The Dagon of to-night was fair to look on, queenly and graceful and gloriously beautiful. It seemed unnatural to refuse her homage; it seemed ecstasy to kneel and supplicate and adore. The worshipper was in the wildest stage of his idolatry. He looked for no greater glory than to lay down life and heart and soul at her feet.
What good results could come from such a link between the lovely Queen of Scotland and the infatuated minstrel of France?
CHAPTER XVII.
‘He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,
To win or lose it all.’
Mary Stuart still wore in her bosom the gold heart that had been won by Chastelâr in his victory of the day. This it was that had so elated him at the banquet; this it was that gave him courage in the dance to speak words of love to his Queen.