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 time 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.

CHAPTER VIII

On landing on the shores of England, the Queen of Scotland found

messengers from Elizabeth empowered to express to her all the regret

their mistress felt in being unable to admit her to her presence, or to

give her the affectionate welcome she bore her in her heart. But it was

essential, they added, that first of all the queen should clear herself

of the death of Darnley, whose family, being subjects of the Queen of

England, had a right to her protection and justice.

Mary Stuart was so blinded that she did not see the trap, and

immediately offered to prove her innocence to the satisfaction of her

sister Elizabeth; but scarcely had she in her hands Mary Stuart’s

letter, than from arbitress she became judge, and, naming commissioners

to hear the parties, summoned Murray to appear and accuse his sister.

Murray, who knew Elizabeth’s secret intentions with regard to her rival,

did not hesitate a moment. He came to England, bringing the casket

containing the three letters we have quoted, some verses and some other

papers which proved that the queen had not only been Bothwell’s mistress

during the lifetime of Darnley, but had also been aware of the

assassination of her husband. On their side, Lord Herries and the Bishop

of Ross, the queen’s advocates, maintained that these letters had been

forged, that the handwriting was counterfeited, and demanded, in

verification, experts whom they could not obtain; so that this great

controversy, remained pending for future ages, and to this hour nothing

is yet affirmatively settled in this matter either by scholars or

historians.

After a five months’ inquiry, the Queen of England made known to the

parties, that not having, in these proceedings, been able to discover

anything to the dishonour of accuser or accused, everything would remain

in statu quo till one or the other could bring forward fresh proofs.

As a result of this strange decision, Elizabeth should have sent back

the regent to Scotland, and have left Mary Stuart free to go where she

would. But, instead of that, she had her prisoner removed from Bolton

Castle to Carlisle Castle, from whose terrace, to crown her with grief,

poor Mary Stuart saw the blue mountains of her own Scotland.

However, among the judges named by Elizabeth to examine into Mary

Stuart’s conduct was Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk. Be it that he was

convinced of Mary’s innocence, be it that he was urged by the ambitious

project which since served as a ground for his prosecution, and which

was nothing else than to wed Mary Stuart, to affiance his daughter to

the young king, and to become regent of Scotland, he resolved to

extricate her from her prison. Several members of the high nobility of

England, among whom were the Earls of Westmoreland and Northumberland,

entered into the plot and undertook to support it with all their

forces. But their scheme had been communicated to the regent: he

denounced it to Elizabeth, who had Norfolk arrested. Warned in time,

Westmoreland and Northumberland crossed the frontiers and took refuge in

the Scottish borders which were favourable to Queen Mary. The former

reached Flanders, where he died in exile; the latter, given up to

Murray, was sent to the castle of Lochleven, which guarded him more

faithfully than it had done its royal prisoner. As to Norfolk, he was

beheaded. As one sees, Mary Stuart’s star had lost none of its fatal

influence.

Meanwhile the regent had returned to Edinburgh, enriched with presents

from Elizabeth, and having gained, in fact, his case with her, since

Mary remained a prisoner. He employed himself immediately in dispersing

the remainder of her adherents, and had hardly shut the gates of

Lochleven Castle upon Westmoreland than, in the name of the young King

James VI, he pursued those who had upheld his mother’s cause, and among

them more particularly the Hamiltons, who since the affair of "sweeping

the streets of Edinburgh," had been the mortal enemies of the Douglases

personally; six of the chief members of this family were condemned to

death, and only obtained commutation of the penalty into an eternal

exile on the entreaties of John Knox, at that time so powerful in

Scotland that Murray dared not refuse their pardon.

One of the amnestied was a certain Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh, a man of

ancient Scottish times, wild and vindictive as the nobles in the time of

James I. He had withdrawn into the highlands, where he had found an

asylum, when he learned that Murray, who in virtue of the confiscation

pronounced against exiles had given his lands to one of his favourites,

had had the cruelty to expel his sick and bedridden wife from her own

house, and that without giving her time to dress, and although it was in

the winter cold. The poor woman, besides, without shelter, without

clothes, and without food, had gone out of her mind, had wandered about

thus for some time, an object of compassion but equally of dread; for

everyone had been afraid of compromising himself by assisting her. At

last, she had returned to expire of misery and cold on the threshold

whence she had been driven.

On learning this news, Bothwellhaugh, despite the violence of his

character, displayed no anger: he merely responded, with a terrible

smile, "It is well; I shall avenge her."

Next day, Bothwellhaugh left his highlands, and came down, disguised,

into the plain, furnished with an order of admission from the Archbishop

of St. Andrews to a house which this prelate—who, as one remembers, had

followed the queen’s fortunes to the last moment—had at Linlithgow. This

house, situated in the main street, had a wooden balcony looking on to

the square, and a gate which opened out into the country. Bothwellhaugh

entered it at night, installed himself on the first floor, hung black

cloth on the walls so that his shadow should not be seen from without,

covered the floor with mattresses so that his footsteps might not be

heard on the ground floor, fastened a racehorse ready saddled and

bridled in the garden, hollowed out the upper part of the little gate

which led to the open country so that he could pass through it at a

gallop, armed himself with a loaded arquebuse, and shut himself up in

the room.

All these preparations had been made, one imagines, because Murray was

to spend the following day in Linlithgow. But, secret as they were, they

were to be rendered useless, for the regent’s friends warned him that it

would not be safe for him to pass through the town, which belonged

almost wholly to the Hamiltons, and advised him to go by it. However,

Murray was courageous, and, accustomed not to give way before a real

danger, he did nothing but laugh at a peril which he looked upon as

imaginary, and boldly followed his first plan, which was not to go out

of his way. Consequently, as the street into which the Archbishop of St.

Andrews’ balcony looked was on his road, he entered upon it, not going

rapidly and preceded by guards who would open up a passage for him, as

his friends still counselled, but advancing at a foot’s pace, delayed as

he was by the great crowd which was blocking up the streets to see him.

Arrived in front of the balcony, as if chance had been in tune with the

murderer, the crush became so great that Murray was obliged to halt for

a moment: this rest gave Bothwellhaugh time to adjust himself for a

steady shot. He leaned his arquebuse on the balcony, and, having taken

aim with the necessary leisure and coolness, fired. Bothwellhaugh had

put such a charge into the arquebuse, that the ball, having passed

through the regent’s heart, killed the horse of a gentleman on his

right. Murray fell directly, saying, "My God! I am killed."

As they had seen from which window the shot was fired, the persons in

the regent’s train had immediately thrown themselves against the great

door of the house which looked on to the street, and had smashed it in;

but they only arrived in time to see Bothwellhaugh fly through the

little garden gate on the horse he had got ready: they immediately

remounted the horses they had left in the street, and, passing through

the house, pursued him. Bothwellhaugh had a good horse and the lead of

his enemies; and yet, four of them, pistol in hand, were so well mounted

that they were beginning to gain upon him. Then Bothwellhaugh; seeing

that whip and spur were not enough, drew his dagger and used it to goad

on his horse. His horse, under this terrible stimulus, acquired fresh

vigour, and, leaping a gully eighteen feet deep, put between his master

and his pursuers a barrier which they dared not cross.

The murderer sought an asylum in France, where he retired under the

protection of the Guises. There, as the bold stroke he had attempted had

acquired him a great reputation, some days before the Massacre of St.

Bartholomew, they made him overtures to assassinate Admiral Coligny. But

Bothwellhaugh indignantly repulsed these proposals, saying that he was

the avenger of abuses and not an assassin, and that those who had to

complain of the admiral had only to come and ask him how he had done,

and to do as he.

As to Murray, he died the night following his wound, leaving the regency

to the Earl of Lennox, the father of Darnley: on learning the news of

his death, Elizabeth wrote that she had lost her best friend.

While these events were passing in Scotland, Mary Stuart was still a

prisoner, in spite of the pressing and successive protests of Charles IX

and Henry III. Taking fright at the attempt made in her favour,

Elizabeth even had her removed to Sheffield Castle, round which fresh

patrols were incessantly in motion.

But days, months, years passed, and poor Mary, who had borne so

impatiently her eleven months’ captivity in Lochleven Castle, had been

already led from prison to prison for fifteen or sixteen years, in spite

of her protests and those of the French and Spanish ambassadors, when

she was finally taken to Tutbury Castle and placed under the care of Sir

Amyas Paulet, her last gaoler: there she found for her sole lodging two

low and damp rooms, where little by little what strength remained to her

was so exhausted that there were days on which she could not walk, on

account of the pain in all her limbs. Then it was that she who had been

the queen of two kingdoms, who was born in a gilded cradle and brought

up in silk and velvet, was forced to humble herself to ask of her gaoler

a softer bed and warmer coverings. This request, treated as an affair of

state, gave rise to negotiations which lasted a month, after which the

prisoner was at length granted what she asked. And yet the

unhealthiness, cold, and privations of all kinds still did not work

actively enough on that healthy and robust organisation. They tried to

convey to Paulet what a service he would render the Queen of England in

cutting short the existence of her who, already condemned in her rival’s

mind, yet delayed to die. But Sir Amyas Paulet, coarse and harsh as he

was to Mary Stuart, declared that, so long as she was with him she would

have nothing to fear from poison or dagger, because he would taste all

the dishes served to his prisoner, and that no one should approach her

but in his presence. In fact, some assassins, sent by Leicester, the

very same who had aspired for a moment to the hand of the lovely Mary

Stuart, were driven from the castle directly its stern keeper had

learned with what intentions they had entered it. Elizabeth had to be

patient, then, in contenting herself with tormenting her whom she could

not kill, and still hoping that a fresh opportunity would occur for

bringing her to trial. That opportunity, so long delayed, the fatal star

of Mary Stuart at length brought.

A young Catholic gentleman, a last scion of that ancient chivalry which

was already dying out at that time, excited by the excommunication of

Pius V, which pronounced Elizabeth fallen from her kingdom on earth and

her salvation in heaven, resolved to restore liberty to Mary, who

thenceforth was beginning to be looked upon, no longer as a political

prisoner, but as a martyr for her faith. Accordingly, braving the law

which Elizabeth had had made in 1585, and which provided that, if any

attempt on her person was meditated by, or for, a person who thought he

had claims to the crown of England, a commission would be appointed

composed of twenty-five members, which, to the exclusion of every other

tribunal, would be empowered to examine into the offence, and to condemn

the guilty persons, whosoever they might be. Babington, not at all

discouraged by the example of his predecessors, assembled five of his

friends, Catholics as zealous as himself, who engaged their life and

honour in the plot of which he was the head, and which had as its aim to

assassinate Elizabeth, and as a result to place Mary Stuart on the

English throne. But this scheme, well planned as it was, was revealed to

Walsingham, who allowed the conspirators to go as far as he thought he

could without danger, and who, the day before that fixed for the

assassination, had them arrested.

This imprudent and desperate attempt delighted Elizabeth, for, according

to the letter of the law, it finally gave her rival’s life into her

hands. Orders were immediately given to Sir Amyas Paulet to seize the

prisoner’s papers and to move her to Fotheringay Castle. The gaoler,

then, hypocritically relaxing his usual severity, suggested to Mary

Stuart that she should go riding, under the pretext that she had need of

an airing. The poor prisoner, who for three years had only seen the

country through her prison bars, joyfully accepted, and left Tutbury

between two guards, mounted, for greater security, on a horse whose feet

were hobbled. These two guards took her to Fotheringay Castle, her new

habitation, where she found the apartment she was to lodge in already

hung in black. Mary Stuart had entered alive into her tomb. As to

Babington and his accomplices, they had been already beheaded.

Meanwhile, her two secretaries, Curle and Nau, were arrested, and all

her papers were seized and sent to Elizabeth, who, on her part, ordered

the forty commissioners to assemble, and proceed without intermission to

the trial of the prisoner. They arrived at Fotheringay the 14th October

1586; and next day, being assembled in the great hall of the castle,

they began the examination.

At first Mary refused to appear before them, declaring that she did not

recognise the commissioners as judges, they not being her peers, and not

acknowledging the English law, which had never afforded her protection,

and which had constantly abandoned her to the rule of force. But seeing

that they proceeded none the less, and that every calumny was allowed,

no one being there to refute it, she resolved to appear before the

commissioners. We quote the two interrogatories to which Mary Stuart

submitted as they are set down in the report of M. de Bellievre to M. de

Villeroy. M. de Bellievre, as we shall see later, had been specially

sent by King Henry III to Elizabeth. [Intelligence for M. Villeroy of

what was done in England by M. de Bellievre about the affairs of the

Queen of Scotland, in the months of November and December 1586 and

January 1587.]

The said lady being seated at the end of the table in the said hall, and

the said commissioners about her—

The Queen of Scotland began to speak in these terms:

"I do not admit that any one of you here assembled is my peer or my

judge to examine me upon any charge. Thus what I do, and now tell you,

is of my own free will, taking God to witness that I am innocent and

pure in conscience of the accusations and slanders of which they wish to

accuse me. For I am a free princess and born a queen, obedient to no

one, save to God, to whom alone I must give an account of my actions.

This is why I protest yet again that my appearance before you be not

prejudicial either to me, or to the kings, princes and potentates, my

allies, nor to my son, and I require that my protest be registered, and

I demand the record of it."

Then the chancellor, who was one of the commissioners, replied in his

turn, and protested against the protestation; then he ordered that there

should be read over to the Queen of Scotland the commission in virtue of

which they were proceeding—a commission founded on the statutes and law

of the kingdom.

But to this Mary Stuart made answer that she again protested; that the

said statutes and laws were without force against her, because these

statutes and laws are not made for persons of her condition.

To this the chancellor replied that the commission intended to proceed

against her, even if she refused to answer, and declared that the trial

should proceed; for she was doubly subject to indictment, the

conspirators having not only plotted in her favour, but also with her

consent: to which the said Queen of Scotland responded that she had

never even thought of it.

Upon this, the letters it was alleged she had written to Babington and

his answers were read to her.

Mary Stuart then affirmed that she had never seen Babington, that she

had never had any conference with him, had never in her life received a

single letter from him, and that she defied anyone in the world to

maintain that she had ever done anything to the prejudice of the said

Queen of England; that besides, strictly guarded as she was, away from

all news, withdrawn from and deprived of those nearest her, surrounded

with enemies, deprived finally of all advice, she had been unable to

participate in or to consent to the practices of which she was accused;

that there are, besides, many persons who wrote to her what she had no

knowledge of, and that she had received a number of letters without

knowing whence they came to her.

Then Babington’s confession was read to her; but she replied that she

did not know what was meant; that besides, if Babington and his

accomplices had said such things, they were base men, false and liars.

"Besides," added she, "show me my handwriting and my signature, since

you say that I wrote to Babington, and not copies counterfeited like

these which you have filled at your leisure with the falsehoods it has

pleased you to insert."

Then she was shown the letter that Babington, it was said, had written

her. She glanced at it; then said, "I have no knowledge of this letter".

Upon this, she was shown her reply, and she said again, "I have no more

knowledge of this answer. If you will show me my own letter and my own

signature containing what you say, I will acquiesce in all; but up to

the present, as I have already told you, you have produced nothing

worthy of credence, unless it be the copies you have invented and added

to with what seemed good to you."

With these words, she rose, and with her eyes full of tears—

"If I have ever," said she, "consented to such intrigues, having for

object my sister’s death, I pray God that He have neither pity nor mercy

on me. I confess that I have written to several persons, that I have

implored them to deliver me from my wretched prisons, where I

languished, a captive and ill-treated princess, for nineteen years and

seven months; but it never occurred to me, even in thought, to write or

even to desire such things against the queen. Yes, I also confess to

having exerted myself for the deliverance of some persecuted Catholics,

and if I had been able, and could yet, with my own blood, protect them

and save them from their pains, I would have done it, and would do it

for them with all my power, in order to save them from destruction."

Then, turning to the secretary, Walsingham—

"But, my lord," said she, "from the moment I see you here, I know whence

comes this blow: you have always been my greatest enemy and my son’s,

and you have moved everyone against me and to my prejudice."

Thus accused to his face, Walsingham rose.

"Madam," he replied, "I protest before God, who is my witness, that you

deceive yourself, and that I have never done anything against you

unworthy of a good man, either as an individual or as a public

personage."

This is all that was said and done that day in the proceedings, till the

next day, when the queen was again obliged to appear before the

commissioners.

And, being seated at the end of the table of the said hall, and the said

commissioners about her, she began to speak in a loud voice.

"You are not unaware, my lords and gentlemen, that I am a sovereign

queen, anointed and consecrated in the church of God, and cannot, and

ought not, for any reason whatever, be summoned to your courts, or

called to your bar, to be judged by the law and statutes that you lay

down; for I am a princess and free, and I do not owe to any prince more

than he owes to me; and on everything of which I am accused towards my

said sister, I cannot, reply if you do not permit me to be assisted by

counsel. And if you go further, do what you will; but from all your

procedure, in reiterating my protestations, I appeal to God, who is the

only just and true judge, and to the kings and princes, my allies and

confederates."

This protestation was once more registered, as she had required of the

commissioners. Then she was told that she had further written several

letters to the princes of Christendom, against the queen and the kingdom

of England.

"As to that," replied Mary Stuart, "it is another matter, and I do not

deny it; and if it was again to do, I should do as I have done, to gain

my liberty; for there is not a man or woman in the world, of less rank

than I, who would not do it, and who would not make use of the help and

succour of their friends to issue from a captivity as harsh as mine was.

You charge me with certain letters from Babington: well, I do not deny

that he has written to me and that I have replied to him; but if you

find in my answers a single word about the queen my sister, well, yes,

there will be good cause to prosecute me. I replied to him who wrote to

me that he would set me at liberty, that I accepted his offer, if he

could do it without compromising the one or the other of us: that is

all.

"As to my secretaries," added the queen, "not they, but torture spoke by

their mouths: and as to the confessions of Babington and his

accomplices, there is not much to be made of them; for now that they are

dead you can say all that seems good to you; and let who will believe

you."

With these words, the queen refused to answer further if she were not

given counsel, and, renewing her protestation, she withdraw into her

apartment; but, as the chancellor had threatened, the trial was

continued despite her absence.

However, M. de Chateauneuf, the French ambassador to London, saw matters

too near at hand to be deceived as to their course: accordingly, at the

first rumour which came to him of bringing Mary Stuart to trial, he

wrote to King Henry III, that he might intervene in the prisoner’s

favour. Henry III immediately despatched to Queen Elizabeth an embassy

extraordinary, of which M. de Bellievre was the chief; and at the same

time, having learned that James VI, Mary’s son, far from interesting

himself in his mother’s fate, had replied to the French minister,

Courcelles, who spoke to him of her, "I can do nothing; let her drink

what she has spilled," he wrote him the following letter, to decide the

young prince to second him in the steps he was going to take:

"21st November, 1586.

"COURCELLES, I have received your letter of the 4th October last, in

which I have seen the discourse that the King of Scotland has held with

you concerning what you have witnessed to him of the good affection I

bear him, discourse in which he has given proof of desiring to

reciprocate it entirely; but I wish that that letter had informed me

also that he was better disposed towards the queen his mother, and that

he had the heart and the desire to arrange everything in a way to assist

her in the affliction in which she now is, reflecting that the prison

where she has been unjustly detained for eighteen years and more has

induced her to lend an ear to many things which have been proposed to

her for gaining her liberty, a thing which is naturally greatly desired

by all men, and more still by those who are born sovereigns and rulers,

who bear being kept prisoners thus with less patience. He should also

consider that if the Queen of England, my good sister, allows herself to

be persuaded by the counsels of those who wish that she should stain

herself with Queen Mary’s blood, it will be a matter which will bring

him to great dishonour, inasmuch as one will judge that he will have

refused his mother the good offices that he should render her with the

said Queen of England, and which would have perhaps been sufficient to

move her, if he would have employed them, as warmly, and as soon as his

natural duty commanded him. Moreover, it is to be feared for him, that,

his mother dead, his own turn may come, and that one may think of doing

as much for him, by some violent means, to make the English succession

easier to seize for those who are likely to have it after the said Queen

Elizabeth, and not only to defraud the said King of Scotland of the

claim he can put forward, but to render doubtful even that which he has

to his own crown. I do not know in what condition the affairs of my said

sister-in-law will be when you receive this letter; but I will tell you

that in every case I wish you to rouse strongly the said King of

Scotland, with remonstrances, and everything else which may bear on this

subject, to embrace the defence and protection of his said mother, and

to express to him, on my part, that as this will be a matter for which

he will be greatly praised by all the other kings and sovereign princes,

he must be assured that if he fails in it there will be great censure

for him, and perhaps notable injury to himself in particular.

Furthermore, as to the state of my own affairs, you know that the queen,

madam and mother, is about to see very soon the King of Navarre, and to

confer with him on the matter of the pacification of the troubles of

this kingdom, to which, if he bear as much good affection as I do for my

part, I hope that things may come to a good conclusion, and that my

subjects will have some respite from the great evils and calamities that

the war occasions them: supplicating the Creator, Courcelles, that He

may have you in His holy keeping.

"Written at St. Germain-en-Laye, the 21st day of November 1586.(Signed)

HENRI,

"And below, BRULART."

This letter finally decided James VI to make a kind of demonstration in

his mother’s favour: he sent Gray, Robert Melville, and Keith to Queen

Elizabeth. But although London was nearer Edinburgh than was Paris, the

French envoys reached it before the Scotch.

It is true that on reaching Calais, the 27th of November, M. de

Bellievre had found a special messenger there to tell him not to lose an

instant, from M. de Chateauneuf, who, to provide for every difficulty,

had chartered a vessel ready in the harbour. But however great the speed

these noble lords wished to make, they were obliged to await the wind’s

good-will, which did not allow them to put to sea till Friday 28th at

midnight; next day also, on reaching Dover at nine o’clock, they were so

shaken by sea-sickness that they were forced to stay a whole day in the

town to recover, so that it was not till Sunday 30th that M. de

Bellievre was able to set out in the coach that M. Chateauneuf sent him

by M. de Brancaleon, and take the road to London, accompanied by the

gentlemen of his suite, who rode on post-horses; but resting only a few

hours on the way to make up for lost time, they at last arrived in

London, Sunday the 1st of December at midday. M. de Bellievre

immediately sent one of the gentlemen of his suite, named M. de

Villiers, to the Queen of England, who was holding her court at Richmond

Castle: the decree had been secretly pronounced already six days, and

submitted to Parliament, which was to deliberate upon it with closed

doors.

The French ambassadors could not have chosen a worse moment to approach

Elizabeth; and to gain time she declined to receive M. de Villiers,

returning the answer that he would himself know next day the reason for

this refusal. And indeed, next day, the rumour spread in London that the

French Embassy had contagion, and that two of the lords in it having

died of the plague at Calais, the queen, whatever wish she might have to

be agreeable to Henry III, could not endanger her precious existence by

receiving his envoys. Great was the astonishment of M. de Bellievre at

learning this news he protested that the queen was led into error by a

false report, and insisted on being received. Nevertheless, the delays

lasted another six days; but as the ambassadors threatened to depart

without waiting longer, and as, upon the whole, Elizabeth, disquieted by

Spain, had no desire to embroil herself with France, she had M. de

Bellievre informed on the morning of the 7th of December that she was

ready to receive him after dinner at Richmond Castle, together with the

noblemen of his suite.

At the appointed time the French ambassadors presented themselves at the

castle gates, and, having been brought to the queen, found her seated on

her throne and surrounded by the greatest lords in her kingdom. Then MM.

de Chateauneuf and de Bellievre, the one the ambassador in ordinary and

the other the envoy extraordinary, having greeted her on the part of the

King of France, began to make her the remonstrances with which they were

charged. Elizabeth replied, not only in the same French tongue, but also

in the most beautiful speech in use at that time, and, carried away by

passion, pointed out to the envoys of her brother Henry that the Queen

of Scotland had always proceeded against her, and that this was the

third time that she had wished to attempt her life by an infinity of

ways; which she had already borne too long and with too much patience,

but that never had anything so profoundly cut her to the heart as her

last conspiracy; that event, added she with sadness, having caused her

to sigh more and to shed more tears than the loss of all her relations,

so much the more that the Queen of Scotland was her near relative and

closely connected with the King of France; and as, in their

remonstrances, MM. de Chateauneuf and de Bellievre had brought forward

several examples drawn from history, she assumed, in reply to them on

this occasion, the pedantic style which was usual with her, and told

them that she had seen and read a great many books in her life, and a

thousand more than others of her sex and her rank were wont to, but that

she had never found in them a single example of a deed like that

attempted on her—a deed pursued by a relative, whom the king her brother

could not and ought not to support in her wickedness, when it was, on

the contrary, his duty to hasten the just punishment of it: then she

added, addressing herself specially to M. de Bellievre, and coming down

again from the height of her pride to a gracious countenance, that she

greatly regretted he was not deputed for a better occasion; that in a

few days she would reply to King Henry her brother, concerning whose

health she was solicitous, as well as that of the queen mother, who must

experience such great fatigue from the trouble she took to restore peace

to her son’s kingdom; and then, not wishing to hear more, she withdrew

into her room.

The envoys returned to London, where they awaited the promised reply;

but while they were expecting it unavailingly, they heard quietly the

sentence of death given against Queen Mary, which decided them to return

to Richmond to make fresh remonstrances to Queen Elizabeth. After two or

three fruitless journeys, they were at last, December 15th, admitted for

the second time to the royal presence.

The queen did not deny that the sentence had been pronounced, and as it

was easy to see that she did not intend in this case to use her right of

pardon, M. de Bellievre, judging that there was nothing to be done,

asked for a safe-conduct to return to his king: Elizabeth promised it to

him within two or three days.

On the following Tuesday, the 17th of the same month of December,

Parliament as well as the chief lords of the realm were convoked at the

Palace of Westminster, and there, in full court and before all, sentence

of death was proclaimed and pronounced against Mary Stuart: then this

same sentence, with great display and great solemnity, was read in the

squares and at the cross-roads of London, whence it spread throughout

the kingdom; and upon this proclamation the bells rang for twenty-four

hours, while the strictest orders were given to each of the inhabitants

to light bonfires in front of their houses, as is the custom in France

on the Eve of St. John the Baptist.

Then, amid this sound of bells, by the light of these bonfires, M. de

Bellievre, wishing to make a last effort, in order to have nothing with

which to reproach himself, wrote the following letter to Queen

Elizabeth:

"MADAM:—We quitted your Majesty yesterday, expecting, as it had pleased

you to inform us, to receive in a few days your reply touching the

prayer that we made you on behalf of our good master, your brother, for

the Queen of Scotland, his sister in-law and confederate; but as this

morning we have been informed that the judgment given against the said

queen has been proclaimed in London, although we had promised ourselves

another issue from your clemency and the friendship your bear to the

said lord king your good brother, nevertheless, to neglect no part of

our duty, and believing in so doing to serve the intentions of the king

our master, we have not wanted to fail to write to you this present

letter, in which we supplicate you once again, very humbly, not to

refuse his Majesty the very pressing and very affectionate prayer that

he has made you, that you will be pleased to preserve the life of the

said lady Queen of Scotland, which the said lord king will receive as

the greatest pleasure your Majesty could do him; while, on the contrary,

he could not imagine anything which would cause him more displeasure,

and which would wound him more, than if he were used harshly with regard

to the said lady queen, being what she is to him: and as, madam, the

said king our master, your good brother, when for this object he

despatched us to your Majesty, had not conceived that it was possible,

in any case, to determine so promptly upon such an execution, we implore

you, madam, very humbly, before permitting it to go further, to grant us

some time in which we can make known to him the state of the affairs of

the said Queen of Scotland, in order that before your Majesty takes a

final resolution, you may know what it may please his very Christian

Majesty to tell you and point out to you on the greatest affair which,

in our memory, has been submitted to men’s judgment. Monsieur de

Saint-Cyr, who will give these presents to your Majesty, will bring us,

if it pleases you, your good reply.

"London, this 16th day of December 1586.

"(Signed) DE BELLIEVRE,

"And DE L’AUBESPINE CHATEAUNEUF."

The same day, M. de Saint-Cyr and the other French lords returned to

Richmond to take this letter; but the queen would not receive them,

alleging indisposition, so that they were obliged to leave the letter

with Walsingham, her first Secretary of State, who promised them to send

the queen’s answer the following day.

In spite of this promise, the French lords waited two days more: at

last, on the second day, towards evening, two English gentlemen sought

out M. de Fellievre in London, and, viva voce, without any letter to

confirm what they were charged to say, announced to him, on behalf of

their queen, that in reply to the letter that they had written her, and

to do justice to the desire they had shown to obtain for the condemned a

reprieve during which they would make known the decision to the King of

France, her Majesty would grant twelve days. As this was Elizabeth’s

last word, and it was useless to lose time in pressing her further, M.

de Genlis was immediately despatched to his Majesty the King of France,

to whom, besides the long despatch of M. de Chateauneuf and de Bellievre

which he was charged to remit, he was to say ’viva voce’ what he had

seen and heard relative to the affairs of Queen Mary during the whole

time he had been in England.

Henry III responded immediately with a letter containing fresh

instructions for MM. de Chateauneuf and de Bellievre; but in spite of

all the haste M. de Genlis could make, he did not reach London till the

fourteenth day—that is to say, forty-eight hours after the expiration of

the delay granted; nevertheless, as the sentence had not yet been put

into execution, MM. de Bellievre and de Chateauneuf set out at once for

Greenwich Castle, some miles from London, where the queen was keeping

Christmas, to beg her to grant them an audience, in which they could

transmit to her Majesty their king’s reply; but they could obtain

nothing for four or five days; however, as they were not disheartened,

and returned unceasingly to the charge, January 6th, MM. de Bellievre

and de Chateauneuf were at last sent for by the queen.

As on the first occasion, they were introduced with all the ceremonial

in use at that time, and found Elizabeth in an audience-chamber. The

ambassadors approached her, greeted her, and M. de Bellievre began to

address to her with respect, but at the same time with firmness, his

master’s remonstrances. Elizabeth listened to them with an impatient

air, fidgeting in her seat; then at last, unable to control herself, she

burst out, rising and growing red with anger—

"M. de Bellievre," said she, "are you really charged by the king, my

brother, to speak to me in such a way?"

"Yes, madam," replied M. de Bellievre, bowing; "I am expressly commanded

to do so."

"And have you this command under his hand?" continued Elizabeth.

"Yes, madam," returned the ambassador with the same calmness; "and the

king, my master, your good brother, has expressly charged me, in letters

signed by his own hand, to make to your Majesty the remonstrances which

I have had the honour to address to you."

"Well," cried Elizabeth, no longer containing herself, "I demand of you

a copy of that letter, signed by you; and reflect that you will answer

for each word that you take away or add."

"Madam," answered M. de Bellievre, "it is not the custom of the kings of

France, or of their agents, to forge letters or documents; you will have

the copies you require to-morrow morning, and I pledge their accuracy on

my honour."

"Enough, sir, enough!" said the queen, and signing to everyone in the

room to go out, she remained nearly an hour with MM. de Chateauneuf and

de Bellievre. No one knows what passed in that interview, except that

the queen promised to send an ambassador to the King of France, who, she

promised, would be in Paris, if not before, at least at the same time as

M. de Bellievre, and would be the bearer of her final resolve as to the

affairs of the Queen of Scotland; Elizabeth then withdrew, giving the

French envoys to understand that any fresh attempt they might make to

see her would be useless.

On the 13th of January the ambassadors received their passports, and at

the same time notice that a vessel of the queen’s was awaiting them at

Dover.

The very day of their departure a strange incident occurred. A gentleman

named Stafford, a brother of Elizabeth’s ambassador to the King of

France, presented himself at M. de Trappes’s, one of the officials in

the French chancellery, telling him that he was acquainted with a

prisoner for debt who had a matter of the utmost importance to

communicate to him, and that he might pay the greater attention to it,

he told him that this matter was connected with the service of the King

of France, and concerned the affairs of Queen Mary of Scotland. M. de

Trappes, although mistrusting this overture from the first, did not

want, in case his suspicions deceived him, to have to reproach himself

for any neglect on such a pressing occasion. He repaired, then, with;

Mr. Stafford to the prison, where he who wished to converse with him was

detained. When he was with him, the prisoner told him that he was locked

up for a debt of only twenty crowns, and that his desire to be at

liberty was so great that if M. de Chateauneuf would pay that sum for

him he would undertake to deliver the Queen of Scotland from her danger,

by stabbing Elizabeth: to this proposal, M. de Trappes, who saw the

pitfall laid for the French ambassador, was greatly astonished, and said

that he was certain that M. de Chateauneuf would consider as very evil

every enterprise having as its aim to threaten in any way the life of

Queen Elizabeth or the peace of the realm; then, not desiring to hear

more, he returned to M. de Chateauneuf and related to him what had just

happened. M. de Chateauneuf, who perceived the real cause of this

overture, immediately said to Mr. Stafford that he thought it strange

that a gentleman like himself should undertake with another gentleman

such treachery, and requested him to leave the Embassy at once, and

never to set foot there again. Then Stafford withdrew, and, appearing to

think himself a lost man, he implored M. de Trappes to allow him to

cross the Channel with him and the French envoys. M. de Trappes referred

him to M. de Chateauneuf, who answered Mr. Stafford directly that he had

not only forbidden him his house, but also all relations with any person

from the Embassy, that he must thus very well see that his request could

not be granted; he added that if he were not restrained by the

consideration he desired to keep for his brother, the Earl of Stafford,

his colleague, he would at once denounce his treason to Elizabeth. The

same day Stafford was arrested.

After this conference, M. de Trappes set out to rejoin his travelling

companions, who were some hours in advance of him, when, on reaching

Dover he was arrested in his turn and brought hack to prison in London.

Interrogated the same day, M. de Trappes frankly related what had

passed, appealing to M. de Chateauneuf as to the truth of what he said.

The day following there was a second interrogatory, and great was his

amazement when, on requesting that the one of the day before should be

shown him, he was merely shown, according to custom in English law,

counterfeit copies, in which were avowals compromising him as well as M.

de Chateauneuf: he objected and protested, refused to answer or to sign

anything further, and was taken back to the Tower with redoubled

precaution, the object of which was the appearance of an important

accusation.

Next day, M. de Chateauneuf was summoned before the queen, and there

confronted with Stafford, who impudently maintained that he had treated

of a plot with M. de Trappes and a certain prisoner for debt—a plot

which aimed at nothing less than endangering the Queen’s life. M. de

Chateauneuf defended himself with the warmth of indignation, but

Elizabeth had too great an interest in being unconvinced even to attend

to the evidence. She then said to M. de Chateauneuf that his character

of ambassador alone prevented her having him arrested like his

accomplice M. de Trappes; and immediately despatching, as she had

promised, an ambassador to King Henry III, she charged him not to excuse

her for the sentence which had just been pronounced and the death which

must soon follow, but to accuse M. de Chateauneuf of having taken part

in a plot of which the discovery alone had been able to decide her to

consent to the death of the Queen of Scotland, certain as she was by

experience, that so long as her enemy lived her existence would be

hourly threatened.

On the same day, Elizabeth made haste to spread, not only in London, but

also throughout England, the rumour of the fresh danger from which she

had just escaped, so that, when, two days after the departure of the

French envoys, the Scottish ambassadors, who, as one sees, had not used

much speed, arrived, the queen answered them that their request came

unseasonably, at a time when she had just had proof that, so long as

Mary Stuart existed, her own (Elizabeth’s) life was in danger. Robert

Melville wished to reply to this; but Elizabeth flew into a passion,

saying that it was he, Melville, who had given the King of Scotland the

bad advice to intercede for his mother, and that if she had such an

adviser she would have him beheaded. To which Melville answered—

"That at the risk of his life he would never spare his master good

advice; and that, on the contrary, he who would counsel a son to let his

mother perish, would deserve to be beheaded."

Upon this reply, Elizabeth ordered the Scotch envoys to withdrew,

telling them that she would let them have her answer.

Three or four days passed, and as they heard nothing further, they asked

again for a parting audience to hear the last resolve of her to whom

they were sent: the queen then decided to grant it, and all passed, as

with M. de Bellievre, in recriminations and complaints. Finally,

Elizabeth asked them what guarantee they would give for her life in the

event of her consenting to pardon the Queen of Scotland. The envoys

responded that they were authorised to make pledges in the name of the

King of Scotland, their master, and all the lords of his realm, that

Mary Stuart should renounce in favour of her son all her claims upon the

English crown, and that she should give as security for this undertaking

the King of France, and all the princes and lords, his relations and

friends.

To this answer, the queen, without her usual presence of mind, cried,

"What are you saying, Melville? That would be to arm my enemy with two

claims, while he has only one".

"Does your Majesty then regard the king, my master, as your enemy?"

replied Melville. "He believed himself happier, madam, and thought he

was your ally."

"No, no," Elizabeth said, blushing; "it is a way of speaking: and if you

find a means of reconciling everything, gentlemen, to prove to you, on

the contrary, that I regard King James VI as my good and faithful ally,

I am quite ready to incline to mercy. Seek, then, on your side" added

she, "while I seek on mine."

With these words, she went out of the room, and the ambassadors retired,

with the light of the hope of which she had just let them catch a

glimpse.

The same evening, a gentleman at the court sought out the Master of

Gray, the head of the Embassy, as if to pay him a civil visit, and while

conversing said to him, "That it was very difficult to reconcile the

safety of Queen Elizabeth with the life of her prisoner; that besides,

if the Queen of Scotland were pardoned, and she or her son ever came to

the English throne, there would be no security for the lords

commissioners who had voted her death; that there was then only one way

of arranging everything, that the King of Scotland should himself give

up his claims to the kingdom of England; that otherwise, according to

him, there was no security for Elizabeth in saving the life of the

Scottish queen". The Master of Gray then, looking at him fixedly, asked

him if his sovereign had charged him to come to him with this talk. But

the gentleman denied it, saying that all this was on his own account and

in the way of opinion.

Elizabeth received the envoys from Scotland once more, and then told

them—

"That after having well considered, she had found no way of saving the

life of the Queen of Scotland while securing her own, that accordingly

she could not grant it to them". To this declaration, the Master of Gray

replied: "That since it was thus, he was, in this case, ordered by his

master to say that they protested in the name of King James that all

that had been done against his mother was of no account, seeing that

Queen Elizabeth had no authority over a queen, as she was her equal in

rank and birth; that accordingly they declared that immediately after

their return, and when their master should know the result of their

mission, he would assemble his Parliament and send messengers to all the

Christian princes, to take counsel with them as to what could be done to

avenge her whom they could not save."

Then Elizabeth again flew into a passion, saying that they had certainly

not received from their king a mission to speak to her in such a way;

but they thereupon offered to give her this protest in writing under

their signatures; to which Elizabeth replied that she would send an

ambassador to arrange all that with her good friend and ally, the King

of Scotland. But the envoys then said that their master would not listen

to anyone before their return. Upon which Elizabeth begged them not to

go away at once, because she had not yet come to her final decision upon

this matter. On the evening following this audience, Lord Hingley having

come to see the Master of Gray, and having seemed to notice some

handsome pistols which came from Italy, Gray, directly he had gone,

asked this nobleman’s cousin to take them to him as a gift from him.

Delighted with this pleasant commission, the young man wished to perform

it the same evening, and went to the queen’s palace, where his relative

was staying, to give him the present which he had been told to take to

him. But hardly had he passed through a few rooms than he was arrested,

searched, and the arms he was taking were found upon him. Although these

were not loaded, he was immediately arrested; only he was not taken to

the Tower, but kept a prisoner in his own room.

Next day there was a rumour that the Scotch ambassadors had wanted to

assassinate the queen in their turn, and that pistols, given by the

Master of Gray himself, had been found on the assassin.

This bad faith could not but open the envoys’ eyes. Convinced at last

that they could do nothing for poor Mary Stuart, they left her to her

fate, and set out next day for Scotland.

Scarcely were they gone than Elizabeth sent her secretary, Davison, to

Sir Amyas Paulet. He was instructed to sound him again with regard to

the prisoner; afraid, in spite of herself, of a public execution, the

queen had reverted to her former ideas of poisoning or assassination;

but Sir Amyas Paulet declared that he would let no one have access to

Mary but the executioner, who must in addition be the bearer of a

warrant perfectly in order, Davison reported this answer to Elizabeth,

who, while listening to him, stamped her foot several times, and when he

had finished, unable to control herself, cried, "God’s death! there’s a

dainty fellow, always talking of his fidelity and not knowing how to

prove it!"

Elizabeth was then obliged to make up her mind. She asked Davison for

the warrant; he gave it to her, and, forgetting that she was the

daughter of a queen who had died on the scaffold, she signed it without

any trace of emotion; then, having affixed to it the great seal of

England, "Go," said she, laughing, "tell Walsingham that all is ended

for Queen Mary; but tell him with precautions, for, as he is ill, I am

afraid he will die of grief when he hears it."

The jest was the more atrocious in that Walsingham was known to be the

Queen of Scotland’s bitterest enemy.

Towards evening of that day, Saturday the 14th, Beale, Walsingham’s

brother-in-law, was summoned to the palace! The queen gave into his

hands the death warrant, and with it an order addressed to the Earls of

Shrewsbury, Kent, Rutland, and other noblemen in the neighbourhood of

Fotheringay, to be present at the execution. Beale took with him the

London executioner, whom Elizabeth had had dressed in black velvet for

this great occasion; and set out two hours after he had received his

warrant.

CHAPTER IX

Queen Mary had known the decree of the commissioners these two months.

The very day it had been pronounced she had learned the news through her

chaplain, whom they had allowed her to see this once only. Mary Stuart

had taken advantage of this visit to give him three letters she had just

written-one for Pope Sixtus V, the other to Don Bernard Mendoza, the

third to the Duke of Guise. Here is that last letter:—

14th December, 1586

"My Good Cousin, whom I hold dearest in the world, I bid you farewell,

being prepared to be put to death by an unjust judgment, and to a death

such as no one of our race, thanks to God, and never a queen, and still

less one of my rank, has ever suffered. But, good cousin, praise the

Lord; for I was useless to the cause of God and of His Church in this

world, prisoner as I was; while, on the contrary, I hope that my death

will bear witness to my constancy in the faith and to my willingness to

suffer for the maintenance and the restoration of the Catholic Church in

this unfortunate island. And though never has executioner dipped his

hand in our blood, have no shame of it, my friend; for the judgment of

heretics who have no authority over me, a free queen, is profitable in

the sight of God to the children of His Church. If I adhered, moreover,

to what they propose to me, I should not suffer this stroke. All of our

house have been persecuted by this sect, witness your good father,

through whose intercession I hope to be received with mercy by the just

judge. I commend to you, then, my poor servants, the discharge of my

debts, and the founding of some annual mass for my soul, not at your

expense, but that you may make the arrangements, as you will be required

when you learn my wishes through my poor and faithful servants, who are

about to witness my last tragedy. God prosper you, your wife, children,

brothers and cousins, and above all our chief, my good brother and

cousin, and all his. The blessing of God and that which I shall give to

my children be on yours, whom I do not commend less to God than my own

son, unfortunate and ill-treated as he is. You will receive some rings

from me, which will remind you to pray God for the soul of your poor

cousin, deprived of all help and counsel except that of the Lord, who

gives me strength and courage to alone to resist so many wolves howling

after me. To God be the glory.

"Believe particularly what will be told you by a person who will give

you a ruby ring from me; for I take it on my conscience that the truth

will be told you of what I have charged him to tell, and especially in

what concerns my poor servants and the share of any. I commend this

person to you for his simple sincerity and honesty, that he may be

placed in some good place. I have chosen him as the least partial and as

the one who will most simply bring you my commands. Ignore, I beg you,

that he told you anything in particular; for envy might injure him. I

have suffered a great deal for two years and more, and have not been

able to let you know, for an important reason. God be praised for all,

and give you grace to persevere in the service of His Church as long as

you live, and never may this honour pass from our race, while so many

men and women are ready to shed their blood to maintain the fight for

the faith, all other worldly considerations set aside. And as to me, I

esteem myself born on both father’s and mother’s sides, that I should

offer up my blood for this cause, and I have no intention of

degenerating. Jesus, crucified for us, and all the holy martyrs, make us

by their intercession worthy of the voluntary offering we make of our

bodies to their glory!

"From Fotheringay, this Thursday, 24th November.

"They have, thinking to degrade me, pulled down my canopy of state, and

since then my keeper has come to offer to write to their queen, saying

this deed was not done by his order, but by the advice of some of the

Council. I have shown them instead of my arms on the said canopy the

cross of Our Lord. You will hear all this; they have been more gentle

since.—Your affectionate cousin and perfect friend,

"MARY, Queen of Scotland, Dowager of France"

From this day forward, when she learned the sentence delivered by the

commissioners, Mary Stuart no longer preserved any hope; for as she knew

Elizabeth’s pardon was required to save her, she looked upon herself

thenceforward as lost, and only concerned herself with preparing to die

well. Indeed, as it had happened to her sometimes, from the cold and

damp in her prisons, to become crippled for some time in all her limbs,

she was afraid of being so when they would come to take her, which would

prevent her going resolutely to the scaffold, as she was counting on

doing. So, on Saturday the 14th February, she sent for her doctor,

Bourgoin, and asked him, moved by a presentiment that her death was at

hand, she said, what she must do to prevent the return of the pains

which crippled her. He replied that it would be good for her to medicine

herself with fresh herbs. "Go, then," said the queen, "and ask Sir Amyas

Paulet from me permission to seek them in the fields."

Bourgoin went to Sir Amyas, who, as he himself was troubled with

sciatica, should have understood better than anyone the need of the

remedies for which the queen asked. But this request, simple as it was,

raised great difficulties. Sir Amyas replied that he could do nothing

without referring to his companion, Drury; but that paper and ink might

be brought, and that he, Master Bourgoin, could then make a list of the

needful plants, which they would try to procure. Bourgoin answered that

he did not know English well enough, and that the village apothecaries

did not know enough Latin, for him to risk the queen’s life for some

error by himself or others. Finally, after a thousand hesitations,

Paulet allowed Bourgoin to go out, which he did, accompanied by the

apothecary Gorjon; so that the following day the queen was able to begin

to doctor herself.

Mary Stuart’s presentiments had not deceived her: Tuesday, February

17th, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, the Earls of Kent and

Shrewsbury, and Beale sent word to the queen that they desired to speak

with her. The queen answered that she was ill and in bed, but that if

notwithstanding what they had to tell her was a matter of importance,

and they would give her a little time, she would get up. They made

answer that the communication they had to make admitted of no delay,

that they begged her then to make ready; which the queen immediately

did, and rising from her bed and cloaking herself, she went and seated

herself at a little table, on the same spot where she was wont to be

great part of the day.

Then the two earls, accompanied by Beale, Arnyas Paulet, and Drue Drury,

entered. Behind them, drawn by curiosity, full of terrible anxiety, came

her dearest ladies and most cherished servants. These were, of

womenkind, the Misses Renee de Really, Gilles Mowbray, Jeanne Kennedy,

Elspeth Curle, Mary Paget, and Susan Kercady; and of men-kind, Dominique

Bourgoin her doctor, Pierre Gorjon her apothecary, Jacques Gervais her

surgeon, Annibal Stewart her footman, Dither Sifflart her butler, Jean

Laudder her baker, and Martin Huet her carver.

Then the Earl of Shrewsbury, with head bared like all those present, who

remained thus as long as they were in the queen’s room, began to say in

English, addressing Mary—

"Madam, the Queen of England, my august mistress, has sent me to you,

with the Earl of Kent and Sir Robert Beale, here present, to make known

to you that after having honourably proceeded in the inquiry into the

deed of which you are accused and found guilty, an inquiry which has

already been submitted to your Grace by Lord Buckhurst, and having

delayed as long as it was in her power the execution of the sentence,

she can no longer withstand the importunity of her subjects, who press

her to carry it out, so great and loving is their fear for her. For this

purpose we have come the bearers of a commission, and we beg very

humbly, madam, that it may please you to hear it read."

"Read, my lord; I am listening," replied Mary Stuart, with the greatest

calmness. Then Robert Beale unrolled the said commission, which was on

parchment, sealed with the Great Seal in yellow wax, and read as

follows:

"Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France, and Ireland,

etc., to our beloved and faithful cousins, George, Earl of Shrewsbury,

Grand Marshal of England; Henry, Earl of Kent; Henry, Earl of Derby;

George, Earl of Cumberland; Henry, Earl of Pembroke, greeting: [The

Earls of Cumberland, Derby, and Pembroke did not attend to the queen’s

orders, and were present neither at the reading of the sentence nor at

the execution.]

"Considering the sentence by us given, and others of our Council,

nobility, and judges, against the former Queen of Scotland, bearing the

name of Mary, daughter and heiress of James v, King of Scotland,

commonly called Queen of Scotland and Dowager of France, which sentence

all the estates of our realm in our last Parliament assembled not only

concluded, but, after mature deliberation, ratified as being just and

reasonable; considering also the urgent prayer and request of our

subjects, begging us and pressing us to proceed to the publication

thereof, and to carry it into execution against her person, according as

they judge it duly merited, adding in this place that her detention was

and would be daily a certain and evident danger, not only to our life,

but also to themselves and their posterity, and to the public weal of

this realm, as much on account of the Gospel and the true religion of

Christ as of the peace and tranquillity of this State, although the said

sentence has been frequently delayed, so that even until this time we

abstained from issuing the commission to execute it: yet, for the

complete satisfaction of the said demands made by the Estates of our

Parliament, through which daily we hear that all our friends and

subjects, as well as the nobility, the wisest, greatest, and most pious,

nay, even those of inferior condition, with all humility and affection

from the care they have of our life, and consequently from the fear they

have of the destruction of the present divine and happy state of the

realm if we spare the final execution, consenting and desiring the said

execution; though the general and continual demands, prayers, counsels,

and advice were in such things contrary to our natural inclination; yet,

being convinced of the urgent weight of their continual intercessions

tending to the safety of our person, and also to the public and private

state of our realm, we have at last consented and suffered that justice

have its course, and for its execution, considering the singular

confidence we have in your fidelity and loyalty together for the love

and affection that you have toward us, particularly to the safe-guarding

of our person and our country of which you are very noble and chief

members; we summon, and, for the discharge of it we enjoin you, that at

sight of these presents you go to the castle of Fotheringay, where the

former Queen of Scotland is, in the care of our friend and faithful

servant and counsellor, Sir Amyas Paulet, and there take into your

keeping and do that by your command execution be done on her person, in

the presence of yourselves and the said Sir Amyas Paulet, and of all the

other officers of justice whom you command to be there: in the meantime

we have for this end and this execution given warrant in such a way and

manner, and in such a time and place, and by such persons, that you

five, four, three, or two, find expedient in your discretion;

notwithstanding all laws, statutes, and ordinances whatsoever, contrary

to these presents, sealed with our Great Seal of England, which will

serve for each of you, and all those who are present, or will make by

your order anything pertaining to the execution aforesaid full and

sufficient discharge for ever.

"Done and given in our house at Greenwich, the first day of February

(10th February New Style), in the twenty-ninth year of our reign."

Mary listened to this reading with great calmness and great dignity;

then, when it was ended, making the sign of the cross—

"Welcome," said she, "to all news which comes in the name of God!

Thanks, Lord, for that You deign to put an end to all the ills You have

seen me suffer for nineteen years and more."

"Madam," said the Earl of Kent, "have no ill-will towards us on account

of your death; it was necessary to the peace of the State and the

progress of the new religion."

"So," cried Mary with delight, "so I shall have the happiness of dying

for the faith of my fathers; thus God deigns to grant me the glory of

martyrdom. Thanks, God," added she, joining her hands with less

excitement but with more piety, "thanks that You have deigned to destine

for me such an end, of which I was not worthy. That, O my God, is indeed

a proof of Your love, and an assurance that You will receive me in the

number of Your servants; for although this sentence had been notified to

me, I was afraid, from the manner in which they have dealt with me for

nineteen years, of not yet being so near as I am to such a happy end,

thinking that your queen would not dare to lay a hand on me, who, by the

grace of God, am a queen as she is, the daughter of a queen as she is,

crowned as she is, her near relative, granddaughter of King Henry VII,

and who has had the honour of being Queen of France, of which I am still

Dowager; and this fear was so much the greater," added she, laying her

hand on a New Testament which was near her on the little table, "that, I

swear on this holy book, I have never attempted, consented to, or even

desired the death of my sister, the Queen of England."

"Madam," replied the Earl of Kent, taking a step towards her and

pointing to the New Testament; "this book on which you have sworn is not

genuine, since it is the papist version; consequently, your oath cannot

be considered as any more genuine than the book on which it has been

taken."

"My lord," answered the queen, "what you say may befit you, but not me,

who well know that this book is the true and faithful version of the

word of the Lord, a version made by a very wise divine, a very good man,

and approved by the Church."

"Madam," the Earl of Kent returned, "your Grace stopped at what you were

taught in your youth, without inquiry as to whether it was good or bad:

it is not surprising, then, that you have remained in your error, for

want of having heard anyone who could make known the truth to you; this

is why, as your Grace has but a few hours longer to remain in this

world, and consequently has no time to lose, with your permission we

shall send for the Dean of Peterborough, the most learned man there is

on the subject of religion, who, with his word, will prepare you for

your salvation, which you risk to our great grief and that of our august

queen, by all the papistical follies, abominations, and childish

nonsense which keep Catholics away from the holy word of God and the

knowledge of the truth."

"You mistake, my lord," replied the queen gently, "if you have believed

that I have grown up careless in the faith of my fathers, and without

seriously occupying myself with a matter so important as religion. I

have, on the contrary, spent my life with learned and wise men who

taught me what one must learn on this subject, and I have sustained

myself by reading their works, since the means of hearing them has been

taken from me. Besides, never having doubted in my lifetime, doubt is

not likely to seize me in my death-hour. And there is the Earl of

Shrewsbury, here present, who will tell you that, since my arrival in

England, I have, for an entire Lent, of which I repent, heard your

wisest doctors, without their arguments having made any impression on my

mind. It will be useless, then, my lord," she added, smiling, "to summon

to one so hardened as I the Dean of Peterborough, learned as he is. The

only thing I ask you in exchange, my lord, and for which I shall be

grateful to you beyond expression, is that you will send me my almoner,

whom you keep shut up in this house, to console me and prepare me for

death, or, in his stead, another priest, be he who he may; if only a

poor priest from a poor village, I being no harder to please than God,

and not asking that he have knowledge, provided that he has faith."

"It is with regret, madam," replied the Earl of Kent, "that I find

myself obliged to refuse your Grace’s, request; but it would be contrary

to our religion and our conscience, and we should be culpable in doing

it; this is why we again offer you the venerable Dean of Peterborough,

certain that your Grace will find more consolation and content in him

than in any bishop, priest, or vicar of the Catholic faith."

"Thank you, my lord," said the queen again, "but I have nothing to-do

with him, and as I have a conscience free of the crime for which I am

about to die, with God’s help, martyrdom will take the place of

confession for me. And now, I will remind you, my lord, of what you told

me yourself, that I have but a few hours to live; and these few hours,

to profit me, should be passed in prayer and meditation, and not in idle

disputes."

With these words, she rose, and, bowing to the earls, Sir Robert Beale,

Amyas, and Drury, she indictated, by a gesture full of dignity, that she

wished to be alone and in peace; then, as they prepared to go out—

"Apropos, my lords," said she, "for what o’clock should I make ready to

die?"

"For eight o’clock to-morrow, madam," answered the Earl of Shrewsbury,

stammering.

"It is well," said Mary; "but have you not some reply to make me, from

my sister Elizabeth, relative to a letter which I wrote to her about a

month ago?"

"And of what did this letter treat, if it please you, madam?" asked the

Earl of Kent.

"Of my burial and my funeral ceremony, my lord: I asked to be interred

in France, in the cathedral church of Rheims, near the late queen my

mother."

"That may not be, madam," replied the Earl of Kent; "but do not trouble

yourself as to all these details: the queen, my august mistress, will

provide for them as is suitable. Has your grace anything else to ask

us?"

"I would also like to know," said Mary, "if my servants will be allowed

to return, each to his own country, with the little that I can give him;

which will hardly be enough, in any case, for the long service they have

done me, and the long imprisonment they have borne on my account."

"We have no instructions on that head, madam," the Earl of Kent said,

"but we think that an order will be given for this as for the other

things, in accordance with your wishes. Is this all that your Grace has

to say to us?"

"Yes, my lord," replied the queen, bowing a second time, "and now you

may withdraw."

"One moment, my lords, in Heaven’s name, one moment!" cried the old

physician, coming forward and throwing himself on his knees before the

two earls.

"What do you want?" asked Lord Shrewsbury.

"To point out to you, my lords," replied the aged Bourgoin, weeping,

"that you have granted the queen but a very short time for such an

important matter as this of her life. Reflect, my lords, what rank and

degree she whom you have condemned has held among the princes of this

earth, and consider if it is well and seemly to treat her as an ordinary

condemned person of middling estate. And if not for the sake of this

noble queen, my lords, do this for the sake of us her poor servants,

who, having had the honour of living near her so long, cannot thus part

from her so quickly and without preparation. Besides, my lords, think of

it, a woman of her state and position ought to have some time in which

to set in order her last affairs. And what will become of her, and of

us, if before dying, our mistress has not time to regulate her jointure

and her accounts and to put in order her papers and her title-deeds? She

has services to reward and offices of piety to perform. She should not

neglect the one or the other. Besides, we know that she will only

concern herself with us, and, through this, my lords, neglect her own

salvation. Grant her, then, a few more days, my lords; and as our

mistress is too proud to ask of you such a favour, I ask you in all our

names, and implore you not to refuse to poor servants a request which

your august queen would certainly not refuse them, if they had the good

fortune to be able to lay it at her feet."

"Is it then true, madam," Sir Robert Beale asked, "that you have not yet

made a will?"

"I have not, sir," the queen answered.

"In that case, my lords," said Sir Robert Beale, turning to the two

earls, "perhaps it would be a good thing to put it off for a day or

two."

"Impossible, sir," replied the Earl of Shrewsbury: "the time is fixed,

and we cannot change anything, even by a minute, now."

"Enough, Bourgoin, enough," said the queen; "rise, I command you."

Bourgoin obeyed, and the Earl of Shrewsbury, turning to Sir Amyas

Paulet, who was behind him—

"Sir Amyas," said he, "we entrust this lady to your keeping: you will

charge yourself with her, and keep her safe till our return."

With these words he went out, followed by the Earl of Kent, Sir Robert

Beale, Amyas Paulet, and Drury, and the queen remained alone with her

servants.

Then, turning to her women with as serene a countenance as if the event

which had just taken place was of little importance—

"Well, Jeanne," said she, speaking to Kennedy, "have I not always told

you, and was I not right, that at the bottom of their hearts they wanted

to do this? and did I not see clearly through all their procedure the

end they had in view, and know well enough that I was too great an

obstacle to their false religion to be allowed to live? Come," continued

she, "hasten supper now, that I may put my affairs in order". Then,

seeing that instead of obeying her, her servants were weeping and

lamenting, "My children," said she, with a sad smile, but without a tear

in her eye, "it is no time for weeping, quite the contrary; for if you

love me, you ought to rejoice that the Lord, in making me die for His

cause, relieves me from the torments I have endured for nineteen years.

As for me, I thank Him for allowing me to die for the glory of His faith

and His Church. Let each have patience, then, and while the men prepare

supper, we women will pray to God."

The men immediately went out, weeping and sobbing, and the queen and her

women fell on their knees. When they had recited some prayers, Mary

rose, and sending for all the money she had left, she counted it and

divided it into portions, which she put into purses with the name of the

destined recipient, in her handwriting, with the money.