“Pardon, pardon, I beseech you,” whispered the impassioned tones of the tempter--“pardon, sweet sovereign, the boldness that was born but of a moment’s madness. Believe me--I would tear my heart from out my bosom, did it cherish one thought that could offend my mistress--my honored, my adored-- “Hush! oh, hush! for my sake, Bothwell--for my sake, if for naught else, be silent! I do believe that you mean honestly and well; but words like these ’tis madness in you to utter, and sin in me to hear them! Bethink you, sir,” she continued, gaining strength as she proceeded, and speaking so low that no ear but his might catch a solitary sound amid the quick rustle of the “many twinkling feet,” and the full concert--“bethink you! you address a wife--a wedded, loyal wife--the wife of your lord, your king. I know that you are my most faithful servant, my most trusted friend; I know that these words, which sound so wildly, are not to be weighed in their full sense, but as a servant’s homage to his liege-lady: yet think what yon stern Knox would deem, think of the wrath of Darnley--” “If there were naught more powerful than Darnley’s wrath,” he muttered, in the notes of deep determination, “to bar me from my towering hopes, then were I blest beyond all hopes of earth, of heaven--supremely blest!” “What mean you, sir? We understand you not! What should there be more powerful than the wrath of thy lawful sovereign? Speak; I would not doubt you, yet methinks your words sound strangely. What be these towering hopes of thine? Pray God they tower not too high for honesty or honor! Say on, we do command thee!” “I will say on, fair queen,” he replied, in a voice trembling as it were with the fear of offending and the anxiety of love--“I will say on, so you will hear me to the end, nor doubt the most devoted of your slaves!” “Hear you?” she replied, considerably softened by his humility, “when did ever Mary Stuart refuse to hear the meanest of her subjects, much less a trusted and a valued friend, as thou hast ever been to her, as thou wilt ever be to her--wilt thou not, Bothwell?” There was a heavenly purity, a confidence in his integrity, and a firm and full reliance on her own dignity, in every word she uttered, that might have converted the wildest libertine from his career of sin; that might have confirmed the wariest and most subtle spirit that its guilty craft could never prevail against a heart fortified against its attacks by purity and by the stronger and more holy influences of wedded love; but on the fixed purpose, on the interminable pride, the desperate passion, and the unscrupulous will of Bothwell, every warning was lost.