What was once a source of pleasure,
Now becomes the cause of pain;
Day no more displays its treasure,
Endless night o'erspreads the plain:
The powers of nature and of art
Cease to charm the wounded heart.
Sonnet by Queen Mary.
The Earl of Bothwell was more astonished than alarmed on finding his Countess insensible; but hastening forward with proper solicitude, he raised her from the ground, and the moment he did so she partially recovered.
Her deep dark eyes gave him one full, bright, sickening glance of sorrow and reproach, then she closed them again, and her head drooped over his shoulder.
Again she recovered suddenly, and, trembling in every limb, withdrew from the Earl's encircling arm, and cold, passionless, and rigid in feature as a statue, gazed steadily upon him for a moment, and, removing her wedding ring from the marriage finger, laid it on a little marble table that stood near her.
"Now, my Lord," said she, in a voice that struggled to be firm, "now, I have done with thee. Give this ring to her who now wears my betrothal gift, and may she be happier than I have been! Oh! Bothwell, Bothwell! if ever"——
"Woman, art thou mad?" exclaimed the astonished noble, growing pale with surprise and increasing anger.
The Countess laughed bitterly.
"Mad!" she repeated, and pressed her little hands upon her throbbing temples. A strange light blazed in her dark eyes, that were liquid and swimming, though not one of the hot salt tears that trembled in them rolled over her pallid cheek. "Yes—I am mad! ha, ha!"
A shudder crept over Bothwell on hearing that ghastly laugh, and he said—
"Take up thy ring, Jane, for thy manner makes me tremble."