None were now left in the stern of the boat save the Queen and the steersman. That ancient Triton’s whole attention was riveted, seaman-like, on the shallows they were nearing, where, for the first time during their passage, the rolling waves were breaking languidly into surf. Chastelâr remained in the place he had never quitted, his eyes fixed on the Queen’s face. She beckoned him to approach, and in an instant he was at her side. ‘We remain at Burntisland to-night,’ said Mary, in a low measured voice that seemed the result either of extreme indifference or perfect self-command. ‘In the morning we shall ride on to St Andrews. I have a packet that must be delivered without delay at Dunfermline. Can I depend upon you to undertake its safe arrival there before to-morrow’s dawn?’ He assented eagerly. This was no such distant banishment! He should be under the same sky, within a day’s journey! The light of hope shone over his face, but while the Queen proceeded in those dry, chilling tones, it faded as it came. ‘You will ride thence to Stirling, where you will remain until you receive instructions from Maitland or Melvil. They will be accompanied by letters for the French Court, and on the instant of their receipt you will depart for Paris. Chastelâr, I depend upon your obedience--you will not fail me.’ The cold drops stood on his forehead. It was in a broken, hollow voice that he replied-- ‘My life is in your hands. Do with me what you will!’ Again her kindly heart smote her sore. It was a fearful gift this charm that she possessed. It was a dreadful responsibility thus to hold the happiness of a human being, so to speak, in her hand. Could she dash it to pieces without some tinge of pity and remorse? She resumed her task very sadly and unwillingly. ‘It is better,’ said she, ‘that this should be done at once. Queen though she be, nay, _because_ she is a Queen, Mary Stuart may not listen for a moment to the voice of her own feelings, nor the impulse of her own heart, pitying as it does those who are in trouble, though their sufferings and their sorrows spring from their own deed. Nay,’ she added, seeing him about to speak, and deprecating his words, as it were, with a gentle, almost a caressing gesture of her white hand, ‘there is nothing you can urge that shall induce me to alter my determination. A woman’s heart is weak, but her _will_ is iron as a man’s. It _must_ be so, Chastelâr, for your own sake--and--and for mine!’ ‘O God!’ he exclaimed, in an agony like a man writhing under a death-blow. ‘Have pity--have pity! Anything but this--any disgrace, any punishment, any ordeal. But oh! think of the forlorn, despairing prayer, “Entreat me not to leave thee!”’ The tears dropped fast from her eyes, and the beautiful face quivered in its struggle to be firm. What was that to him? He could only think her hard, unfeeling as the seaboard rock. She yielded not an inch.