Whilst deliberating whether to enter or not, a light shone along the passage, and a measured step, accompanied by the rustle of a lady’s dress, made his heart leap to his mouth. At this juncture, his presence of mind, which had so strangely abandoned him all night, came back in a moment. Without looking to identify the intruder, he laid his book upon the door-sill, and stooping down imprinted a kiss on the threshold, as one who takes his last leave of the shrine that guards his idol ere he retires. In rising he encountered the Queen herself, still in her robes of ceremony and alone. She was proceeding from the Countess of Argyle’s chamber to her own, and had dismissed all her attendants save the two that were even now waiting for her in her bedroom. She started when she saw Chastelâr, and the blood came to her cheek. Was it the light that shone round her like a glory in the poet’s heated imagination that produced the semblance, or was it his own fancy, or could it be reality? He thought her eyes looked wet with tears. This was too much for his overwrought feelings. He flung himself at Mary’s feet, and taking the skirt of her robe in his hands, literally kissed the hem of her garment again and again. ‘Forgive me, madam, forgive me!’ he exclaimed, in broken accents, and weeping like a woman or a child. ‘I could not bear it; I could not rest; I felt I had offended you--I who would die to give you a moment’s pleasure. I was mad! I knew not what I did; but I crept here to lay my offering at your feet, and to pray for your forgiveness; although you would not know it, would never hear or heed me. Pardon! oh! pardon me, my Queen!’ She could not but pity him; she who was so good and tender-hearted and pitiful to all: his sorrow was so obvious, his misery so complete. She gave him her white hand and bade him rise to his feet; then she chid him gently, kindly, with a grave sorrow on her young face, like a mother who takes to task a dear but froward child. ‘You would not grieve me, Chastelâr,’ said she, ‘I know. Not one of my Scottish subjects is more loyal and true than my French minstrel. Give me your book; I will accept it as a pledge of your service and fidelity to your sovereign. To your sovereign,’ she added, with a significant look, before which his eyes were lowered, and his whole countenance fell. ‘I am not only Mary Stuart,’ she added--and perhaps it was but his fancy made him think there was a dash of sadness in her tone--‘I am the Queen of Scotland as well. This country, too, is not like France; there are grave eyes watching here to which the lightest matters are a scandal and an offence. Enough of this. I have resolved to trust you, Chastelâr: I will employ you in my service. You will be far from Holyrood, but you will be fulfilling my wishes and furthering my interests. To-morrow you will receive your instructions. Chastelâr, I can count on obedience. Farewell!’