The king gaily marched on, his head held high, a man not to be denied, and as he passed along all bowed at his coming, for everyone in the court admired him. There was something unexpectedly French in the dash of this young Scotchman. He strode across the court and up the steps which led into the Palais Vendôme. The duchess herself met him with a hard smile on her thin lips.
“Madam,” he said bruskly, “I would see your daughter alone.”
The grim duchesse hesitated.
“Mary is so shy,” she said at last.
But the king interrupted her.
“I have a cure for that. Shyness flees in my presence. I would see your daughter alone, madam; send her to me.”
There being no remedy when a king commands, the lady made the best of a dubious proceeding.
James was pacing up and down the splendid drawing-room when, from the further door the drooping girl appeared, still with downcast eyes, nun-like in her meek obedience. She came forward perhaps a third the length of the room, faltered, and stood.
“Mary,” said the king, “they told me you were beautiful, but I come to announce to you that such is not my opinion. You are ambitious, it would seem, so I tell you frankly, you will never be Queen of Scotland.”