Chastelâr paced to and fro upon the sand with all the worst passions of our nature tearing at a heart that yet seemed formed for better things. Utterly undisciplined in his wild, imaginative character, he had never prepared himself for such complete desolation as this. For many years, more than he now dared count, the smiles of that beautiful Queen had been to him dearer than the very air he breathed. A less enthusiastic temperament would have asked itself long ago to what result this abject service, this blind adoration, could eventually lead, and would, at least, have prepared for the final shock, which it required little sagacity to foresee must sooner or later tumble the magic edifice to the ground; but Chastelâr’s was a character that never stops to count the cost. There was to him an unspeakable joy in the very abandonment of his attachment, in the lavish devotion which only asked to be received without return. Full of a generous fire kindled in his own ardent imagination, and nourished by those seductive follies which constituted the very essence of an age of chivalry, it seemed to him as rich a happiness to cherish his hopeless attachment for the Queen, as it would have seemed to a coarser and stronger mind to possess itself of Mary’s heart and person. The poet never dreamed the time could come when he should be told that even this self-sacrifice was unwelcome; that for one unguarded word, wrung from him by the very depth and tenderness of his feelings, he should be banished from her presence, and that she who was the light of his eyes should herself determine that he must look upon her no more. Presently the devil got into his heart; the rebellious spirit, that is never so strong as when men feel they have been virtuous and self-denying in vain, rose tumultuous now, all the fiercer for having been kept down so long, and urged the counsels of despair. Of what availed his old and faithful service, his constancy, his loyalty, his obedience, and truth? She flung them away as nothing, and less than nothing; she could take his warm fresh heart from him when it suited her, as a mere matter of pastime, and squeezing it, as one would squeeze an orange, give it him back again when she had no further use for it, all withered and empty, the very essence of its existence gone. Queen though she were, she had no right to do this. She forbade him her presence! He would see her whether she would or no! He had done with obedience now, and discretion and consideration! He would speak to Mary Stuart once more, if all the devils in hell rose to prevent it!