“What ho!” she screamed, in notes of dread intensity, “_à moi, à moi mes Français_. My guards! Seyton! Carmichael! Fleming! will ye leave your queen alone! alone with treachery and black dishonor! Villain! slave!” she cried, turning her flashing eyes upon him, her whole form swelling as it were with all the fury of injured innocence, “didst thou dare to think that Mary--Mary, the wife of Francis--the anointed queen of Scotland, would brook thine infamous addresses? Nay, kneel not, or I spurn thee! What ho! will no one aid in mine extremity?” “Fear naught from me,” faltered the wretched Chastelar, but with a voice like that of some inspired Pythoness she broke in--“Fear! thinkst thou that I could fear a thing, an abject coward thing like thee? a wretch that would exult in the infamy of one whom he pretends to love? Fear thee! by heavens! if I could have feared, contempt must have forbidden it.” “Nay, Mary, hear me! hear me but one word, if that word cost my life--” “Thy life! hadst thou ten thousand lives, they would be but a feather in the scale against thy monstrous villany. What ho!” again she cried, stamping with impotent anger at the delay of her attendants, “treason! my guards! treason!” At length the passages rang with the hurried footsteps of the startled inmates of the palace; with torch and spear, and brandished blades, they rushed into the apartment; page, sentinel, and chamberlain, ladies with dishevelled hair, and faces blanched with terror. The queen stood erect in the centre of the room, pointing, with one white arm bare to the shoulder, toward the wretched culprit, who, with folded arms, and head erect, awaited his doom in unresisting silence. His naked rapier, with which alone he might have foiled the united efforts of his enemies, lay at his feet; his brow was white as sculptured marble, and no less rigid, but his eyes glared wildly, and his lips quivered as though he would have spoken. The queen, still furious at the wrong which he had done her fame, marked the expression. “Silence!” she cried--“degraded! wouldst thou meanly beg thy forfeit life? Wert thou my father, thou shouldst die to-morrow! Hence with the villain! Bid Maitland execute the warrant. Ourself--ourself will sign it--away! Chastelar dies at daybreak!” “’Tis well,” replied he, calmly, “it is well--the lips I love the best pronounce my doom, and I die happy, since I die for Mary. Wouldst thou but pity the offender, while thou dost doom the offence, De Chastelar would not exchange his shortened span of life, and violent death, for the brightest crown in Christendom. My limbs may die--my love will live for ever! Lead on, minions; I am more glad to die than ye to slay! Mary, beautiful Mary, think--think hereafter upon Chastelar!”