“Guy, I love you, and am yours forever!”
At that moment a fine courtier pushed in between the pair.
“Your majesty, your fair hand was promised me for this dance,” he reminded her; and with a slight, imperial bow to the young minstrel, the Queen of Scots swept away on the arm of her partner.
And then a great horror of remorse struck coldly to her heart. Oh, what had she done? Betrayed her heart to the man who loved her so well, but whom to love in return was to doom to a cruel death. Oh, horror of horrors!
The lights danced before her, the ballroom whirled around in a fantastic measure, the sea of faces grew dim and faded. She gasped for air, threw up her arms with a feeling of suffocation, and fell back fainting. The handsome courtier caught her in his arms and bore her to the door.
“Give her to me. She is mine!” cried a passionate voice; and the strong arms of the minstrel took her forcibly from the other’s clasp. Presently, with a weary sigh, she drifted back to life.
“The dressing-room,” she murmured, and the minstrel’s arm was again at her service. He left her with her maid, and mingled, as before, with the crowd.
“A word with you, Sir Poet,” said a stern voice in his ear.
It was the jeweled courtier. His eyes burned balefully beneath his mask.
“You forcibly took Mary Stuart from my arms—an insult for which I demand instant satisfaction.”