The Queen's Maries: A Romance of HolyroodWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
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The Queen's Maries: A Romance of Holyrood
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Mary, Queen of Scots, 1542-1587 -- Fiction
Such, however, was far from the condition of the tameless border-lord.
He could have fought, struggled, died with the fiercest champion
that ever set his teeth in the grim smile of a death-grapple; but the
Hepburn blood was not the stuff of which martyrs are made, and the
fiercest scion of all the bold, bad men that constituted the pride
of his line, was now, so to speak, like some demoniac of antiquity,
wrestling and striving against himself, torn, and rent, and infuriated
by the possessing spirit, which refused to be exorcised and come out
of him. That night in his lonely room at Hermitage, Bothwell learnt
many new and strange things, never to be forgotten whilst he had life.
Depths of guilt, into which, heretofore, he would not have dared
to look, were now opened up to him, and there was seduction in the
very immensity of the abyss. Crimes, dazzling from their boldness,
now seemed feasible, nay, almost justifiable, and entranced him by
the reckless daring with which they must be carried out. He had been
dreaming hitherto a soft sweet dream for years. He was awake now, broad
awake, and the vision should become reality, or he would never dream
again. He had been cozened long enough! What? The game was not yet
played out. Turn and turn about, fair dame! And it was Bothwell’s turn
now! He laughed a low hissing laugh within his beard, and then stopped,
startling in his walk, for it seemed to him that the laugh was echoed
by something in the room, and that the shape was close to his ear
now, whispering, whispering, one continuous stream of upbraiding, and
persuasion, and reproach, with maddening promise and stinging sarcasm,
and here and there a devilish scoff.
But these paroxysms wear themselves out. By degrees the earl became
calmer; by degrees he recalled the past and reviewed the present, and
looked steadily on the future. The whirl of contending passions passed
away to make room for a stern and gloomy resolve far more dangerous,
and the molten stream of thought that had seared his brain, cooled down
into the settled determination of the man.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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