More than three hundred years have elapsed since Mary Stuart was sent to
the scaffold by Elizabeth, and met death with that noble fortitude which
awed her enemies and which has half redeemed her fame in the eyes even
of those who regard the tragedy of Fotheringay as an act no less of
justice than of expediency. But even at the present time interest in her
memory has not died away; nor can the question of her innocence or of
her guilt be yet said to have been definitely settled by all that has
been written about her in the interval. It hardly seems probable that it
ever will be, for it is still a question of politics with some and of
religion with many. And even in the rare instances where judgment is not
blinded by the prejudice or the partiality of party or of creed, it is
affected by an influence, nobler and more excusable indeed, but not
less powerful nor less misleading--by unreasoning sentiment, by the
sympathy which the romance of the unfortunate Queen's chequered career,
her legendary beauty, her long captivity, and her heroic death awaken.
In the controversy which has now raged for three centuries, and in the
course of which every incident of Mary's life has repeatedly been
submitted to the closest scrutiny, anxiety to get at facts, to add to
the weight of evidence, to discover fresh witnesses, to unearth new
documents bearing on the points at issue, has led to a disregard of her
personality more complete, perhaps, than in the case of any of her
contemporaries, and contrasting strangely with the abundance of intimate
details which go to make up our knowledge of her great rival. To most of
us Elizabeth is as distinctly, almost tangibly, present as though she
had reigned in our day. She moves through the pages of history
surrounded by a train of courtiers scarcely less familiar to us than
those of our own generation. The Queen of Scots, on the contrary, seems
to be but little more than an historical abstraction. It is scarcely too
much to say that many for whom it would be an easy task to follow her,
step by step, from Linlithgow to Fotheringay, to recall all the events
of which she was the central figure, to discuss all the problems which
her name suggests, would be at a loss to furnish such details as could
bring before us the features of the woman whose beauty doubtless finds
frequent mention in their discourses, or bring together such particulars
as would justify all that they are ready to admit, and perhaps even to
assert, concerning her talents and her accomplishments. It may,
therefore, be neither inopportune nor uninteresting if, forgetting for a
while the history of the Queen, we give our attention to the
individuality of the woman; if, turning to the "treasures of antiquity
laid up in old historic rolls", we endeavour, not to clear up the
mystery of Darnley's murder, nor to explain the fatal marriage with
Bothwell; not to pronounce on the authenticity of the sonnets, nor to
solve the enigma of the famous letters; but to present a picture of the
first lady of the land as she appeared to the crowds that had hurried to
Leith to welcome her return, or that lined the Canongate as she rode to
the Parliament House; to show her at her sports with her attendant Marys
at Stirling or at St. Andrews; to listen to the conversation with which
she entertained the courtiers of Amboise and of Holyrood, and to glance
at the pages of the volumes over which she mused in the retirement of
her library or the solitude of her prison.
The historians of Mary Stuart all agree in telling us that she was the
most beautiful woman of her age; and it must be admitted that this is
fully borne out by all that can be gathered from contemporary writers.
It is not only such poetic enthusiasts as Michel de l'Hôpital, Du
Bellay, and Ronsard, or such courtly flatterers as Brantôme and
Castelnau, who pronounce her beauty to have been matchless--far
exceeding "all that is, shall be, or has ever been", but the serious and
dignified chroniclers whom Jebb has brought together in his valuable
folios--Strada, Blackwood, and even de Thou--also grow eloquent in
praise of her charms. But perhaps the most convincing testimony that can
be adduced is contained in a poem,[1] composed by an Englishman who was
confessedly hostile to Mary, and whose satire was so keenly felt by her
that she made it the subject of a formal complaint to Elizabeth. The
words attributed to her--for the passage in which they occur is in the
form of a confession on her part--are scarcely less forcible than those
of her avowed partisans and admirers:
But I could boast of beauty with the best,
In skilful points of princely attire
And of the golden gifts of nature's behest,
Who filled my face of favor fresh and fair.
My beauty shines like Phoebus in the air,
And nature formed my features beside
In such proport as advanceth my pride.
Thus fame affatethe (_proclaims_) my state to the stars,
Enfeoft with the gifts of nature's device
That sound the retreat to other princes' ears,
Wholly to resign to me the chiefest prize.
It is most remarkable, however, that no extant portrait justifies the
praises so lavishly bestowed on Mary. As to this, the courtesy of the
late Mr. Wylie Guild, of Glasgow, afforded us an opportunity of forming
an opinion based on the evidence of his remarkable collection of
portraits of the Queen of Scots--a collection which comprised, besides
reproductions of most of the paintings claiming to be authentic, a
series of over four hundred engravings, many of them by Clouet, and
dating from the period of Mary's stay in France. We were compelled to
agree with the possessor of that unique iconography that none of them
showed the dazzling charms which poets and chroniclers have celebrated.
And the portraits which various exhibitions have since then enabled us
to examine, have only confirmed that earlier judgment. To reconcile this
very striking contradiction seems difficult. Possibly the truth may be
that the fascination of Mary's face consisted less in the regularity of
outline or the striking beauty of any one feature than in the expression
by which it was animated.[2] Her complexion, though likened by
Ronsard to alabaster and ivory,[3] does not seem to have possessed the
clearness and brilliancy which the comparison implies; for Sir James
Melville, though anxious to vindicate his Queen's claim to be considered
"very lovely" and "the fairest lady in her country", acknowledged that
she was less "white" than Elizabeth.[4] The brightness of her eyes,
which Ronsard likened to stars, and Chastelard to beacons,[5] has not
been questioned; but their colour is a point about which there is less
unanimity, opinions varying between hazel and dark grey. As regards her
hair the discrepancy of contemporary authorities is even greater.
Brantôme and Ronsard describe a wealth of golden hair, and this is to a
certain extent confirmed by Sir James Melville, who, when called upon by
Elizabeth to pronounce whether his Queen's hair was fairer than her own,
answered that "the fairnes of them baith was not their worst
faltes".[6] To this, however, must be opposed the testimony of Nicholas
White, who, writing to Cecil in 1563, described the Queen as
black-haired. The explanation of this may possibly lie in Mary's
compliance with the fashion, introduced about this time, of wearing
wigs. Indeed, Knollys informed White that she wore "hair of sundry
colours",[7] and, in a letter to Cecil, praised the skill with which
Mary Seton--"the finest busker of hair to be seen in any country"--"did
set such a curled hair upon the Queen, that was said to be a perewyke,
that showed very delicately".[8]
According to one account, the Queen of Scots wore black, according to
another, auburn ringlets on the morning of her execution. Both, however,
agree in this, that when the false covering fell she "appeared as grey
as if she had been sixty and ten years old".
Mary's hand was white, but not small, the long, tapering fingers
mentioned by Ronsard[9] being, indeed, a characteristic of some of her
portraits. She was of tall stature, taller than Elizabeth, which made
the Queen of England pronounce her cousin to be too tall, she herself
being, according to her own standard, "neither too high nor too
low".[10] Her voice was irresistibly soft and sweet. Not only does
Brantôme extol it as "très douce et très bonne",[11] and Ronsard
poetically celebrate it as capable of moving rocks and woods,[12] but
Knox, although ungraciously and unwillingly, also testifies to its
charm. He informs us that, at one of her Parliaments, the Queen made a
"paynted orisoun", and that, on this occasion, "thair mycht have been
hard among hir flatteraris, '_Vox Dianæ!_' The voice of a goddess (for
it could not be _Dei_) and not of a woman! God save the sweet face! Was
thair ever oratour spack so properlie and so sweitlie!"[13]
When, to this description, we have added that Mary Stuart was of a full
figure[14] and became actually stout in later life; that she is
described in the report of her execution and represented in several
portraits as having a double chin, we shall have given a picture of her
which, though wanting in some details, is as complete as it is possible
to sketch at this length of time.
Mary Stuart is not infrequently mentioned as one of the precocious
children of history. But the legend of her scholarly acquirements
originates with Brantôme, an authority not always above suspicion when
the glorification of princes is his theme, and it is not unnecessary to
look more closely into the matter before we accept his glowing panegyric
of the youthful prodigy. He informs us that Mary was "very learned in
Latin",[15] and that, when only thirteen or fourteen years of age, she
publicly delivered at the Louvre, in the presence of King Henry II,
Catherine de' Medici, his Queen, and the whole French Court, a Latin
discourse which she had composed in justification of her own course of
studies, and in support of the view that it is befitting in women to
devote themselves to letters and to the liberal arts. This speech is
also referred to by Antoine Fouquelin in the dedication of a textbook of
Rhetoric which he composed for the young Princess.[16] He records the
admiration with which Mary had been listened to by the noble company,
and the high hopes which the elegant oration had awakened. That she
herself set some value on this production may be assumed from the fact
that she was at the pains of translating it into French; and the mention
of it in the inventory of books delivered by the Earl of Morton to James
VI in 1578, where it appears as "ane Oratioun to the King of Franche of
the Quenis awin hand write", would seem to imply that she looked back
with pride upon her youthful triumph. This interesting manuscript has
now disappeared; nevertheless, it is not impossible to obtain from
another source a fairly accurate idea of the speech which called forth
such high praise from the French courtiers. It happens that the National
Library in Paris possesses the Latin themes written by Mary Stuart in
1554, the year before the oratorical performance at the Louvre. Amongst
the exercises contained in the morocco-bound volume, fifteen refer to
the same subject as the speech, and, it is fair to suppose, were
intended as a preparation for the princely pupil's "speech-day".[17]
Disappointing as it may be to ardent admirers of the Queen of Scots, it
must be admitted that her themes do not bear out the praises bestowed on
her Latinity, but contain such solecisms as would probably have been
fraught with unpleasant consequences to a less noble and less fair
scholar. Neither need the substance of Mary's apology for learned women
excite our enthusiasm. To string together, with a few commonplace
remarks, lists of names evidently supplied by her tutor and taken by him
from Politian's Epistles, was no very remarkable achievement on the part
of a child who, if she began her classical studies as early as her
fellow pupil and sister-in-law Elizabeth did, had already devoted fully
five years to Latin at the date of her famous speech.
But, though the Queen's early proficiency may have been overrated, there
can be no doubt that, in later life, she possessed considerable
familiarity with the language of Virgil and of Cicero. We know from
contemporary letters that, after her return to Scotland, she continued
her studies under Buchanan[18] and that, faithful to the habit which she
had acquired in France, of devoting two hours a day to her books,[19]
she regularly read "somewhat of Livy" with him "after her dinner".
The catalogue of the books[20] contained in the royal library affords
further information as to the nature and extent of her acquaintance with
Latin literature. In it we find mention, amongst others of lesser note,
of Horace, Virgil and Cicero, of Æmilius Probus and Columella, of
Vegetius and Boethius. Neither did she neglect the Latinity of the
Middle Ages. In prose it is represented by such forgotten names as those
of Bertram of Corvey, of Ludolph of Saxony, of Joannes de Sacrobosco,
and of Nicolaus de Clamangiis, the authors of ponderous treatises on
science and on theology; the latter subject being one which her interest
in the great ecclesiastical revolution of the age rendered particularly
attractive to her. Amongst contemporary Latin poets her favourites seem
to have been Petrus Bargæus, Louis Leroy, Sir Thomas Craig of Riccarton,
and George Buchanan, whose dedication to her of his translation of the
Psalms has not unjustly been pronounced to stand "unsurpassed by all the
verses that have been lavished upon her during three hundred years by
poets of almost every nation and language of Europe".[21]
Whether the Queen of Scots was acquainted with Greek cannot be
determined with certainty. Neither Brantôme nor Con nor Blackwood has
given information on this head. If, on the one hand, her numerous Latin
and French translations of Greek authors do not point to a great
familiarity with it, on the other, the knowledge that she used such
versions for the purpose of linguistic study, and the presence on her
shelves of Homer and Herodotus, of Sophocles and Euripides, of Socrates
and Plato, of Demosthenes and Lucian in the original tongue, justify the
supposition that, even though she may not have rivalled the fair pupils
of Ascham and of Aylmer, the productions of Athenian genius were not
sealed books to her.
Amongst modern languages Spanish was that with which Mary had the
slightest acquaintance, and so far as may be judged from the works which
she possessed, her reading in it was limited to a book of chronicles and
a collection of ballads.[22] As might be expected from her early
surroundings, she was more familiar with Italian. She could both speak
and write it. Indeed, among the verses attributed to her there is an
Italian sonnet addressed to Elizabeth. It is scarcely credible that she
had not read Dante; nevertheless, it is worthy of notice that his
"Divine Comedy" does not appear in the catalogue of her library[23]
where, however, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Ariosto figure by the side of
the less-known Bembo.
Though born in Scotland, Mary Stuart never possessed great fluency in
the language of the country over which she was called to rule. Her
knowledge of it was acquired chiefly, if not wholly, after her return
from France. Her father, from whom she might have learnt it in
childhood, she never knew. For her mother the northern Doric remained
through life a foreign tongue. The attendants with whom she was
surrounded in her earliest infancy were either French or had been
educated in France. It is therefore questionable whether she could
express herself in what was nominally her native tongue, even when she
sailed from Dumbarton on her journey to the court of the Valois. That
she forgot whatever she may then have known of it is beyond doubt. Seven
years after she had left France she was still making efforts to learn
English, using translations--amongst others an English version of the
Psalms--for the purpose, but not meeting with signal success. Conversing
with Nicholas White, in 1569, she began with excuses for "her ill
English, declaring herself more willing than apt to learn the
language".[24] It was on the 1st of September of the preceding year that
she wrote what she herself describes as her first letter in English.
This circumstance may warrant its reproduction, though as an historical
document merely, it possesses no importance. It is addressed to Sir
Francis Knollys: "Mester Knollis, y heuu har sum neus from Scotland; y
send zou the double off them y vreit to the quin my gud sister, and pres
zou to du the lyk, conforme to that y spak zesternicht vnto zou, and sut
hesti ansur y refer all to zour discretion, and wil lipne beter in zour
gud delin for mi, nor y kan persuad zou, nemli in this langasg; excus my
iuel vreitin for y neuuer vsed it afor, and am hestet.... Excus my iuel
vreitin thes furst tym."[25]
The testimony of Mary's library,[26] to which we have already appealed,
and which is the more valuable and the more trustworthy that the books
which it contained were undoubtedly collected by herself and for her own
use, bears out what has been so often stated with regard to her love of
French literature. In history it shows her to have been acquainted not
only with the foremost chroniclers; not only with Froissart, in whose
picturesque narrative her native Scotland is mentioned with such
grateful remembrance of the hospitality shown him; not only with
Monstrelet, from whose ungenerous treatment of the heroic Joan of Arc
she may have learnt, even before her own experience taught her the hard
lesson, how the animosity of party can blunt all better feeling; but
also with the lesser writers, with those whose works never reached
celebrity even in their own day and whose names have long ceased to
interest posterity, with Aubert and Bouchet, Sauvage and Paradin.
It may be regarded as a proof of her good taste that she set but little
store on the dreary romances of the time, written either in imitation or
in continuation of "Amadis de Gaul", whilst to Rabelais,[27] on the
contrary, she accorded the place of honour which he deserved.
As regards the poets of France, all that Brantôme has told us of her
partiality for them finds its justification in the almost complete
collection of their works which she brought to Scotland with her.
Amongst all others, however, Du Bellay, Maison-Fleur, and Ronsard were
her special favourites. For the last, in particular, her enthusiasm was
unbounded. It was to the verses in which he embodies the love of a whole
nation that she turned for solace when the fresh sorrow of her departure
from France was her heaviest burthen; it was over his pages that her
tears flowed in the bitterness which knew no comfort as she sat a lonely
captive in the castles of Elizabeth. As a token of her admiration she
sent him from her prison a costly service of plate with the flattering
inscription: "A Ronsard, l'Apollon des Français".[28]
It has been asserted by Brantôme, and repeated ever since on his
authority, that Mary Stuart herself excelled in French verse. The
elegiac stanzas quoted by him have been admired in all good faith by
succeeding generations "for the tender pathos of the sentiments and the
original beauty of the metaphors". It is painful to throw discredit on
the time-honoured tradition, but the late discovery of a manuscript once
in Brantôme's possession has proved, beyond the possibility of a doubt,
that the "Elegy on the Death of Francis II" was not composed by his
wife. This was at once established by Dr. Galy of Périgueux, the
possessor of the manuscript. Having since then been favoured by him
with a copy of other poems contained in it and acknowledged by Brantôme
as his own productions, and having compared them carefully with the
"pathetic sentiments" and "original metaphors", as well as with the
expressions and even the rhymes of the Elegy, we have no hesitation in
going a step further, and pronouncing that the latter is from the pen of
the unscrupulous Lord Abbot himself.[29] Apart from this, there still
remain a few poems attributed to Mary, and authenticated, not indeed by
her signature, but by what is almost as authoritative, her anagrams: "Sa
vertu m'atire", or "Va, tu meriteras".[30] However interesting these
poetical effusions may be as relics, their literary merit is of no high
order, and they are assuredly not such as to deserve for the author a
place amongst the poets of her century.
Before closing our remarks on Mary Stuart's scholarship and literary
acquirements we would dwell for a moment on the subject of her
handwriting, for that too has been made the subject of admiring comment
by some of her biographers. Con has recorded that "she formed her
letters elegantly and, what is rare in a woman, wrote swiftly".[31] Some
reason for his admiration may be found in the fact that Mary had
adopted what Shakespeare styles "the sweet Roman hand", which at that
time was only beginning to take the place of the old Gothic, and, in
Scotland particularly, had all the charm of a fashionable novelty. The
specimen now before us shows a bold, rather masculine hand, of such size
that five short words--"mon linge entre mes fammes"--fill a line six
inches long. The letters are seldom joined together, and the words are
scattered over the page with untutored irregularity and disregard for
straight lines. On the whole we cannot but allow the force of Pepys'
exclamation on being shown some of the Queen's letters: "Lord! How
poorly methinks they wrote in those days, and on what plain uncut
paper!"[32]
Our sketch of Mary Stuart would not be complete if we limited ourselves
to the more serious side of her character merely. If she did not deserve
the reputation for utter thoughtlessness and frivolity which some of her
puritanical contemporaries have given her, she was undoubtedly fond of
amusements. The memoirs and correspondence of the time often show her
seeking recreation in popular sports and pastimes; indeed, Randolph
describes life at the Scottish Court for the first two years after her
return from France as one continual round of "feasts, banquetting,
masking, and running at the ring, and such like".[33] It was to Mary, as
Knox testifies, that the introduction into Scotland of those primitive
dramatic performances known as Masques or Triumphs was due. They soon
became so popular that they formed the chief entertainment at every
festival. The Queen herself and her attendants, particularly the four
Marys, often took part in them, either acting in mere dumb show or
reciting the verses which the elegant pen of Buchanan supplied, and
singing the songs which Rizzio composed, and of which the melodies may
very possibly be those which, wedded to more modern verse, are still
popular amongst the Scottish peasantry. Not only were these masques
performed in the large halls of the feudal castles, but in the open air
also, near the little lake at the foot of Arthur's Seat. It may cause
some astonishment at the present day to find not only the maids of
honour, but even the Queen herself, assuming the dress of the other sex
in these masquerades. Yet the _Diurnal of Occurrents_[34] records,
without expressing either indignation or even astonishment at the fact,
that "the Queen's Grace and all her Maries and ladies were all clad in
men's apparel" at the "Maskery or mumschance" given one Sunday evening
in honour of the French Ambassador.
Like her cousin of England, Mary was fond of dancing, and, as her Latin
biography informs us, showed to great advantage in it.[35] From a
passage quaintly noted as "full of diversion" in Sir James Melville's
Memoirs, we learn that the knight being pressed by Queen Elizabeth to
declare whether she or his own sovereign danced best, answered her with
courtly ambiguity that "the Queen dancit not so hich and so disposedly
as she did".[36] In reply to the same royal enquirer he also stated that
Mary "sometimes recreated herself in playing upon the lute and
virginals", and that she played "reasonably for a queen", not so well,
however, as Elizabeth herself.[37] We gather from Con[38] and Brantôme
that her voice was well trained, and that she sang well.
The indoor amusements in favour at Holyrood were chess, which James VI
condemned as "over wise and philosophic a folly",[39] tables, a game
probably resembling backgammon, and cards. That these last were not
played for "love" merely, is shown by an entry in the Lord Treasurer's
accounts of "fyftie pundis" for Her Majesty "to play at the cartis".[40]
Puppets or marionettes were also in great vogue. A set of thirty-eight,
together with a complete outfit of "vardingaills", "gownis",
"kirtillis", "sairkis slevis", and "hois", is mentioned in an inventory
of the time, where we see these "pippenis"--an old Scottish corruption
of the French "poupine"--dressed in such costly stuffs as damask
brocaded with gold, cloth of silver, and white silk.[41]
Quieter employment for the leisure hours of the Queen and her ladies
was supplied by various kinds of fancy-work, amongst which knitting and
tapestry are particularly mentioned. To the latter she devoted much of
her time, both at Lochleven, where she requested to be allowed "an
imbroiderer, to draw forth such work as she would be occupied
about",[42] and in England. Whilst she was at Tutbury, Nicholas White
once asked her how she passed her time within doors when the weather cut
off all exercises abroad. She replied "that all that day she wrought
with her needle, and that the diversity of the colours made the work
seem less tedious, and continued so long at it till very pain made her
to give over.... Upon this occasion she entered into a pretty disputable
comparison between carving, painting, and working with the needle,
affirming painting, in her own opinion, for the most commendable
quality."[43]
At his interview with Elizabeth, Sir James Melville was asked what kind
of exercises his Queen used. He answered, that when he received his
dispatch, the Queen was lately come from the Highland hunting. Her
undaunted behaviour on this occasion is recorded by an eyewitness, Dr.
William Barclay of Gartley, who tells us that she herself gave the
signal for letting the hounds loose upon a wolf, and that in one day's
hunting three hundred and sixty deer, five wolves, and some wild goats
were slain.[44]
In common with her father, who took great pains to introduce "ratches"
or greyhounds and bloodhounds into Scotland, and with her
great-grandson, Charles II, who gave his name to a breed of spaniels,
Mary Stuart shared a great fondness for dogs. In her happier days she
always possessed several, which she entrusted to the keeping of one
Anthone Guedio and a boy. These canine pets were provided with a daily
ration of two loaves, and wore blue velvet collars as a distinguishing
badge.[45] During her captivity, her dogs were amongst her most faithful
companions. Writing from Sheffield to Beton, Archbishop of Glasgow, she
said: "If my uncle, the Cardinal of Guise, has gone to Lyons, I am sure
he will send me a couple of pretty little dogs, and you will buy me as
many more; for, except reading and working, my only pleasure is in all
the little animals that I can get. They must be sent in baskets
well-packed, so as to keep them warm."[46] The fidelity of one of these
dumb friends adds to the pathos of the last scene of her sad history.
"One of the executioners," says a contemporary report, "pulling off her
clothes, espied her little dog which was crept under her clothes, which
would not be gotten forth but by force, and afterwards would not depart
from the dead body, but came and lay betwixt her head and shoulders, a
thing diligently noted."[47]
In recording one of his interviews with Queen Mary, Knox gives us
information concerning another of the sports with which she beguiled her
time, for he tells us that it was at the hawking near Kinross that she
appointed him to meet her.[48] Archery, too, seems to have been a
favourite amusement. She had butts both at Holyrood and St. Andrews.
Writing to Cecil in 1562, and again in 1567, Randolph informs him that
the Queen and the Master of Lindsay shot against Mary Livingston and the
Earl of Murray; and that, in another match, the Queen and Bothwell won a
dinner at Tranent from the Earl of Huntley and Lord Seton.[49] Neither
did she neglect the "royal game", for one of the charges brought against
her and embodied in the articles given in by the Earl of Murray to Queen
Elizabeth's commissioners at Westminster, stated that a few days after
Darnley's murder "she past to Seytoun, exercing hir one day richt
oppinlie at the feildis with the pallmall and goif".
To sketch Mary's character further would be trenching on debatable
ground and overstepping the limits which we have imposed upon ourselves.
There is one trait, however, which may be recorded on the authority even
of her enemies--her personal courage. Randolph represents her as riding
at the head of her troops "with a steel bonnet on her head, and a pistol
at her saddle-bow; regretting that she was not a man to know what life
it was to lie all night in the fields, or to walk upon the causeway with
a jack and a knapscull, a Glasgow buckler, and a broadsword". The
author of the poem preserved in the Record Office, to which we have
already made reference, allows that "no enemy could appal her, no
travail daunt her intent", that she "dreaded no danger of death", that
"no stormy blasts could make her retire", and he likens her to Tomiris:
Tomiris hir selffe
Who dreaded (_awed_) great hosts with her tyrannye
Cold not showe hir selffe more valiant.
But never, surely, was her fortitude shown more clearly to the world
than when, three hundred years ago, "she laid herself upon the block
most quietly, trying her chin over it, stretching out her hands, and
crying out: 'In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum'".