"Bring the surgeon, I say. Cannot you, for the life of you, compose yourself for a little space, when you see me in such distress? Your royal mistress, Mary? I am no royal mistress now! No, I a'nt! Nothing but a plain jog-trot wife of a lord, or earl, or how do you call that beautiful title? While the lady Jane Howard!--Oh Kirkmichael, I cannot tell you the half of what I feel!" "I know it all. Jealousy! my dear lady, jealousy! Think you I know not what it is to suffer that? Do you remember young Spinola, that came to our court from the places abroad? He loved me the best after all; I had certain demonstrative proofs of it. But do you know what I suffered? Racks, tortures, strangulations! Fiends tearing out my eyes, pouring hellebore into my ears, and boring through my heart with red hot irons! Not know what jealousy is? Was not I telling your royal self the last minute"-- "Mary! stop, and be advised. You are very ill." "I humbly ask forgiveness. I was coming to it. Dear lady, I have noted your trouble these nine days past, and that it was still gaining ground. But I can partly account for it, so that, with a little prudence and patience, it may be removed. Ever since the day on which you was a bride, or the one following perhaps, there has been more court and more flattery paid to the southern beauty than to the northern one. It is the course of nature, madam; you are now a married wife, and your charms must be admired at a distance with respect and awe. The maid must still be courted and flattered. Quite natural, madam, I assure you. Think you any knight durst caper and bow, and prate to the lady Douglas, as they do to _the English puppet_?" "Mary, I will give you all my wedding apparel for these two last words. Is not she a mere puppet, without soul or magnanimity? But--Mary!--How gladly would I change places with her, Mary! She has conquered after all. Yes: She has conquered Margaret Stuart, there is no denying of it to one's own heart." "Gramercy, dearest lady, are you not raving? Has not the noble lord of your adoption proved victorious, and gained you with all honour and approbation?" "But then the lord of _her_ adoption _died_ for her, Mary. Think of that. The gallant, faithful, and magnanimous Musgrave _died_ for the mistress of his affections. But who died for the poor degraded lady Margaret of Scotland? I am conquered with my own weapons. There is no denying of it! I would rather that one lover had laid down his life for me than have had fifty husbands." "Palpably wrong! I'll prove it. Fifty husbands! How delightful--Beg pardon, madam."