Chapter XI.
A TRAGIC STORY.
MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
“And from the top of all my trust
Mishap hath thrown me in the dust.”
DARK and murderous scene now awaits your eyes. It is about seven o’clock on a Saturday evening in March 1566. A beautiful queen is supping with her friends in the inner boudoir of the ancient Palace of Holyrood. Some eightscore armed men stealthily enter the courtyard and close the gates behind them. Within the supper-chamber only one person is cognizant of the foul deed which is even now preparing—and he is the queen’s husband! The queen herself is blithe and gay, according to her wont. She strives to rally her husband, who sits by her side; but he is full of drink and jealousy. But a swarthy Italian present responds to every sally with nimble wit and easy grace. Mary smiles upon him, for he alone in that gloomy palace reminds her of the light-hearted merriment and the brilliant frivolity of her dearly-loved France. And as she smiles the queen’s husband scowls darkly, and ever and anon glances furtively towards a door behind the arras.
Suddenly the arras is pushed aside, and a man in armour, his face corpse-like in its pallor, steps into the room, and behind him you see three others. The queen, cool and fearless, rises and demands the meaning of this intrusion. The Italian knows its meaning full well; he has long been bitterly hated by the nobles, and now he fears that his hour has come. He cowers for protection behind the queen, who confronts the armed men without a tremor. “What do ye here, my Lord Ruthven?” she cries, and the intruder roughly replies that he comes to drag the Italian from the queen’s chamber, where he has been overlong.
In a flash the queen perceives a plot, and turning to her wretched husband demands if he knows anything of this enterprise. The ready lie comes to his lips, and he says that he knows nothing of it. “Go,” cries the queen to Ruthven, and points to the door. But he moves not, and bids the accomplice who has disowned him, “Take the queen, your wife and sovereign, to you.” But the royal dastard stands dazed, and wists not what to do; while the Italian, with his drawn dagger in his trembling hand, clings to the queen’s gown, crying, “Save me! save me!” Now one of the guests strives to seize Ruthven, who draws his sword and cries fiercely, “Lay no hands on me, for I will not be handled!”
Then the chamber is filled with armed men, the table and chairs are overthrown, the lights are extinguished save one, and a wild rush is made for the victim. Ruthven flings the queen into the arms of her husband, and the shrieking Italian is dragged from the room with curses and threats and blows. You hear his screams grow fainter and fainter, as his foes plunge their daggers into him. Now all is silent, and the queen’s favourite lies dead with fifty-six wounds in his body. Her husband’s dagger is sticking in the breast of the corpse in testimony of his consent to the deed!