The Queen’s supper and the couchÉe which succeeded it seemed endless. Her Majesty, though by no means in her usual spirits, eating but little, and scarcely speaking at all, was yet none the more disposed to dismiss her ladies and betake herself to repose. Mary Hamilton, with flushed cheeks and unsettled gestures, busied herself about every arrangement she could think of that should further the process of retiring for the night, till even the Queen, rousing from her meditations, taxed her with being fatigued after her ride, and did not scruple to hint at the remarkable restlessness of her demeanour. After this she controlled herself, indeed, with an effort; but felt the while, that if the suspense continued much longer it would drive her mad.

It was Mary Seton’s turn and hers to put the Queen to bed; and the gossiping propensities of the former, whose lively disposition never acknowledged fatigue or low spirits, did by no means conduce to the despatch of matters. For reasons of her own, too, this young lady chose to ask a series of questions concerning the Earl of Bothwell, and the probability of his returning to Court, interspersed with remarks on that nobleman and his borderers and his enemies—all delivered with considerable freedom and a flippancy peculiar to herself. The Queen, who seemed to-night more or less impatient of every subject broached, at length called her a ‘saucy chatterbox,’ and bade her good-humouredly ‘hold her tongue.’ As usual, the reproof only produced a merry smile and a provoking little grimace, at which Her Majesty could not forbear laughing, though she looked sadder than ever a moment afterwards.

Wearily the minutes passed on. Mary Hamilton had never before thought royalty so exacting, or an attendance on her own dear mistress so tiresome. One by one the Queen’s garments had to be taken off, folded up and disposed, each in its proper place; then the loose flowing gown was brought her by the senior maid-of-honour, and the junior let down the long, rich hair that covered her more nobly than the mantle of royalty itself. While Mistress Seton combed and stroked those chestnut tresses carefully, Mistress Hamilton brought a basin and ewer, offering it on her knees; after which ceremony, it was her duty to place an ivory crucifix, and a small lamp, with the Queen’s breviary, on the table by her bed-side; then she handed Her Majesty’s beautiful rosary, consisting of beads of sandal-wood, inlaid with silver, and Mary Stuart betook her, after the manner of the ancient faith, to those devotions she never neglected in her chequered life, and that served her so nobly in the hour of trial with which it closed.

The maids-of-honour retired. Mary Seton would fain have prolonged the conversation, even on the threshold of their mutual chamber. She was never tired, not she! but her friend, vowing she had forgotten something in the supper-room, hurried away down-stairs, with a feeling of intense relief, and yet horribly frightened and uncomfortable, as she fled like a lapwing along the dark passages towards the garden.

The servants and retainers had all gone to their repose, wearied with the toils of the day, and anticipating an early start on the morrow. Even in that small house there was something gloomy and alarming in the profound silence. Mary Hamilton, while conscious of the purity of her motives, trembled, as innocence always does tremble, far more violently than guilt; and it was with a beating heart and quick-coming breath that she reached the door, and, unfastening it gently, peered out into the thick darkness beyond.

For a minute or two she waited, listening anxiously. Not a sound was to be heard but the dull beat of the tide upon the shore. Then she advanced a few paces into the garden, now that it seemed likely to elude her, more resolved upon the interview than she could have believed possible a short while ago. The small rain struck chill against her face, and she strained her eyes in vain to pierce the surrounding gloom.

Had she turned round at this moment, she might perhaps have faintly distinguished a dark shadow that passed swiftly from behind the door, and entered the house by the passage she had just quitted.

But she was intent only on ChastelÂr. She stepped softly to the garden door, and peeped into the sandy lane on which it opened. Here there was a little more light, and she could see some ten or a dozen paces to right and left. No living object was discernible; the rain fell faster, and the tide moaned and gurgled in its ebb and flow against the shallow beach.

Mary Hamilton was puzzled and distressed. An hour ago she would have hailed as an unspeakable relief the news that ChastelÂr had actually gone without further parley, but now that she had been schooling herself and stringing her nerves for an interview, it was provoking that so much agitation should be wasted for nothing; it seemed hard and cruel not to see him just once again.

She ventured on a gentle cough; a timid whisper, very soft and cautious; there was no result. At last she spoke his name out loud, and then, half-frightened and a good deal disappointed, made her way back into the house, barring the door after her with as little noise as her trembling hands would permit.

Poor Mary Hamilton! In that dark passage she paused to lay her head against the wall and weep. She dared not return at once to the chamber which she shared with her comrades, in case any one of them should be awake. She felt she could not brook observation or remark on her streaming eyes and agitated looks. As the tears flowed silently, they did her so much good! For weeks the girl had been living in a morbid state of overstrung excitement. Continually in the presence of the man she loved, and that man gifted with many brilliant qualities exceedingly attractive to the female heart; never convinced of his preference, yet suspecting it from a thousand trifles that she naturally interpreted in her own favour; living in an atmosphere of alternate hope and fear, exposed to the daily charm of his person, his conversation, his musical talents, and his warm foreign cordiality, it was no wonder that she hailed as a blissful relief the certainty which she was persuaded had burst upon her to-day, even though accompanied by the miserable conviction that she must bid him a long, perhaps a hopeless farewell. The sweet and the bitter were strangely mingled in the cup she had drained so eagerly—the cup that slakes, but never quenches thirst. She was so relieved, and yet so troubled; so proud, and yet so fearful; so happy, yet so sad.

What could a poor woman do but droop her head and weep her heart out, simply because she was a woman?

Suddenly she started as if she had been shot. A loud shriek, followed by a succession of outcries for assistance in the Queen’s voice, rang through the small house, and were quickly followed by the scuffling of feet, the banging of doors, and the tumult of many tongues, in which the shrill tones of the maids-of-honour predominated. Lights were already glancing in the passages; women in white, with pale, scared faces, and half-dressed men but half-awake, snatching at whatever weapons came to hand, rushed to and fro tumultuously; everybody seemed exceedingly alarmed and excited, but none to know the least what was the matter. All this Mary Hamilton observed as we see things in a dream, while she rushed up-stairs, and dashed unhesitatingly into the Queen’s chamber.

The sight that met her there arrested her as if by magic on the threshold. In the twinkling of an eye, the warm impulsive woman seemed frozen into a statue.

Pale as her night gear, breathless and trembling, while she clung to her brother’s shoulder for support, yet with the ‘Stuart frown’ stamped sternly on her brow, the Queen was gazing in fear and anger on the dark figure of a man who stood with his arms folded, in the corner of the apartment. That man, calm, erect, defiant, almost sublime in the intrepidity with which he confronted threatening brows and levelled weapons (for already the royal retainers were filling the place), was ChastelÂr. Mary Hamilton turned sick and giddy while she looked. The Queen raved and shook, and seemed half-mad with fear and shame; her ladies crowded about her in helpless astonishment and dismay, while the servants and men-at-arms glanced from one to another, utterly at their wit’s end. Except the fatal cause himself of all this disturbance, Moray alone seemed to retain his presence of mind. Alternately, he soothed his frantic sister, and gave directions to the astonished bystanders.

‘Stab him!’ exclaimed the Queen, pointing with shaking hand at the unfortunate man who stood there, so pale, so calm, offering no attempt at escape or resistance. ‘Brother, for the honour of our house, put your sword through him, an’ ye be half a Stuart. Let him not live an hour to boast of this daring, this atrocious insult. Oh, it is too much—too much!’

The Queen covered her face with both hands, completely overcome; her beautiful hair, escaping from the ribbon which confined it, fell over her shoulders to her waist.

ChastelÂr looked proudly and lovingly at her even then. Madman! even then!

‘Nay, madam,’ urged Moray, with soothing accents, ‘bethink you, I beseech your Grace. In the name of prudence and discretion, bid me not dip my hands in the blood of this man. Remember, you have yourself treated him with over-courtesy and kindness, to the offence of your nobility, and, pardon me for saying it, to the scandal of the Court. Reflect, madam, what shall the world think of it when they hear that a queen’s musician was found in a queen’s bed-chamber, and put to death lest he should tell the tale.’

The Queen raised her head with flashing eyes.

‘You dare to shield him, Moray! You! my own blood!’ she vociferated. ‘On your allegiance, I charge you. What! You will never let him speak! To the death with him on the spot!’

But Moray knew the pliant and forgiving nature of her with whom he had to deal.

‘Nay, madam,’ said the prudent earl, ‘patience; I entreat you, patience; the unhappy man is clearly distraught; let us not shed his blood unwittingly. He shall be brought to justice, and punished according to his deserving; so shall his treason be sufficiently expiated by death. Remove him,’ he added, speaking composedly to the men-at-arms, who crowded round the door. ‘Bind him forthwith, and let him be placed securely in ward.’

ChastelÂr still remained perfectly immovable; never once had he taken his eyes off the Queen’s face; never once had the strange longing, loving gaze, with its dash of wild triumph and its depth of intense affection, faded or varied for an instant. While they bound him fast, drawing a girdle tight round his arms above the elbow, he neither seemed to feel the pressure, nor to be conscious of the indignity; while they pressed round him and hustled him from the room, his looks never strayed for an instant from the Queen.

All this Mary Hamilton saw as if in a trance. Though every stroke of her pulse beat with a loud stupefying clang upon her brain, she knew that this was reality, that this was truth, that there was no hope of awaking to find it all a dream; but when ChastelÂr reached the door, and beholding the Queen no longer seemed roused to consciousness at last, she met his eye for the first time, and the whole hopeless misery of her situation rushed upon her at once.

He smiled on her very sadly and kindly; there was a pitying, remorseful expression in his face—a wistful, mournful tenderness in his glance: she could bear it no longer, and she fainted dead away upon the floor.