The queen rose then, and with the pride and majesty habitual to her, entered the adjoining room, and, having taken three steps, stopped with a disdainful air, waiting for George to address her.
Mary Seyton had spoken truly: George Douglas was now another man. To-day he seemed to be as respectful and timid as the preceding day he had seemed haughty and proud. He, in his turn, made a step towards the queen; but seeing Mary Seyton standing behind her—
“Madam,” said he, “I wished to speak with your Majesty alone: shall I not obtain this favour?”
“Mary Seyton is not a stranger to me, Sir: she is my sister, my friend; she is more than all that, she is my companion in captivity.”
“And by all these claims, madam, I have the utmost veneration for her; but what I have to tell you cannot be heard by other ears than yours. Thus, madam, as the opportunity furnished now may perhaps never present itself again, in the name of what is dearest to you, grant me what I ask.”
There was such a tone of respectful prayer in George’s voice that Mary turned to the young girl, and, making her a friendly sign with her hand—
“Go, then, darling,” said she; “but be easy, you will lose nothing by not hearing. Go.”
Mary Seyton withdrew; the queen smilingly looked after her, till the door was shut; then, turning to George—
“Now, sir,” said she, “we are alone, speak.”
But George, instead of replying, advanced to the queen, and, kneeling on one knee, drew from his breast a paper which he presented to her. Mary took it with amazement, unfolded it, glancing at Douglas, who remained in the same posture, and read as follows: