He spoke truly enough; he even hoped the royal lady then employing all the fascinations of her manner on Morton and his kindred, might hear his last words and give him one responsive glance to carry with him into his banishment. In this he was disappointed. The Queen, seated at some distance from the group, and surrounded by her barons, was for the moment ‘every inch a Queen,’ and Chastelâr passed out of Holyrood, with Mary Hamilton’s ‘farewell’ warmer and more hopeful since his last words, to warn him (could, indeed, warning ever profit in such cases), that, in stretching for the rose he would never reach, he was trampling the poor violet ruthlessly beneath his feet. She seemed in better spirits, too, after he was gone, although silent and inattentive to the surrounding gaiety, a distraction not unnoticed by Mary Beton, who believed herself officially answerable not only for the dresses and deportment of her three companions, but for the thoughts and sentiments of their inmost hearts. ‘I have told you twice,’ she said at length with an offended air, ‘that the Queen rides out to-morrow for the hawking after early mass, and that you and Mary Seton will be in attendance. You will wear the sad-coloured riding gear passamented with silver, and French hats--but neither of you seem to heed me.’ ‘She is thinking of a French head, rather than a French hat,’ laughed incorrigible Mary Seton; ‘but indeed I have listened to you even more attentively than usual. Ah! Mistress Beton, what would I not give to possess your careful forethought and common sense! _You_ never neglect anything--_you_ never forget anything. The Queen trusts you with her state-secrets, and when you carry her work to her in the Council-chamber, even Maitland and Morton look upon you as if you were one of themselves. Why are you not weak and giddy like me, or pensive and sad like Hamilton, or absent and haughty like Mary Carmichael has grown of late? Look at her yonder holding the Queen’s train as if _she_ were the sovereign, and our beautiful Mistress the maid-of-honour!’ Mary Beton smiled, not displeased at the adroit flattery of her junior. She did indeed pride herself on two especial qualities--utter impassibility, and scrupulous attention to details. ‘I am somewhat older than the rest of you,’ she said, bridling her handsome neck within her handsome ruff, ‘and I have learned to avoid all pleasures and interests that take my attention from my duty. I am always responsible and always employed. I have no time for the follies that seem to afford the rest of you so much amusement.’ ‘And yet you would become them well,’ said the other, coaxingly. ‘Come, now, be persuaded to play Diana in the next _masque_. I will dress your hair myself, and the gallants all vow you are fitted for the part both in person and character. Handsome and stately and cold.’