—Hardly waking yet,
Sprung in her mind the momentary wit,
and she at once understood her situation, with the dangers and advantages that attended it.
“We cannot do better,” she said, after her hasty conference with Catherine, pressing her at the same time to her bosom, and kissing her forehead; “we cannot do better than to follow the scheme so happily devised by thy quick wit and bold affection. Undo the door to the Lady Lochleven—She shall meet her match in art, though not in perfidy. Fleming, draw close the curtain, and get thee behind it—thou art a better tire-woman than an actress; do but breathe heavily, and, if thou wilt, groan slightly, and it will top thy part. Hark! they come. Now, Catherine of Medicis, may thy spirit inspire me, for a cold northern brain is too blunt for this scene!”
Ushered by Catherine Seyton, and stepping as light as she could, the Lady Lochleven was shown into the twilight apartment, and conducted to the side of the couch, where Mary, pallid and exhausted from a sleepless night, and the subsequent agitation of the morning, lay extended so listlessly as might well confirm the worst fears of her hostess.
“Now, God forgive us our sins!” said the Lady of Lochleven, forgetting her pride, and throwing herself on her knees by the side of the bed; “It is too true—she is murdered!”
“Who is in the chamber?” said Mary, as if awaking from a heavy sleep. “Seyton, Fleming, where are you? I heard a strange voice. Who waits?—Call Courcelles.”
“Alas! her memory is at Holyrood, though her body is at Lochleven.—Forgive, madam,” continued the Lady, “if I call your attention to me—I am Margaret Erskine, of the house of Mar, by marriage Lady Douglas of Lochleven.”
“Oh, our gentle hostess,” answered the Queen, “who hath such care of our lodgings and of our diet—We cumber you too much and too long, good Lady of Lochleven; but we now trust your task of hospitality is well-nigh ended.”
“Her words go like a knife through my heart,” said the Lady of Lochleven—“With a breaking heart, I pray your Grace to tell me what is your ailment, that aid may be had, if there be yet time.”
“Nay, my ailment,” replied the Queen, “is nothing worth telling, or worth a leech's notice—my limbs feel heavy—my heart feels cold—a prisoner's limbs and heart are rarely otherwise—fresh air, methinks, and freedom, would soon revive me; but as the Estates have ordered it, death alone can break my prison-doors.”