One would like to indicate further the truth with which the character is studied through the last two acts, providing the material as it does for scenes of great power and range of effect. Particularly one would wish to convey some idea of the scene of the final tragedy, broadly conceived against a background of the angry Edinburgh populace, and throbbing with the defiance of the Queen. Psychological imagination here is no less than brilliant, and one could cull perhaps half a dozen passages to illustrate it. But a single extract must suffice; and that is chosen for the additional reason that its closing sentences contain the very root of the tragedy. It is from Act IV, and the scene, following upon Mary's marriage to Bothwell, is designed to show her last desperate struggle against him and against herself. Already she is remorseful, disillusioned, and bitter; she knows the marriage to be hateful to her people, and she has found Bothwell cruel and treacherous. Before the nobles, who are assembled to receive them, she taunts Bothwell that he is not royal; flouts him for Arthur Erskine; declares that she will never wear jewels again; and at last provokes from Bothwell angry abuse and threats of violence. The nobles interpose to protect her, and beg her to let them save her from him. It needs but one word of assent to be rid of him for ever. She is almost won; she takes a few steps towards them, and actually gives her hand to one of them. Then she hesitates, turns, and looks at her husband:-- MARY. I am yours, Bothwell. BOTHWELL. Will you go with me? MARY. Ay, to the world's end, in my petticoat. BOTHWELL. Let go her hands, my lord. MORTON. Ay, let them go, And let _her_ go, for naught can save her now. Not ours the fault. MARY. Not yours, nor his, nor mine. 'Tis not the fault of floods to drown, nor fire To burn and shrivel--no, nor beasts to bite, Nor frosts to kill the flowers--not the fault, Only the property. There's something here That's stronger than our wishes and our wills. There is no going back; our course is laid, And we must keep it, though it lead to death. Good-bye, my lords. My husband, let us go. _James Stephens_ One does not put a poet like Mr Stephens into a group--it cannot be done. If you try to do it, weakly yielding a wise instinct to mere intelligence, one of two things will happen. You will return to your careful group the moment after you thought you had made it, to find either that Mr Stephens has vanished or that the others have. Either he has broken away from the ridiculous frail links which bound him, and is already disappearing on the horizon with a gleeful shout, or his unfortunate companions have vanished before so much exuberance.