It was a troubled reverie, indeed, for Angèle’s eyes were on the stranger who was present with Sir Andrew Melvill the night before. Her gaze upon him now became fixed and insistent, for the sense of foreboding so heavy on her deepened to a torturing suspense. Where had she seen this man before? To what day or hour in her past did he belong? What was there in his smooth, smiling, malicious face that made her blood run cold? As she watched him, he turned his head. She followed his eyes. The horse which Mary Queen of Scots had sent with the message of the birth of her son was being led to the Queen by the dark-browed, pale-faced churl who had brought it from Scotland. She saw a sharp, dark look pass between the two. Suddenly her sight swam, she swayed and would have fainted, but resolution steadied her, and a low exclamation broke from her lips. Now she knew! The face that had eluded her was at last in the grasp of horrified memory. It was the face of one who many years ago was known to have poisoned the Duc de Chambly by anointing the pommel of his saddle with a delicate poison which the rider would touch, and touching would, perhaps, carry to his nostrils or mouth as he rode, and die upon the instant. She herself had seen the Duc de Chambly fall; had seen this man fly from Paris for his life; and had thereafter known of his return to favor at the court of Mary and Francis, for nothing could be proved against him. The memory flashed like lightning through her brain. She moved swiftly forward despite the detaining hand of the Duke’s Daughter. The Queen was already mounted, her hand already upon the pommel of the saddle. Elizabeth noted the look of anguished anxiety in Angèle’s eyes, her face like that of one who had seen souls in purgatory; and some swift instinct, born of years upon years of peril in old days when her life was no boon to her enemies, made her lean towards the girl, whose quick whispered words were to her as loud as thunder. She was, however, composed and still. Not a tremor passed through her. “Your wish is granted, mistress,” she said aloud, then addressed a word to Cecil at her side, who passed on her command. Presently she turned slowly to the spot where Sir Andrew Melvill and the other sat upon their horses. She scanned complacently the faces of both, then her eyes settled steadily on the face of the murderer. Still gazing intently, she drew the back of her gloved fingers along the pommel. The man saw the motion, unnoted and unsignificant to any other save Angèle, meaningless even to Melvill, the innocent and honest gentleman at his side; and he realized that the Queen had had a warning. Noting the slight stir among the gentlemen round him, he knew that his game was foiled, that there was no escape. He was not prepared for what followed. In a voice to be heard only at small distance, the Queen said, calmly: