[Illustration: FRANCIS II. AND MARY STUART LOVE-MAKING.] "Scotland rose against Mary. She fled to England, and threw herself on the protection of Elizabeth, abdicating the throne in favor of her son. She was secured as a prisoner, and confined at Carlisle. She was taken from Carlisle to Fotheringhay Castle. She was at last tried for conspiracy against the life of Elizabeth. Sentence of death was passed upon her. She protested her innocence. You know the rest,--the last tragedy of all, in the Castle of Fotheringhay. "Bothwell died an exile and a madman, some nine years after his marriage with Mary. "It is said that it was found, after her execution, that her real hair, under her wig, was as white as that of a woman of seventy. I cannot wonder. "She had one little friend who remained true to the last. It was her little dog. He followed her to the block, and cowered, frightened, under her dress, at the fatal moment, and lay down beside her headless body when the last tragedy was over. It could not be driven away from its mistress; and when the body was removed it began to droop, as though understanding its loss, and in two days it died." "I have spoken at school a poem by Bulwer Lytton, founded on the incident," said Wyllys. "Can you now repeat it?" asked Master Lewis. "I will try." THE DEAD QUEEN. The world is full of life and love; the world methinks might spare, From millions, one to watch above the dust of monarchs there. And not one human eye!--yet, lo! what stirs the funeral pall? What sound--it is not human woe wails moaning through the hall. Close by the form mankind desert one thing a vigil keeps; More near and near to that still heart it wistful, wondering, creeps. It gazes on those glazed eyes, it hearkens for a breath; It does not know that kindness dies, and love departs from death. It fawns as fondly as before upon that icy hand, And hears from lips that speak no more the voice that can command. To that poor fool, alone on earth, no matter what had been The pomp, the fall, the guilt, the worth, the dead was still a Queen. With eyes that horror could not scare, it watched the senseless clay, Crouched on the breast of death, and there moaned its fond life away. And when the bolts discordant clashed, and human steps drew nigh, The human pity shrank abashed before that faithful eye; It seemed to gaze with such rebuke on those who could forsake, Then turned to watch once more the look, and strive the sleep to wake. They raised the pall, they touched the dead: a cry, and both were stilled, Alike the soul that hate had sped, the life that love had killed.