“Away, proud woman!” said the Lady; “who ever knew so well as thou to deal the deepest wounds under the pretence of kindness and courtesy?—Who, since the great traitor, could ever so betray with a kiss?”
“Lady Douglas of Lochleven,” said the Queen, “in this moment thou canst not offend me—no, not even by thy coarse and unwomanly language, held to me in the presence of menials and armed retainers. I have this night owed so much to one member of the house of Lochleven, as to cancel whatever its mistress can do or say in the wildness of her passion.”
“We are bounden to you, Princess,” said Lady Lochleven, putting a strong constraint on herself, and passing from her tone of violence to that of bitter irony; “our poor house hath been but seldom graced with royal smiles, and will hardly, with my choice, exchange their rough honesty for such court-honour as Mary of Scotland has now to bestow.”
“They,” replied Mary, “who knew so well how to take, may think themselves excused from the obligation implied in receiving. And that I have now little to offer, is the fault of the Douglasses and their allies.”
“Fear nothing, madam,” replied the Lady of Lochleven, in the same bitter tone, “you retain an exchequer which neither your own prodigality can drain, nor your offended country deprive you of. While you have fair words and delusive smiles at command, you need no other bribes to lure youth to folly.”
The Queen cast not an ungratified glance on a large mirror, which, hanging on one side of the apartment, and illuminated by the torch-light, reflected her beautiful face and person. “Our hostess grows complaisant,” she said, “my Fleming; we had not thought that grief and captivity had left us so well stored with that sort of wealth which ladies prize most dearly.”
“Your Grace will drive this severe woman frantic,” said Fleming, in a low tone. “On my knees I implore you to remember she is already dreadfully offended, and that we are in her power.”
“I will not spare her, Fleming,” answered the Queen; “it is against my nature. She returned my honest sympathy with insult and abuse, and I will gall her in return,—if her words are too blunt for answer, let her use her poniard if she dare!”
“The Lady Lochleven,” said the Lady Fleming aloud, “would surely do well now to withdraw, and to leave her Grace to repose.”
“Ay,” replied the Lady, “or to leave her Grace, and her Grace's minions, to think what silly fly they may next wrap their meshes about. My eldest son is a widower—were he not more worthy the flattering hopes with which you have seduced his brother?—True, the yoke of marriage has been already thrice fitted on—but the church of Rome calls it a sacrament, and its votaries may deem it one in which they cannot too often participate.”