"Ah, speak not of my mother, Madeline," replied Florence, in an agitated voice; "the foreknowledge of all with which she may—nay, must taunt me, makes me think at times of bidding Scotland adieu for a season at least, and of returning to the Duchess of Albany, at Vendome; of joining the French army, now advancing into the Milanese; or, in short, of going anywhere, Madeline, save back to my father's old tower on Fawside Hill."
The eyes of the young countess were fixed on him sadly, sweetly, and with somewhat of reproach in them.
"You could not—" she began;
"At this crisis, no—when duty requires every loyal gentleman to lay his sword and service at the feet of Mary of Lorraine."
"Does no other sentiment than mere loyalty chain you here?" said the countess reproachfully; "could you——"
"Leave you—you would ask, beloved Madeline! ah, no—I am bewildered, and know not what I say."
He threw one arm round her, and pressed her to his breast, and his lip to hers.
When with her now, all the hopes and desires of life seemed to be gratified, and existence to have attained its culminating point, yet they were without words to express their emotion.
Each, to the full, had admitted or owned their love for the other. Then what more had they to say, for loverlike, their eyes were full of eloquence, though their tongues remained silent.
Suddenly a group of ladies appeared at the end of the long leafy alley. They were the queen-mother, the young queen Mary, and four ladies of honour. Florence had only time to whisper,—