Turning on his steps he strode fiercely along the now solitary shore in the direction of the hamlet of Burntisland, where the Queen was to pass the night. Already the day was waning, and the evening mist, gathering from the eastward, crept slowly up the margin of the Firth. A light drizzling rain had also begun to fall, and the sea-gulls, no longer floating in repose, were screaming and turning restlessly on the wing, as they flitted to and fro in search of shelter for the night. Boatmen and fishwives had betaken themselves to their homes, and none were left to witness the gestures of anger and despair with which the unhappy Chastelâr accompanied his racking, maddening thoughts. He wrapped his cloak round him, and walked faster and faster as he began to shape his resolve. But within a short distance of the hamlet he met a figure approaching him through the increasing gloom: a female figure cloaked and hooded, walking swiftly, yet with smooth, majestic gait, and of a stature that seemed unusually lofty in that uncertain light. For an instant the blood gathered round his heart as a possibility flashed across him that even in his madness he could scarcely dare believe. In that space of time a thousand frantic surmises swept through his brain. Reaction, remorse, a woman’s pity, and a woman’s tenderness, overriding all, even the reserve and dignity of a Queen. But the foolish fancies died out rapidly as they arose, for the figure stopped, handed him in silence a small packet tied round with a morsel of silk (he could notice such a trifle even then), and while she threw back her hood with a gesture of relief, the clear, guileless eyes of Mary Hamilton looked him sadly and inquiringly in the face. She spoke not for a while; she seemed to stop and take breath; then she said, very quietly and coldly-- ‘The Queen bade me bring you this. She says it must be forwarded without delay.’ He bowed courteously. He had recovered himself now, for he had a scheme in view, and shaping it out rapidly in his working brain, he bethought him that here was an unconscious instrument which he might turn to good account. ‘How did you know where to find me?’ he asked, forcing himself to smile. A bright blush swept over the maid-of-honour’s forehead, but she paled again almost immediately as she replied-- ‘I saw you from our window walking on the shore. I knew it was you, and I asked to bring the packet myself because they tell me you are going away to-night, and I was anxious to bid you farewell.’ This was a great deal for Mary Hamilton to say. No successful gallant could have wrung such an avowal from her lips; but the keen eye of affection had told her that Chastelâr was dejected and unhappy; so she longed to console him and speak kindly to him ere he went away.