‘“And grant me his life!” Lady Margaret cried;
“Oh! grant but his life to me!
And I’ll give ye my gold and my lands so wide,
An’ ye let my love go free.
‘“And spare me his life!” Lady Margaret prest,
“As ye hope for a pardon above;
And I’ll give ye the heart from out of my breast
For the life of my own true love!”’
Although the gayest of the gay, where revelry was in the ascendant,
and gifted with that tameless courage and those qualities of endurance
which were the characteristics of her family, alas! too often proved
in the reverses of that ill-fated line, Mary Stuart was subject to
constitutional fits of dejection, the more painful that she struggled
bravely against the incubus; and, however much it may have darkened
her spirits, never suffered it to affect her temper. The Queen was
always kind, considerate, and smiling towards her household, even while
her eyes were full of tears, and her heart was sore with undefined
anxieties and anticipations of evil for which she saw no obvious cause.
Her Majesty was generally more free from such depressing influences
at St Andrews than elsewhere. The keen sea-breezes of that bracing
locality seemed to have a favourable effect upon her health, and she
enjoyed, above all things, the absence of state and ceremony, on
which she specially insisted in the old cathedral town. Fond as she
was of the saddle, it was a great pleasure to the beautiful Queen
to gallop over the spacious sands that skirt St Andrews Bay, where
she could enjoy a stretch of two miles and more, to the mouth of the
river Eden, careering along on the firm hard surface, with the spray
of the German Ocean wet on her cheek, and her horse’s feet splashing
amongst the spent waves of the receding tide. Then she delighted to
fly her hawk at the wild fowl abounding a mile or so inland, returning
by the well-known chain of grassy, sandy hillocks, that are there
called links, and devoted in modern times by the Scottish gentry to
their national recreation of golf. Sometimes crossing the Eden at the
shallows near its mouth, she would roam over the waste of low grounds
that stretch to the northward, perhaps as far as a small straggling
hamlet, in days of old a Roman settlement, defended by one of their
masterly encampments, and called by the legions, _Lochores_--a Latinism
which the Scottish peasant of to-day reproduces in the name of Leuchars.
Then, on her return from these joyous expeditions to the small house in
the South Street, selected for her own royal residence, she gathered
her few intimates and friends around her, and passed the evenings
in amusement and hilarity, from which the very name of business was
rigidly excluded.
To one who was so staunch a supporter of the faith in which she had
been brought up, not the least attractive feature in this picturesque
town was its beautiful cathedral, that goodly edifice which the
over-zealous followers of John Knox thought it no sacrilege to
devastate, and of which a fine ruin alone remains to suggest to us what
it must once have been.
The antiquary prowling about the moss-grown flag-stones that pave
its aisles, or prying into nooks and corners of sinking buttress and
mouldering walls, finds memory sharpened and curiosity stimulated
at every turn. The philosopher, contemplating the length and breadth
of that spacious area, heretofore rich with the decorations of
architecture, and glowing in the pomp and pageantry of Romish piety,
recalls the solemn music, the swinging censers, the carven images,
the twinkling lights, the florid altar, the gilded crozier, and the
mitred abbot, with his train of monks and choristers winding solemnly
up the dusky nave. He speculates, half-pitying, half-sneering, on the
various modes in which men offer their homage to the true God--the
Mollah exhorting the faithful Moslem from a minaret, the priest
pattering Latin in a corner before a crucifix, the precentor’s nasal
psalmody quivering within the unsightly walls of a Presbyterian
meeting-house--and he reflects that the forms of religion change
like the fashion of a garment, and that the offertory of yesterday
becomes the superstition of to-day, and the mummery of to-morrow;
but the Christian, looking upward to that ruined arch, through the
stained glass of which, as through a prism, the light was wont to
stream with rainbow colouring, sees the blue sky of heaven smiling
changeless in its span, and rejoices to believe that clear as the
blessed light of day is the light of piety, penetrating the disguises
and the ceremonials and the ignorant prejudices of weak humanity, like
the sunshine that vivifies as surely the dusky slab lurking in the
gloomiest corner of the cathedral, as the fresh daisy raising its head
on the free mountain side. What matters the fashion of the cup, chased
in gold, or of broken pottery, so the parched lips can but drain their
fill of the waters of life?
It was the Queen’s habit to devote the early part of the day to such
affairs of state as would not excuse neglect, even at St Andrews, and
to the usual household duties, which every lady in the land, royalty
included, then found to occupy a considerable portion of her time. At
twelve, she dined temperately and hastily, after which she mounted her
horse, and, accompanied by as small a retinue as possible, devoted the
afternoon to exercise and amusement.
It was on the second day after her arrival at St Andrews that she
agreed to Mary Hamilton’s request, who begged that she might be allowed
to accompany her mistress in the daily ride. The Queen had seen with
concern the sad change that had come over her favourite’s looks, and
although surprised at this departure from her usual habits (for the
maid-of-honour was a timid and unskilful horsewoman), willingly acceded
to a proposal that promised to bring back the colour to her cheek and
the light to her eye. With a couple of men-at-arms and a page, as their
sole escort, they left the town by its southern gate, taking the horse
track that led to the broad expanse of Magus-Muir, a locality destined
in subsequent troubles to obtain an odious celebrity for the murder of
Archbishop Sharpe at the hands of the Covenanters, but only interesting
to Mary and her courtiers that it was rich in an abundance of wild fowl.
Chastelâr had been already tried on the charge of high treason, and
sentenced to death; he was to be beheaded the following morning
at daybreak. It was perhaps natural that neither Mary nor her
maid-of-honour should have exchanged a syllable concerning his fate.
The Queen was riding ‘Black Agnes.’ As soon as they were clear of
the town, she put her horse into a gallop, and never drew bridle for
several miles. It did not, however, escape her Majesty’s observation
that the animal on which Mary Hamilton was mounted, a bay of great
strength and spirit, usually uncontrollable by the gentle hand of a
lady, was going in a perfectly docile and collected form; also, that
the girl seemed to-day perfectly free from the timidity which commonly
left her miles behind her mistress in these scampers across a country.
They had already lost sight of the sea, and had gained a wild inland
district of moss and moor, varied here and there with patches of
cultivation, and interspersed with a few fir-trees of stunted growth,
and an occasional cairn of stones breaking the level sky-line, when
the Queen pulled up at the top of an acclivity, and pointing to a
solitary horseman stationed, as if expecting them, at the foot of the
slope, observed to her companion, with a wild attempt at cheerfulness
obviously forced--
‘You scarcely thought, Mary, I was entrapping you to witness a
_rendezvous_. It is a romantic spot for the purpose, nevertheless,
and yonder is the gallant who has kept tryst with me as he promised,
faithfully enough.’
Mary Hamilton would have felt it an unspeakable relief to have burst
into tears. The whole fabric of her morning’s work was swept away by
the sight of that plain dark figure, so stationary yonder on his horse.
She would have given her life for half-an-hour’s conversation with the
Queen alone, although (strange inconsistency) she dared not ask her
indulgent mistress point-blank to accord her that trifling favour, and
now, this hateful stranger would probably hang about them all day, and
to-morrow it would be too late. A thousand shadowy and incongruous
impossibilities crossed her brain, too, at the same moment, all turning
upon the one sickening certainty, that even while she grasped at their
consolations, she felt too surely it would be out of mortal power to
avert. She answered with a ghastly smile that startled the Queen, and
totally unconscious of what she said the while--
‘Let us go to meet him, madam; it may be that he can give us some hope.’
Mary stared at her attendant vaguely, and shook her head, then,
putting her horse in motion, descended the slope towards the solitary
traveller, flushing a brace of wary old moor-fowl and a curlew, while
she plunged and scrambled with characteristic fearlessness through the
broken ground that intervened.
The horseman dismounted as she approached, and did her homage with
a grave dignified air, not without something of caustic humour that
recognised the peculiarity of the situation.
‘I might not fail to do your Grace’s bidding,’ said he, ‘even in so
light a matter, as to see you fly your hawk on Magus-Muir, but in good
faith, madam, a younger cavalier could scarce have ridden harder than I
have done since sunrise, and my old bones ache to some purpose for my
punctuality.’
‘Nay, Master Knox,’ answered the Queen, with marked favour, ‘those of
your blood have been ever willing to set foot in stirrup at the bidding
of the Stuart, and I have been taught to believe that a black cassock
may cover as stout a heart and as loyal as a steel breastplate. Behold,
I have here a fitting reward for your punctuality, to be given with the
cordial good wishes of your Queen.’
Thus speaking, Mary drew from her bosom a crystal watch of curious
and elaborate workmanship, large, substantial, and of considerable
thickness, but esteemed a triumph of mechanical ingenuity, and
presented it to the gratified Churchman, with a charm of manner that
increased the value of the gift a thousand fold.
He bowed low over the royal hand that proffered so flattering a favour,
and mounted his horse once more with an air of extreme satisfaction and
the ready alacrity of a youth.
So far all was progressing smoothly, but Mary Stuart, judging of the
human temperament by her own, was persuaded that the exhilarating
influence of a gallop would produce the mollifying results she desired,
and render even stern John Knox malleable to the purpose she had in
view.
‘Ye are not so strict,’ said Mary, ‘but that ye like well to see a fair
flight, and I have a hawk here, Master Knox, that hath not her equal
on the wing this side the sea; nay,’ she added playfully, as he seemed
about to excuse himself, and muttered something of ‘business’ and
‘distance,’ ‘ye have thought fit to reprove all my other amusements,
my feastings, and fiddlings, and masquings, and such-like, nor have I
borne you any grudge, for that I believed you to be sincere, but ye
love a good horse well I know, and can reclaim a hawk, for all your
solemn bearing and grave studies, with the best of us. By these gloves,
I will never forgive you, an’ ye join not my pastime to-day.’
Thus speaking, the Queen signed to her page, who came up with a
beautiful falcon on his wrist. The bird was transferred to Her Majesty,
and seemed to shake its bells more gaily, and raise its hooded head
more proudly, as though it knew and loved the hand that sleeked its
neck-plumage with so gentle a caress.
The churchman was nothing loth. Despite a weak frame and failing
health, his bold ardent nature, the same disposition that under
different circumstances would have made him a soldier, a statesman, an
explorer, or an adventurer, bade him take delight in the free air of
the moorland and the stride of a good horse. He settled himself in the
saddle, gathered his reins, and professed his readiness to attend Her
Majesty.
‘These creatures,’ said he, arguing down some scruples of his own
which much enhanced the promised gratification, ‘are given for our
lawful recreation. Man is doubtless lord over the beasts of the field.
I will stay to witness one flight of that long-winged falcon; ’tis a
goodly bird indeed if I know aught of the craft. One flight, and so
crave your Majesty’s licence to depart.’
The Queen smiled her assent, and galloped merrily on to a waste marshy
surface, where the tramp of their horses ere long flushed a wisp of
wild-fowl, and Mary, throwing her hawk in the air, was soon scouring
over the moor at a break-neck pace, her eyes fixed on the sky, and her
whole attention absorbed by the gyrations of her favourite.
John Knox, too, casting aside for the moment his cares and
responsibilities, entered into the sport with the eagerness of a boy.
It was seldom indeed that zealous man shared in any of the lighter
amusements of the time; but in pleasure as in business, whatever he
found to do Master Knox went about with his whole heart and soul. The
wrinkles seemed to smooth themselves on his brow as the wild wind swept
back his thin gray locks, and he felt ten years younger, while the
blood leapt warm in every pulse, and he urged his steed forward with
leg and rein in the excitement of the flight.
Mary Hamilton rode like a woman in a dream. The bay horse, accustomed
to fret and chafe under the restraining influence of the bit, seemed
bewildered by his unusual freedom. He had plunged and bounded away with
his head in the air, according to his wont, prepared for a contest in
which he was sure to obtain the mastery, and he may or may not have
been disappointed to find that his rider’s carelessness of consequences
exceeded his own, and that he was suffered to exhaust his mettle
far more rapidly than he expected. With a stony white face, and her
abundant hair streaming over her shoulders, the maid-of-honour sat
back in the saddle, and flew along at a pace that even ‘Black Agnes’
could not surpass, unconscious apparently of amusement, or danger, or
excitement, or anything but the relief afforded to her mental anguish
by the physical sense of being carried with such velocity through the
air. When the mallard was struck to earth at last, and the horses were
pulled up, with panting sides and dilated nostrils, and wild eyes all
a-glow with excitement, the Queen gazed on her reckless attendant in
surprise, and even the severe Reformer remonstrated with her, Popish
damsel though she were, for the utter disregard in which she seemed to
hold that white neck of hers, and the probability of breaking it in
such a headlong career.
‘Fair mistress,’ quoth Master Knox, ‘there is reason in all things;
over-caution supposes want of faith, but the contrary extreme, such as
you have exhibited to-day, denotes presumption and fool-hardiness. You
are young; humanly speaking you have many years before you. You would
not willingly be cut off like a flower in its bloom. Why should you
thus risk your life as if there was no to-morrow?’
She did not seem to hear him. She answered nothing, but the last
word of his sentence seemed to strike some chord within her, for she
turned away muttering below her breath, ‘To-morrow. It will be too
late to-morrow,’ and clasped her hands upon her breast as if in pain.
John Knox did not observe her, for his attention was now taken up by
the Queen, who seeing in his face, which was bright with repressed
excitement, that the propitious moment had arrived, motioned him
to her side, and moving her palfrey out of ear-shot of the others,
broached the subject that had led her to invite him thus to join in her
favourite amusement.
‘I have brought ye a long ride, Master Knox,’ she said, ‘and I would ye
could return and taste a cup of sack at our poor lodging in St Andrews,
but I know your busy avocations, and that ye will not willingly be
absent from Edinburgh a day longer than is necessary. Ere you depart, I
would fain ask your opinion on a subject of toleration.’
At the ominous word, the divine’s whole countenance changed as the
sky changes after a chance blink of sunshine in December. The clouds
of controversy gathered on his brow, and suspicion gleamed in his
cold piercing eyes. The Queen saw the storm brewing, and added, with
a pleading sweetness few men would have been able to resist, ‘The sun
smiles on all alike; the blessed rain of heaven falls on the just and
on the unjust. Which of us shall penetrate our neighbour’s motives, or
judge our neighbour’s heart?’
‘Ye shall have no dealings with the ungodly,’ replied Knox, hastily,
with an instinctive prescience of what was coming; ‘the Amalekite is
to be smitten root and branch till he be destroyed out of the land.
But I anticipate your Grace, and have not yet been favoured with your
commands.’
He took himself up shortly, as though aware and a little ashamed of
his ill-manners. The Queen, reining in her horse, proceeded with great
earnestness.
‘The spring is now approaching, and you know with what devotion we,
of the Catholic faith, look forward to the solemnities of Easter. I
am not ashamed to solicit your interest that my fellow-religionists
should be suffered to observe that festival with their accustomed
ceremonies unmolested. I know too well the feelings of the party who
call themselves the Reformed Church. I know (none better, and ye cannot
deny that I have reason) Master Knox’s influence with that powerful
majority, and his sovereign entreats him thus in confidence to exert it
in the cause of charity and peace and good-will amongst men.’
It was a powerful appeal from a monarch to a subject, especially under
the peculiar circumstances of the moment. Riding alone over the breezy
upland with that beautiful woman, under the exciting influence of wild
scenery and an inspiriting gallop, the heart softened by the smile of
nature, and the blood tingling with exercise, few men but would have
found it impossible to resist a suppliant, who was at the same time a
Queen, and _such_ a Queen. Loyalty demanded obedience, self-interest
whispered the advantages of royal favour, and the impolicy of refusing
a sovereign, ambition drew a dazzling picture of the eventual triumph
of the cause wrought out by the judicious concessions of one man alone,
and that man venerated as the great pillar of Protestantism in Europe;
but conscience thundered ‘No;’ and to do Knox justice, he never wavered
nor hesitated for an instant. His lineaments looked more rugged, his
brow more uncompromising than usual, when he rejoined--
‘Your Grace has addressed me frankly, and as frankly I reply to you.
If by holding up my finger I could retain for the Church of Rome any
one of the privileges that are daily and hourly slipping from her
grasp, if by so doing I could relieve her from one of the least of the
indignities or calamities which are surely gathering round her head
from the four quarters of heaven, see, madam, as I ride here a living
man before you, I would keep it clenched down by force till the nail
grew through the palm of my hand! I am a soldier, I will not desert my
banner; I am an heir, I will not alienate my birthright; I am an honest
man, I will do my duty at all hazards, in the face of every prince in
Europe.’
He looked sublime while he spoke; the weak, ungainly figure reared
itself in the saddle with all the pride of a Colossus, and never a
belted earl could have borne a nobler front in coronet and ermine
than did that minister of the Church in the fearless integrity of his
purpose. Mary grew pale with anger and disappointment; nevertheless
she had long since learned the painful lesson of self-control, and she
forced herself to speak calmly, while her very blood was boiling within.
‘Would ye refuse to others the liberty of worship ye exact for
yourselves? Would ye persecute men who differ from you only in their
mode of worship, more ruthlessly than the pagan emperors persecuted
those early Christians who were our teachers as well as yours? Bethink
ye, Master Knox, this is a world of change. The old faith hath many
staunch supporters still. Men’s minds may alter as they have altered
ere now, and those who are all-powerful to-day may find themselves
petitioners for mercy to-morrow. Is it well to exasperate beyond
endurance those who may in their turn come to have the upper hand?’
The implied threat was injudicious and ill-timed; she would have done
better, knowing with whom she had to deal, either to have given vent
to her indignation and defied him outright, or to have repressed it
altogether; but she was only a woman after all, and womanlike, could
not entirely separate the two sensations of anger and fear, so she
adopted those half-measures to which her sex is fain to have recourse
in a difficulty, and roused his spirit while she tried to work upon his
apprehensions.
‘I defy the Romish Antichrist as I defy the principle of evil itself,’
replied Knox, with kindling eyes and excited gestures. ‘Am I watchman
set upon a hill, and shall I leave my post because the enemy is at
hand? Am I a shepherd in the wilderness, and shall I abandon my flock
because the storm is gathering on the horizon? No, madam, once again I
tell you that if you count on my allegiance in this matter, I renounce
it; if you depend on my loyalty, I am a rebel!’
‘It seems so,’ she replied very coldly, and yet there was a tone of
utter sadness and desolation in her voice that smote on the Churchman’s
heart. With looks of tender pity and concern, such as a father bends
upon a favourite child, he would have argued with her once more, would
fain have expounded to her the fallacies of her doctrines, and recalled
her from the way which he conscientiously believed to be the very
high road to destruction; but as is often the case in such disputes,
the more one yielded the more the other encroached, and she cut him
short with haughty impatience, reining in her horse, and pointing with
outstretched arm towards the south.
‘Yonder lies your homeward way, Master Knox,’ said the Queen, ‘and here
is mine; I sent for you to listen to my proposals, not to hear your
pulpit declamations at secondhand. When next we meet, others may have
found means to tame that haughty spirit, and the avowed rebel may be
glad to solicit pardon from his sovereign. I have no further need of
you; you may depart!’
The dismissal was as peremptory as it was unceremonious; though
burning to reply and charged with argument, he could not pretend to
misunderstand it, and unwillingly withdrew. Ere the tramp of his horse
had died out on the heathery sward, Mary burst into a passion of tears
which she could no longer control; then bending her head low to her
horse’s neck, put ‘Black Agnes’ once more to her speed, and followed by
her attendants, galloped off in the direction of St Andrews.
Independent of her own private sorrows and distresses, the Queen’s
political position was at this time one of peculiar difficulty and
anxiety. A sincere Catholic, and consequently, from the very nature
of her faith, an ardent upholder of its infallibility, and advocate
for proselytism, she was compelled by the exigencies of her station to
give countenance to its most determined foes. Not only did she see its
tenets repudiated by the great majority of her people, but the very
toleration they extorted for themselves, was denied to her, and it was
a subject of open discontent that the Mass, which had been suppressed
elsewhere, was suffered to be performed in the Queen’s own chapel at
Holyrood. The very adviser on whom she placed the utmost reliance,
her half-brother, the Earl of Moray, was the chief support of the
Protestant party in her kingdom. And although Seton and a few more of
her nobility remained secretly attached to the old faith, their number
was comparatively trifling, and their zeal scarcely proof against the
temptations of ambition and self-interest.
Then, as if her difficulties were not sufficiently perplexing without
foreign interference, her relatives, the Guises, lost no opportunity of
reminding her that they looked to her alone for the restoration of the
Religion in Scotland, and eventually over the whole of Britain; whilst
a strong party in Spain furnishing her, for aid, with nothing but
unasked advice, actually reproached her for lukewarmness in the cause
to which she was sacrificing day by day her authority, her comfort, her
very safety, and to which she was so sincerely attached, that, rather
than resign it, she would have lost, as she afterwards did lose, her
crown, ay, and the head that it encircled.
The insults levelled at her person, through her belief, constantly
goaded her to anger, which prudential considerations urged her to
suppress; and when pictures were paraded before her in the streets,
ridiculing all that she held most sacred, and priests maltreated in her
own chapel for the performance of their ritual and hers, it is painful
to imagine the feelings of a sensitive woman and a Queen compelled to
forego her revenge, and even to court the favour of those undutiful
subjects who had originated such overt and outrageous scandal.
No wonder she galloped on with burning cheeks and swelling heart,
reflecting only on the failure of her benevolent scheme so thwarted by
the obstinate integrity of Knox, and insensible as the very horse that
carried her to the beautiful scene opened out at her very feet.
Before her lay the noble sweep of St Andrew’s Bay, framed, as it were,
in its golden sands, that stretched far to the north along the coast
of Forfarshire, till their tawny line was lost in the distant ocean
at the jutting promontory of the Red-head. Clear against the blue
expanse, clotted here and there with a white sail, rose the delicate
pinnacles of the cathedral, supported on the right by the bluff square
tower of St Regulus, firm and massive like some bold champion, proud
yet careful of his charge. On the left, far out into the water, stood
the sea-girt defences of the castle, while between these prominent
objects many a graceful arch and pointed spire denoted the churches and
colleges adorning that stronghold of learning and piety, refining the
taste with their exalted beauty, whilst they carried the eye upwards
towards heaven. Below these, the smiling town, with its white houses
and gardens scattered more and more as they neared the water, straggled
downwards to the beach; and, beyond all, the broad sea lay, calm and
mighty in the serenity of its majestic repose.
On her bridle-hand, Mary might have scanned the wide champaign of two
counties, through which two rivers ran in parallel lines to the ocean,
the intermediate space dotted with woods and rich in cultivation, the
river Eden gleaming like silver in the foreground, the smoke of Dundee
floating white against the dark heights of Forfarshire, as it followed
the downward current of the Tay, and in the far distance, the dim
outline of the noble Grampians, losing their misty tops amongst the
clouds that streaked the placid sky.
Yet Mary marked nothing of this. With a flushed cheek, with a drooping
head, and, oh! with a cruel sorrow at her heart, she galloped on, and
never checked her pace, nor addressed her attendants, till she reached
the gate of the ecclesiastical city once more.
Then she drew rein, and as they rode together up the South Street, she
blamed herself that she had not sooner observed and taken pity on Mary
Hamilton’s obvious exhaustion both of mind and body.
The bay-horse was, ere this, reduced to a state of abject submission
and docility; the bridle, on which he was wont to strain so eagerly,
lay loose upon his neck, and he seemed to be looking about for his
stable with a very wistful expression of fatigue and discomfiture; but
his rider’s face was pale and rigid, while her eye was wide open, and
her mouth firmly set; she seemed unconscious of all that was passing
around her, and disclosed that vacant, yet pitiful expression of face
which is only to be seen in those who walk in their sleep, or who are
undergoing some racking torture of mind by which their outer faculties
are benumbed.
‘You are weary, child,’ said the Queen, kindly. ‘I should have
remembered you are not so indefatigable a rider as myself. Well, we are
at home now, and I shall not require you again this evening.’
So speaking, the Queen leapt lightly from her palfrey, and flung the
rein to the attending page, but as she did so she looked once more in
the face of Mary Hamilton, who was dismounting, and something she saw
there made her start back, and exclaim in an agitated whisper--
‘What is it, child? You frighten me! What is it?’
The other found her voice at last, but it came husky and broken to her
lips.
‘For mercy sake, madam!’ said she, ‘let me unrobe you, my kind
mistress, do not deny me this one favour! Let me unrobe you, and alone.’
The Queen, though still startled, blushed vividly as something crossed
her mind, that yet seemed partly to reassure her, and she beckoned her
maid-of-honour to follow as she entered her private apartments, then
dismissing her other attendants, threw herself into a chair, and with
the colour not yet faded from her brow, bade Mary Hamilton unburthen
herself of this dreadful grief that was weighing on her mind.
A burst of hysterical weeping was the result, but it calmed and
relieved the sufferer, until she could find words in which to offer
her petition and tell her pitiful tale. Women are wonderfully patient
of such affections in their own sex, and the harshest of them will
be gentle and considerate with one of these outbreaks that they
have agreed to call ‘nervous attacks.’ Much more so, kindly Mary
Stuart; soothing her attendant like a child, she soon restored her to
sufficient composure to make intelligible the boon she had all day been
striving to entreat. What this was an hour or two would disclose. In
the meantime, the Queen and her maiden sat whispering in the darkening
twilight, till the shafts and pinnacles of the neighbouring cathedral
loomed grim and fantastic in the shadows of nightfall, and the light in
the sacristan’s window told that the time of vespers was already past.
At the same hour, John Knox, riding steadily along the road to
Edinburgh, was beguiling the gloomy journey with a proud recollection
of his resistance to the Queen’s advances, sternly reminding his
conscience that animosity to the Papists was a Christian’s duty, and
that forgiveness was no Christian virtue to one of another faith.
And Chastelâr in his dungeon was preparing for death by reflection on
the pitiless beauty of her in whose face he would never look again.