obtained no
response: the escape was for the same evening.
The queen and Mary Seyton were so little expecting this issue, that,
contrary to their custom, they had not put on their men's clothes that
evening. They immediately flew to the queen's bed-chamber, bolted the
door behind them, and began to dress.
They had hardly finished their hurried toilette when they heard a key
turn in the lock: they immediately blew out the lamp. Light steps
approached the door. The two women leaned one against the other; for
they both were near falling. Someone tapped gently. The queen asked who
was there, and Little Douglas's voice answered in the two first lines of
an old ballad--
"Douglas, Douglas, Tender and true."
Mary opened, directly: it was the watchword agreed upon with George
Douglas.
The child was without a light. He stretched out his hand and encountered
the queen's: in the starlight, Mary Stuart saw him kneel down; then she
felt the imprint of his lips on her fingers.
"Is your Majesty ready to follow me?" he asked in a low tone, rising.
"Yes, my child," the queen answered: "it is for this evening, then?"
"With your Majesty's permission, yes, it is for this evening."
"Is everything ready?"
"Everything."
"What are we to do?"
"Follow me everywhere."
"My God! my God!" cried Mary Stuart, "have pity on us!" Then, having
breathed a short prayer in a low voice, while Mary Seyton was taking the
casket in which were the queen's jewels, "I am ready," said she: "and
you, darling?"
"I also," replied Mary Seyton.
"Come, then," said Little Douglas.
The two prisoners followed the child; the queen going first, and Mary
Seyton after. Their youthful guide carefully shut again the door behind
him, so that if a warder happened to pass he would see nothing; then he
began to descend the winding stair. Half-way down, the noise of the
feast reached them, a mingling of shouts of laughter, the confusion of
voices, and the clinking of glasses. The queen placed her hand on her
young guide's shoulder.
"Where are you leading us?" she asked him with terror.
"Out of the castle," replied the child.
"But we shall have to pass through the great hall?"
"Without a doubt; and that is exactly what George foresaw. Among the
footmen, whose livery your Majesty is wearing, no one will recognise
you."
"My God! my God!" the queen murmured, leaning against the wall.
"Courage, madam," said Mary Seyton in a low voice, "or we are lost."
"You are right," returned the queen; "let us go". And they started again
still led by their guide.
At the foot of the stair he stopped, and giving the queen a stone
pitcher full of wine--
"Set this jug on your right shoulder, madam," said he; "it will hide
your face from the guests, and your Majesty will give rise to less
suspicion if carrying something. You, Miss Mary, give me that casket,
and put on your head this basket of bread. Now, that's right: do you
feel you have strength?"
"Yes," said the queen.
"Yes," said Mary Seyton.
"Then follow me."
The child went on his way, and after a few steps the fugitives found
themselves in a kind of antechamber to the great hall, from which
proceeded noise and light. Several servants were occupied there with
different duties; not one paid attention to them, and that a little
reassured the queen. Besides, there was no longer any drawing back:
Little Douglas had just entered the great hall.
The guests, seated on both sides of a long table ranged according to the
rank of those assembled at it, were beginning dessert, and consequently
had reached the gayest moment of the repast. Moreover, the hall was so
large that the lamps and candles which lighted it, multiplied as they
were, left in the most favourable half-light both sides of the
apartment, in which fifteen or twenty servants were coming and going.
The queen and Mary Seyton mingled with this crowd, which was too much
occupied to notice them, and without stopping, without slackening,
without looking back, they crossed the whole length of the hall, reached
the other door, and found themselves in the vestibule corresponding to
the one they had passed through on coming in. The queen set down her jug
there, Mary Seyton her basket, and both, still led by the child, entered
a corridor at the end of which they found themselves in the courtyard. A
patrol was passing at the moment, but he took no notice of them.
The child made his way towards the garden, still followed by the two
women. There, for no little while, it was necessary to try which of all
the keys opened the door; it--was a time of inexpressible anxiety. At
last the key turned in the lock, the door opened; the queen and Mary
Seyton rushed into the garden. The child closed the door behind them.
About two-thirds of the way across, Little Douglas held out his hand as
a sign to them to stop; then, putting down the casket and the keys on
the ground, he placed his hands together, and blowing into them, thrice
imitated the owl's cry so well that it was impossible to believe that a
human voice was uttering the sounds; then, picking up the casket and the
keys, he kept on his way on tiptoe and with an attentive ear. On getting
near the wall, they again stopped, and after a moment's anxious waiting
they heard a groan, then something like the sound of a falling body.
Some seconds later the owl's cry was--answered by a tu-whit-tu-whoo.
"It is over," Little Douglas said calmly; "come."
"What is over?" asked the queen; "and what is that groan we heard?"
"There was a sentry at the door on to the lake," the child answered,
"but he is no longer there."
The queen felt her heart's blood grow cold, at the same tine that a
chilly sweat broke out to the roots of her hair; for she perfectly
understood: an unfortunate being had just lost his life on her account.
Tottering, she leaned on Mary Seyton, who herself felt her strength
giving way. Meanwhile Little Douglas was trying the keys: the second
opened the door.
"And the queen?" said in a low voice a man who was waiting on the other
side of the wall.
"She is following me," replied the child.
George Douglas, for it was he, sprang into the garden, and, taking the
queen's arm on one side and Mary Seyton's on the other, he hurried them
away quickly to the lake-side. When passing through the doorway Mary
Stuart could not help throwing an uneasy look about her, and it seemed
to her that a shapeless object was lying at the bottom of the wall, and
as she was shuddering all over.
"Do not pity him," said George in a low voice, "for it is a judgment
from heaven. That man was the infamous Warden who betrayed us."
"Alas!" said the queen, "guilty as he was, he is none the less dead on
my account."
"When it concerned your safety, madam, was one to haggle over drops of
that base blood? But silence! This way, William, this way; let us keep
along the wall, whose shadow hides us. The boat is within twenty steps,
and we are saved."
With these words, George hurried on the two women still more quickly,
and all four, without having been detected, reached the banks of the
lake. 'As Douglas had said, a little boat was waiting; and, on seeing
the fugitives approach, four rowers, couched along its bottom, rose, and
one of them, springing to land, pulled the chain, so that the queen and
Mary Seyton could get in. Douglas seated them at the prow, the child
placed himself at the rudder, and George, with a kick, pushed off the
boat, which began to glide over the lake.
"And now," said he, "we are really saved; for they might as well pursue
a sea swallow on Solway Firth as try to reach us. Row, children, row;
never mind if they hear us: the main thing is to get into the open."
"Who goes there?" cried a voice above, from the castle terrace.
"Row, row," said Douglas, placing himself in front of the queen.
"The boat! the boat!" cried the same voice; "bring to the boat!" Then,
seeing that it continued to recede, "Treason! treason!" cried the
sentinel. "To arms!"
At the same moment a flash lit up the lake; the report of a firearm was
heard, and a ball passed, whistling. The queen uttered a little cry,
although she had run no danger, George, as we have said, having placed
himself in front of her, quite protecting her with his body.
The alarm bell now rang, and all the castle lights were seen moving and
glancing about, as if distracted, in the rooms.
"Courage, children!" said Douglas. "Row as if your lives depended on
each stroke of the oar; for ere five minutes the skiff will be out after
us."
"That won't be so easy for them as you think, George," said Little
Douglas; "for I shut all the doors behind me, and some time will elapse
before the keys that I have left there open them. As to these," added
he, showing those he had so skilfully abstracted, "I resign them to the
Kelpie, the genie of the lake, and I nominate him porter of Lochleven
Castle."
The discharge of a small piece of artillery answered William's joke; but
as the night was too dark for one to aim to such a distance as that
already between the castle and the boat, the ball ricochetted at twenty
paces from the fugitives, while the report died away in echo after echo.
Then Douglas drew his pistol from his belt, and, warning the ladies to
have no fear, he fired in the air, not to answer by idle bravado the
castle cannonade, but to give notice to a troop of faithful friends, who
were waiting for them on the other shore of the lake, that the queen had
escaped. Immediately, in spite of the danger of being so near Kinross,
cries of joy resounded on the bank, and William having turned the
rudder, the boat made for land at the spot whence they had been heard.
Douglas then gave his hand to the queen, who sprang lightly ashore, and
who, falling on her knees, immediately began to give thanks to God for
her happy deliverance.
On rising, the queen found herself surrounded by her most faithful
servants--Hamilton, Herries, and Seyton, Mary's father. Light-headed
with joy, the queen extended her hands to them, thanking them with
broken words, which expressed her intoxication and her gratitude better
than the choicest phrases could have done, when suddenly, turning round,
she perceived George Douglas, alone and melancholy. Then, going to him
and taking him by the hand--
"My lords," said she, presenting George to them, and pointing to
William, "behold my two deliverers: behold those to whom, as long as I
live, I shall preserve gratitude of which nothing will ever acquit me."
"Madam," said Douglas, "each of us has only done what he ought, and he
who has risked most is the happiest. But if your Majesty will believe
me, you will not lose a moment in needless words."
"Douglas is right," said Lord Seyton. "To horse! to horse!"
Immediately, and while four couriers set out in four different
directions to announce to the queen's friends her happy escape, they
brought her a horse saddled for her, which she mounted with her usual
skill; then the little troop, which, composed of about twenty persons,
was escorting the future destiny of Scotland, keeping away from the
village of Kinross, to which the castle firing had doubtless given the
alarm, took at a gallop the road to Seyton's castle, where was already a
garrison large enough to defend the queen from a sudden attack.
The queen journeyed all night, accompanied on one side by Douglas, on
the other by Lord Seyton; then, at daybreak, they stopped at the gate of
the castle of West Niddrie, belonging to Lord Seyton, as we have said,
and situated in West Lothian. Douglas sprang from his horse to offer his
hand to Mary Stuart; but Lord Seyton claimed his privilege as master of
the house. The queen consoled Douglas with a glance, and entered the
fortress.
"Madam," said Lord Seyton, leading her into a room prepared for her for
nine months, "your Majesty must have need of repose, after the fatigue
and the emotions you have gone through since yesterday morning; you may
sleep here in peace, and disquiet yourself for nothing: any noise you
may hear will be made by a reinforcement of friends which we are
expecting. As to our enemies, your Majesty has nothing to fear from them
so long as you inhabit the castle of a Seyton."
The queen again thanked all her deliverers, gave her hand to Douglas to
kiss one last time, kissed Little William on the forehead, and named him
her favourite page for the future; then, profiting by the advice given
her, entered her room where Mary Seyton, to the exclusion of every other
woman, claimed the privilege of performing about her the duties with
which she had been charged during their eleven months' captivity in
Lochleven Castle.
On opening her eyes, Mary Stuart thought she had had one of those dreams
so gainful to prisoners, when waking they see again the bolts on their
doors and the bars on their windows. So the queen, unable to believe the
evidence of her senses, ran, half dressed, to the window. The courtyard
was filled with soldiers, and these soldiers all friends who had
hastened at the news of her escape; she recognised the banners of her
faithful friends, the Seytons, the Arbroaths, the Herries, and the
Hamiltons, and scarcely had she been seen at the window than all these
banners bent before her, with the shouts a hundred times repeated of
"Long live Mary of Scotland! Long live our queen!" Then, without giving
heed to the disarray of her toilet, lovely and chaste with her emotion
and her happiness, she greeted them in her turn, her eyes full of tears;
but this time they were tears of joy. However, the queen recollected
that she was barely covered, and blushing at having allowed herself to
be thus carried away in her ecstasy, she abruptly drew back, quite rosy
with confusion.
Then she had an instant's womanly fright: she had fled from Lochleven
Castle in the Douglas livery, and without either the leisure or the
opportunity for taking women's clothes with her. But she could not
remain attired as a man; so she explained her uneasiness to Mary Seyton,
who responded by opening the closets in the queen's room. They were
furnished, not only with robes, the measure for which, like that of the
suit, had been taken from Mary Fleming, but also with all the
necessaries for a woman's toilet. The queen was astonished: it was like
being in a fairy castle.
"Mignonne," said she, looking one after another at the robes, all the
stuffs of which were chosen with exquisite taste, "I knew your father
was a brave and loyal knight, but I did not think him so learned in the
matter of the toilet. We shall name him groom of the wardrobe."
"Alas! madam," smilingly replied Mary Seyton, "you are not mistaken: my
father has had everything in the castle furbished up to the last
corselet, sharpened to the last sword, unfurled to the last banner; but
my father, ready as he is to die for your Majesty, would not have
dreamed for an instant of offering you anything but his roof to rest
under, or his cloak to cover you. It is Douglas again who has foreseen
everything, prepared everything--everything even to Rosabelle, your
Majesty's favourite steed, which is impatiently awaiting in the stable
the moment when, mounted on her, your Majesty will make your triumphal
re-entry into Edinburgh."
"And how has he been able to get her back again?" Mary asked. "I thought
that in the division of my spoils Rosabelle had fallen to the fair
Alice, my brother's favourite sultana?"
"Yes, yes," said Mary Seyton, "it was so; and as her value was known,
she was kept under lock and key by an army of grooms; but Douglas is the
man of miracles, and, as I have told you, Rosabelle awaits your
Majesty."
"Noble Douglas!" murmured the queen, with eyes full of tears; then, as
if speaking to herself, "And this is precisely one of those devotions
that we can never repay. The others will be happy with honours, places,
money; but to Douglas what matter all these things?"
"Come, madam, come," said Mary Seyton, "God takes on Himself the debts
of kings; He will reward Douglas. As to your Majesty, reflect that they
are waiting dinner for you. I hope," added she, smiling, "that you will
not affront my father as you did Lord Douglas yesterday in refusing to
partake of his feast on his fortunate home-coming."
"And luck has come to me for it, I hope," replied Mary. "But you are
right, darling: no more sad thoughts; we will consider when we have
indeed become queen again what we can do for Douglas."
The queen dressed and went down. As Mary Seyton had told her, the chief
noblemen of her party, already gathered round her, were waiting for her
in the great hall of the castle. Her arrival was greeted with
acclamations of the liveliest enthusiasm, and she sat down to table,
with Lord Seyton on her right hand, Douglas on her left, and behind her
Little William, who the same day was beginning his duties as page.
Next morning the queen was awakened by the sound of trumpets and bugles:
it had been decided the day before that she should set out that day for
Hamilton, where reinforcements were looked for. The queen donned an
elegant riding-habit, and soon, mounted on Rosabelle, appeared amid her
defenders. The shouts of joy redoubled: her beauty, her grace, and her
courage were admired by everyone. Mary Stuart became her own self once
more, and she felt spring up in her again the power of fascination she
had always exercised on those who came near her. Everyone was in good
humour, and the happiest of all was perhaps Little William, who for the
first time in his life had such a fine dress and such a fine horse.
Two or three thousand men were awaiting the queen at Hamilton, which she
reached the same evening; and during the night following her arrival the
troops increased to six thousand. The 2nd of May she was a prisoner,
without another friend but a child in her prison, without other means of
communication with her adherents than the flickering and uncertain light
of a lamp, and three days afterwards--that is to say, between the Sunday
and the Wednesday--she found herself not only free, but also at the head
of a powerful confederacy, which counted at its head nine earls, eight
peers, nine bishops, and a number of barons and nobles renowned among
the bravest of Scotland.
The advice of the most judicious among those about the queen was to shut
herself up in the strong castle of Dumbarton, which, being impregnable,
would give all her adherents time to assemble together, distant and
scattered as they were: accordingly, the guidance of the troops who were
to conduct the queen to that town was entrusted to the Earl of Argyll,
and the 11th of May she took the road with an army of nearly ten
thousand men.
Murray was at Glasgow when he heard of the queen's escape: the place was
strong; he decided to hold it, and summoned to him his bravest and most
devoted partisans. Kirkcaldy of Grange, Morton, Lindsay of Byres, Lord
Lochleven, and William Douglas hastened to him, and six thousand of the
best troops in the kingdom gathered round them, while Lord Ruthven in
the counties of Berwick and Angus raised levies with which to join them.
The 13th May, Morton occupied from daybreak the village of Langside,
through which the queen must pass to get to Dumbarton. The news of the
occupation reached the queen as the two armies were yet seven miles
apart. Mary's first instinct was to escape an engagement: she remembered
her last battle at Carberry Hill, at the end of which she had been
separated from Bothwell and brought to Edinburgh; so she expressed aloud
this opinion, which was supported by George Douglas, who, in black
armour, without other arms, had continued at the queen's side.
"Avoid an engagement!" cried Lord Seyton, not daring to answer his
sovereign, and replying to George as if this opinion had originated with
him. "We could do it, perhaps, if we were one to ten; but we shall
certainly not do so when we are three to two. You speak a strange
tongue, my young master," continued he, with some contempt; "and you
forget, it seems to me, that you are a Douglas and that you speak to a
Seyton."
"My lord," returned George calmly, "when we only hazard the lives of
Douglases and Seytons, you will find me, I hope, as ready to fight as
you, be it one to ten, be it three to two; but we are now answerable for
an existence dearer to Scotland than that of all the Seytons and all the
Douglases. My advice is then to avoid battle."
"Battle! battle!" cried all the chieftains.
"You hear, madam?" said Lord Seyton to Mary Stuart: "I believe that to
wish to act against such unanimity would be dangerous. In Scotland,
madam, there is an ancient proverb which has it that 'there is most
prudence in courage.'"
"But have you not heard that the regent has taken up an advantageous
position?" the queen said.
"The greyhound hunts the hare on the hillside as well as in the plain,"
replied Seyton: "we will drive him out, wherever he is."
"Let it be as you desire, then, my lords. It shall not be said that Mary
Stuart returned to the scabbard the sword her defenders had drawn for
her."
Then, turning round to Douglas
"George," she said to him, "choose a guard of twenty men for me, and
take command of them: you will not quit me."
George bent low in obedience, chose twenty from among the bravest men,
placed the queen in their midst, and put himself at their head; then the
troops, which had halted, received the order to continue their road. In
two hours' time the advance guard was in sight of the enemy; it halted,
and the rest of the army rejoined it.
The queen's troops then found themselves parallel with the city of
Glasgow, and the heights which rose in front of them were already
occupied by a force above which floated, as above that of Mary, the
royal banners of Scotland, On the other side, and on the opposite slope,
stretched the village of Langside, encircled with enclosures and
gardens. The road which led to it, and which followed all the variations
of the ground, narrowed at one place in such a way that two men could
hardly pass abreast, then, farther on, lost itself in a ravine, beyond
which it reappeared, then branched into two, of which one climbed to the
village of Langside, while the other led to Glasgow.
On seeing the lie of the ground, the Earl of Argyll immediately
comprehended the importance of occupying this village, and, turning to
Lord Seyton, he ordered him to gallop off and try to arrive there before
the enemy, who doubtless, having made the same observation as the
commander of the royal forces, was setting in motion at that very moment
a considerable body of cavalry.
Lord Seyton called up his men directly, but while he was ranging them
round his banner, Lord Arbroath drew his sword, and approaching the Earl
of Argyll--
"My lord," said he, "you do me a wrong in charging Lord Seyton to seize
that post: as commander of the vanguard, it is to me this honour
belongs. Allow me, then, to use my privilege in claiming it."
"It is I who received the order to seize it; I will seize it!" cried
Seyton.
"Perhaps," returned Lord Arbroath, "but not before me!"
"Before you and before every Hamilton in the world!" exclaimed Seyton,
putting his horse to the gallop and rushing down into the hollow road--
"Saint Bennet! and forward!"
"Come, my faithful kinsmen!" cried Lord Arbroath, dashing forward on his
side with the same object; "come, my men-at-arms! For God and the
queen!"
The two troops precipitated themselves immediately in disorder and ran
against one another in the narrow way, where, as we have said, two men
could hardly pass abreast. There was a terrible collision there, and the
conflict began among friends who should have been united against the
enemy. Finally, the two troops, leaving behind them some corpses stifled
in the press, or even killed by their companions, passed through the
defile pell-mell and were lost sight of in the ravine. But during this
struggle Seyton and Arbroath had lost precious time, and the detachment
sent by Murray, which had taken the road by Glasgow, had reached the
village beforehand; it was now necessary not to take it, but to retake
it.
Argyll saw that the whole day's struggle would be concentrated there,
and, understanding more and more the importance of the village,
immediately put himself at the head of the body of his army, commanding
a rearguard of two thousand men to remain there and await further orders
to take part in the fighting. But whether the captain who commanded them
had ill understood, or whether he was eager to distinguish himself in
the eyes of the queen, scarcely had Argyll vanished into the ravine, at
the end of which the struggle had already commenced between Kirkcaldy of
Grange and Morton on the one side, and on the other between Arbroath and
Seyton, than, without regarding the cries of Mary Stuart, he set off in
his turn at a gallop, leaving the queen without other guard than the
little escort of twenty men which Douglas had chosen for her. Douglas
sighed.
"Alas!" said the queen, hearing him, "I am not a soldier, but there it
seems to me is a battle very badly begun."
"What is to be done?" replied Douglas. "We are every one of us
infatuated, from first to last, and all these men are behaving to-day
like madmen or children."
"Victory! victory!" said the queen; "the enemy is retreating, fighting.
I see the banners of Seyton and Arbroath floating near the first houses
in the village. Oh! my brave lords," cried she, clapping her hands.
"Victory! victory!"
But she stopped suddenly on perceiving a body of the enemy's army
advancing to charge the victors in flank.
"It is nothing, it is nothing," said Douglas; "so long as there is only
cavalry we have nothing much to fear, and besides the Earl of Argyll
will fall in in time to aid them."
"George," said Little William.
"Well?" asked Douglas.
"Don't you see?" the child went on, stretching out his arms towards the
enemy's force, which was coming on at a gallop.
"What?"
"Each horseman carries a footman armed with an arquebuse behind him, so
that the troop is twice as numerous as it appears."
"That's true; upon my soul, the child has good sight. Let someone go at
once full gallop and take news of this to the Earl or Argyll."
"I! I!" cried Little William. "I saw them first; it is my right to bear
the tidings."
"Go, then, my child," said Douglas; "and may God preserve thee!"
The child flew, quick as lightning, not hearing or feigning not to hear
the queen, who was recalling him. He was seen to cross the gorge and
plunge into the hollow road at the moment when Argyll was debouching at
the end and coming to the aid of Seyton and Arbroath. Meanwhile, the
enemy's detachment had dismounted its infantry, which, immediately
formed up, was scattering on the sides of the ravine by paths
impracticable for horses.
"William will come too late!" cried Douglas, "or even, should he arrive
in time, the news is now useless to them. Oh madmen, madmen that we are!
This is how we have always lost all our battles!"
"Is the battle lost, then?" demanded Mary, growing pale.
"No, madam, no," cried Douglas; "Heaven be thanked, not yet; but through
too great haste we have begun badly."
"And William?" said Mary Stuart.
"He is now serving his apprenticeship in arms; for, if I am not
mistaken, he must be at this moment at the very spot where those
marksmen are making such quick firing."
"Poor child!" cried the queen; "if ill should befall him, I shall never
console myself."
"Alas! madam," replied Douglas, "I greatly fear that his first battle is
his last, and that everything is already over for him; for, unless I
mistake, there is his horse returning riderless."
"Oh, my God! my God!" said the queen, weeping, and raising her hands to
heaven, "it is then decreed that I should be fatal to all around me!"
George was not deceived: it was William's horse coming back without his
young master and covered with blood.
"Madam," said Douglas, "we are ill placed here; let us gain that hillock
on which is the Castle of Crookstone: from thence we shall survey the
whole battlefield."
"No, not there! not there!" said the queen in terror: "within that
castle I came to spend the first days of my marriage with Darnley; it
will bring me misfortune."
"Well, beneath that yew-tree, then," said George, pointing to another
slight rise near the first; "but it is important for us to lose no
detail of this engagement. Everything depends perhaps for your Majesty
on an ill-judged manoeuvre or a lost moment."
"Guide me, then," the queen said; "for, as for me, I no longer see it.
Each report of that terrible cannonade echoes to the depths of my
heart."
However well placed as was this eminence for overlooking from its summit
the whole battlefield, the reiterated discharge of cannon and musketry
covered it with such a cloud of smoke that it was impossible to make out
from it anything but masses lost amid a murderous fog. At last, when an
hour had passed in this desperate conflict, through the skirts of this
sea of smoke the fugitives were seen to emerge and disperse in all
directions, followed by the victors. Only, at that distance, it was
impossible to make out who had gained or lost the battle, and the
banners, which on both sides displayed the Scottish arms, could in no
way clear up this confusion.
At that moment there was seen coming down from the Glasgow hillsides all
the remaining reserve of Murray's army; it was coming at full speed to
engage in the fighting; but this manoeuvre might equally well have for
its object the support of defeated friends as to complete the rout of
the enemy. However, soon there was no longer any doubt; for this reserve
charged the fugitives, amid whom it spread fresh confusion. The queen's
army was beaten. At the same time, three or four horsemen appeared on
the hither side of the ravine, advancing at a gallop. Douglas recognised
them as enemies.
"Fly, madam," cried George, "fly without loss of a second; for those who
are coming upon us are followed by others. Gain the road, while I go to
check them. And you," added he, addressing the escort, "be killed to the
last man rather than let them take your queen."
"George! George!" cried the queen, motionless, and as if riveted to the
spot.
But George had already dashed away with all his horse's speed, and as he
was splendidly mounted, he flew across the space with lightning
rapidity, and reached the gorge before the enemy. There he stopped, put
his lance in rest, and alone against five bravely awaited the encounter.
As to the queen, she had no desire to go; but, on the contrary, as if
turned to stone, she remained in the same place, her eyes fastened on
this combat which was taking place at scarcely five hundred paces from
her. Suddenly, glancing at her enemies, she saw that one of them bore in
the middle of his shield a bleeding heart, the Douglas arms. Then she
uttered a cry of pain, and drooping her head--
"Douglas against Douglas; brother against brother!" she murmured: "it
only wanted this last blow."
"Madam, madam," cried her escort, "there is not an instant to lose: the
young master of Douglas cannot hold out long thus alone against five;
let us fly! let us fly!" And two of them taking the queen's horse by the
bridle, put it to the gallop, at the moment when George, after having
beaten down two of his enemies and wounded a third, was thrown down in
his turn in the dust, thrust to the heart by a lance-head. The queen
groaned on seeing him fall; then, as if he alone had detained her, and
as if he being killed she had no interest in anything else, she put
Rosabelle to the gallop, and as she and her troop were splendidly
mounted, they had soon lost sight of the battlefield.
She fled thus for sixty miles, without taking any rest, and without
ceasing to weep or to sigh: at last, having traversed the counties of
Renfrew and Ayr, she reached the Abbey of Dundrennan, in Galloway, and
certain of being, for the time at least, sheltered from every danger,
she gave the order to stop. The prior respectfully received her at the
gate of the convent.
"I bring you misfortune and ruin, father," said the queen, alighting
from her horse.
"They are welcome," replied the prior, "since they come accompanied by
duty."
The queen gave Rosabelle to the care of one of the men-at-arms who had
accompanied her, and leaning on Mary Seyton, who had not left her for a
moment, and on Lord Herries, who had rejoined her on the road, she
entered the convent.
Lord Herries had not concealed her position from Mary Stuart: the day
had been completely lost, and with the day, at least for the present,
all hope of reascending the throne of Scotland. There remained but three
courses for the queen to take to withdraw into France, Spain or England.
On the advice of Lord Herries, which accorded with her own feeling, she
decided upon the last; and that same night she wrote this double missive
in verse and in prose to Elizabeth:
"MY DEAR SISTER,--I have often enough begged you to receive my
tempest-tossed vessel into your haven during the storm. If at this pass
she finds a safe harbour there, I shall cast anchor there for ever:
otherwise the bark is in God's keeping, for she is ready and caulked for
defence on her voyage against all storms. I have dealt openly with you,
and still do so: do not take it in bad part if I write thus; it is not
in defiance of you, as it appears, for in everything I rely on your
friendship."
"This sonnet accompanied the letter:--
"One thought alone brings danger and delight; Bitter and sweet change
places in my heart, With doubt, and then with hope, it takes its part,
Till peace and rest alike are put to flight.
Therefore, dear sister, if this card pursue That keen desire by which I
am oppressed, To see you, 'tis because I live distressed, Unless some
swift and sweet result ensue.
Beheld I have my ship compelled by fate To seek the open sea, when close
to port, And calmest days break into storm and gale; Wherefore full
grieved and fearful is my state, Not for your sake, but since, in evil
sort, Fortune so oft snaps strongest rope and sail."
Elizabeth trembled with joy at receiving this double letter; for the
eight years that her enmity had been daily increasing to Mary Stuart,
she had followed her with her eyes continually, as a wolf might a
gazelle; at last the gazelle sought refuge in the wolf's den. Elizabeth
had never hoped as much: she immediately despatched an order to the
Sheriff of Cumberland to make known to Mary that she was ready to
receive her. One morning a bugle was heard blowing on the sea-shore: it
was Queen Elizabeth's envoy come to fetch Queen Mary Stuart.
Then arose great entreaties to the fugitive not to trust herself thus to
a rival in power, glory, and beauty; but the poor dispossessed queen was
full of confidence in her she called her good sister, and believed
herself going, free and rid of care, to take at Elizabeth's court the
place due to her rank and her misfortunes: thus she persisted, in spite
of all that could be said. In our time, we have seen the same
infatuation seize another royal fugitive, who like Mary Stuart confided
himself to the generosity of his enemy England: like Mary Stuart, he was
cruelly punished for his confidence, and found in the deadly climate of
St. Helena the scaffold of Fotheringay.
Mary Stuart set out on her journey, then, with her little following.
Arrived at the shore of Solway Firth, she found there the Warden of the
English Marches: he was a gentleman named Lowther, who received the
queen with the greatest respect, but who gave her to understand that he
could not permit more than three of her women to accompany her. Mary
Seyton immediately claimed her privilege: the queen held out to her her
hand.
"Alas! mignonne," said she, "but it might well be another's turn: you
have already suffered enough for me and with me."
But Mary, unable to reply, clung to her hand, making a sign with her
head that nothing in the world should part her from her mistress. Then
all who had accompanied the queen renewed their entreaties that she
should not persist in this fatal resolve, and when she was already a
third of the way along the plank placed for her to enter the skiff, the
Prior of Dundrennan, who had offered Mary Stuart such dangerous and
touching hospitality, entered the water up to his knees, to try to
detain her; but all was useless: the queen had made up her mind.
At that, moment Lowther approached her. "Madam," said he, "accept anew
my regrets that I cannot offer a warm welcome in England to all who
would wish to follow you there; but our queen has given us positive
orders, and we must carry them out. May I be permitted to remind your
Majesty that the tide serves?"
"Positive orders!" cried the prior. "Do you hear, madam? Oh! you are
lost if you quit this shore! Back, while there is yet time! Back; madam,
in Heaven's name! To me, sir knights, to me!" he cried, turning to Lord
Herries and the other lords who had accompanied Mary Stuart; "do not
allow your queen to abandon you, were it needful to struggle with her
and the English at the same time. Hold her back, my lords, in Heaven's
name! withhold her!"
"What means this violence, sir priest?" said the Warden of the Marches.
"I came here at your queen's express command; she is free to return to
you, and there is no need to have recourse to force for that". Then,
addressing the queen--
"Madam," said he, "do you consent to follow me into England in full
liberty of choice? Answer, I entreat you; for my honour demands that the
whole world should be aware that you have followed me freely."
"Sir," replied Mary Stuart, "I ask your pardon, in the name of this
worthy servant of God and his queen, for what he may have said of
offence to you. Freely I leave Scotland and place myself in your hands,
trusting that I shall be free either to remain in England with my royal
sister, or to return to France to my worthy relatives". Then, turning to
the priest, "Your blessing, father, and God protect you!"
"Alas! alas!" murmured the abbot, obeying the queen, "it is not we who
are in need of God's protection, but rather you, my daughter. May the
blessing of a poor priest turn aside from you the misfortunes I foresee!
Go, and may it be with you as the Lord has ordained in His wisdom and in
His mercy!"
Then the queen gave her hand to the sheriff, who conducted her to the
skiff, followed by Mary Seyton and two other women only. The sails were
immediately unfurled, and the little vessel began to recede from the
shores of Galloway, to make her way towards those of Cumberland. So long
as it could be seen, they who had accompanied the queen lingered on the
beach, waving her signs of adieu, which, standing on the deck of the
shallop which was bearing her, away, she returned with her handkerchief.
Finally, the boat disappeared, and all burst into lamentations or into
sobbing. They were right, for the good Prior of Dundrennan's
presentiments were only too true, and they had seen Mary Stuart for the
last time.