The Rutlands knew nothing of this subplot.

Elizabeth had once or twice expressed sympathy with her Scottish cousin. She had said in John's presence that while she could not for reasons of state invite Mary to seek refuge in England, still if Mary would come uninvited she would be welcomed. Therefore, John thought he was acting in accord with the English queen's secret wish when he went to Rutland with the purpose of being in readiness to meet Mary at the Scottish border.

There were two elements in Elizabeth's character on which John had not counted. One was her royal prerogative to speak words she did not mean; and the other was the universal feminine privilege to change her mind. Our queen did not want Mary to visit England, nor had she any knowledge of the plot to induce that event. She did, however, fear that Mary's unwise friends among the Catholics cherished the purpose of making Mary queen of England. Although John had heard faint rumors of such a plot, he had been given to understand that Mary had no share in it, and he believed that the adventure in which he was about to embark had for its only purpose her liberation from a cruel and unjust imprisonment. Her cause appealed to John's chivalrous nature as it appealed to so many other good though mistaken men who sought to give help to the Scottish queen, and brought only grief to her and ruin to themselves.

Dorothy had heard at various times just enough of these plots to fill her heart with alarm when she learned that John was about to be engaged in them. Her trouble was twofold. She feared lest personal injury or death might befall John; and jealousy, that shame of love, gnawed at her heart despite her efforts to drive it away.

"Is she so marvellously beautiful?" Dorothy asked of me over and over again, referring to Mary Stuart. "Is she such a marvel of beauty and fascination that all men fall before her?"

"That usually is the result," I replied. "I have never known her to smile upon a man who did not at once respond by falling upon his knees to her."

My reply certainly was not comforting.

"Ah, then, I am lost," she responded, with a tremulous sigh. "Is—is she prone to smile on men and—and—to grow fond of them?"

"I should say, Dorothy, that both the smiling and the fondness have become a habit with her."

"Then she will be sure to choose John from among all men. He is so glorious and perfect and beautiful that she will be eager to—to—O God! I wish he had not gone to fetch her."

"You need have no fear," I said reassuringly. "While Mary Stuart is marvellously beautiful and fascinating, there is at least one woman who excels her. Above all, that woman is pure and chaste."

"Who is she, that one woman, Malcolm? Who is she?" asked the girl, leaning forward in her chair and looking at me eagerly with burning eyes.

"You are already a vain girl, Dorothy, and I shall not tell you who that one woman is," I answered laughingly.

"No, no, Malcolm, I am not vain in this matter. It is of too great moment to me for the petty vice of vanity to have any part in it. You do not understand me. I care not for my beauty, save for his sake. I long to be more beautiful, more fascinating, and more attractive than she—than any woman living—only because I long to hold John—to keep him from her, from all others. I have seen so little of the world that I must be sadly lacking in those arts which please men, and I long to possess the beauty of the angels, and the fascinations of Satan that I may hold John, hold him, hold him, hold him. That I may hold him so sure and fast that it will be impossible for him to break from me. At times, I almost wish he were blind; then he could see no other woman. Ah, am I not a wicked, selfish girl? But I will not allow myself to become jealous. He is all mine, isn't he, Malcolm?" She spoke with nervous energy, and tears were ready to spring from her eyes.

"He is all yours, Dorothy," I answered, "all yours, as surely as that death will some day come to all of us. Promise me, Dorothy, that you will never again allow a jealous thought to enter your heart. You have no cause for jealousy, nor will you ever have. If you permit that hateful passion to take possession of you, it will bring ruin in its wake."

"It was, indeed, foolish in me," cried Dorothy, springing to her feet and clasping her hands tightly; "and I promise never again to feel jealousy. Malcolm, its faintest touch tears and gnaws at my heart and racks me with agony. But I will drive it out of me. Under its influence I am not responsible for my acts. It would quickly turn me mad. I promise, oh, I swear, that I never will allow it to come to me again."

Poor Dorothy's time of madness was not far distant nor was the evil that was to follow in its wake.

John in writing to Dorothy concerning his journey to Scotland had unhesitatingly intrusted to her keeping his honor, and, unwittingly, his life. It did not once occur to him that she could, under any conditions, betray him. I trusted her as John did until I saw her vivid flash of burning jealousy. But by the light of that flash I saw that should the girl, with or without reason, become convinced that Mary Stuart was her rival, she would quickly make Derbyshire the warmest locality in Christendom, and John's life might pay the cost of her folly. Dorothy would brook no rival—no, not for a single hour. Should she become jealous she would at once be swept beyond the influence of reason or the care for consequences. It were safer to arouse a sleeping devil than Dorothy Vernon's jealousy. Now about the time of John's journey to the Scottish border, two matters of importance arose at Haddon Hall. One bore directly upon Dorothy, namely, the renewal by the Stanleys of their suit for her hand. The other was the announcement by the queen that she would soon do Sir George Vernon the honor of spending a fortnight under the roof of Haddon Hall. Each event was of great importance to the King of the Peak. He had concluded that Thomas, the man-servant, was not the Earl of Leicester in disguise, and when the Earl of Derby again came forward with his marriage project, Sir George fell back into his old hardness toward Dorothy, and she prepared her armament, offensive and defensive, for instant use if need should arise. I again began my machinations, since I can call my double dealing by no other name. I induced Dorothy to agree to meet the earl and his son James. Without promising positively to marry Lord Stanley, she, at my suggestion, led her father to believe she was ready to yield to his wishes. By this course she gained time and liberty, and kept peace with her father. Since you have seen the evils that war brought to Haddon, you well know how desirable peace was. In time of war all Haddon was a field of carnage and unrest. In time of peace the dear old Hall was an ideal home. I persuaded Sir George not to insist on a positive promise from Dorothy, and I advised him to allow her yielding mood to grow upon her. I assured him evasively that she would eventually succumb to his paternal authority and love.

What an inherent love we all have for meddling in the affairs of others, and what a delicious zest we find in faithfully applying our surplus energies to business that is not strictly our own! I had become a part of the Sir George-Dorothy-John affair, and I was like the man who caught the bear: I could not loose my hold.



CHAPTER XIII

PROUD DAYS FOR THE OLD HALL

Of course the queen's approaching visit threw Haddon Hall into a frenzy of scrubbing and furbishing. Aunt Dorothy was the busiest woman in England. Floors were newly polished. Draperies were taken down and were carefully washed with mysterious concoctions warranted to remove dirt without injury to color. Superfine wax was bought in great boxes, and candles were made for all the chandeliers and candelabra in the house. Perfumed oil was purchased for the lamp in the state bedroom. Elizabeth, by the way, when she came, did not like the odor of the oil, and with an oath tossed both the oil and the lamp out of the window. The fattest sheep, kine, and hogs were chosen from the flocks and were brought in to be stall-fed in such numbers that one might have supposed we were expecting an ogress who could eat an ox at a meal. Pipers and dancers were engaged, and a merry fool was brought down from London. At last the eventful day came and with it came our queen. She brought with her a hundred yeomen of her guard and a score of ladies and gentlemen. Among the latter was the Earl of Leicester, who was the queen's prime favorite.

Prior to the queen's announcement of her intention to visit Haddon Sir George had, with Dorothy's tacit consent, fixed a day upon which the Earl of Derby and his son, Lord James, should be received at the Hall for the purpose of signing the marriage contract. Dorothy, of course, had no intention of signing the contract, but she put off the evil hour of refusal as far as possible, hoping something might occur in the meantime to help her out of the dilemma. Something did occur at the last moment. I am eager to tell you about it, but it must wait its turn. Truly would the story of this ingenious girl's life make a romance if it were written by a poet. In her Guinevere and Elaine were moulded into one person with the tenderness, purity, and fierceness of each.

To postpone further the time of the Stanley visit, Dorothy suggested that the betrothal should take place in the presence of the queen. Sir George acquiesced, and in his heart grew less eager for the Stanley match as Dorothy apparently became more tractable. He was, however, engaged with the earl to an extent that forbade withdrawal, even had he been sure that he wished to withdraw.

At the time of which I speak the Earl of Leicester was the most exalted subject of the realm. He was ardently devoted to the cause of the ladies, and, although he had fixed his hope on Elizabeth and longed for a seat beside her on the throne, his inflammable heart was constantly catching fire from other eyes. He, of course, made desperate efforts to conceal these manifold conflagrations from the queen, but the inflammable tow of his heart was always bringing him into trouble with his fiery mistress.

The earl's first glance toward Dorothy was full of admiration. The second glance was full of conflagration. The second day of the queen's residence in Haddon I was astonished, grieved, and angered to see that our girl had turned her powerful batteries upon the earl with the evident purpose of conquest. At times her long lashes would fall before him, and again her great luminous eyes would open wide, shedding a soft radiance which no man could withstand. Once I saw her walking alone with him upon the terrace. Her head was drooped shamelessly, and the earl was ardent though restless, being fearful of the queen. I boiled with rage against Dorothy, but by a strong effort I did not boil over until I had better cause. The better cause came later.

I failed to tell you of a brief conversation which occurred between Sir George and me after my cousin first saw the Earl of Leicester. Sir George had gallantly led the queen to her apartments, and I had conducted Leicester and several of the gentlemen to their various rooms. Sir George and I met at the staircase after we had quitted our guests.

He said: "Malcolm, that fellow Thomas whom I knocked in the head looked no more like Leicester than I do. Why did you tell me there was resemblance?"

"I do not know," I answered. "Perhaps your words suggested the thought of a resemblance. Perhaps I had lost all memory of Leicester's features. I cannot answer your question."

Then an expression of anger came to Sir George's face, and he said:—

"I believe Dorothy lied to me when she said that the fellow Thomas was of noble blood."

The next day a servant reported that Thomas had been seen loitering near Bowling Green Gate, and Sir George ordered Dorothy not to leave the Hall without his permission.

Dorothy replied to her father's command, "I shall obey you, father."

To me there was a note of danger in her voice. Such docile submissiveness was not natural to the girl. Of course all appearance of harshness toward Dorothy was suppressed by Sir George during the queen's visit to the Hall. In truth, he had no reason to be harsh, for Dorothy was a meek, submissive, and obedient daughter. Her meekness, however, as you may well surmise, was but the forerunner of dire rebellion.

The fourth day of the queen's presence at Haddon Hall was the one appointed for the visit of the Stanleys, and Sir George thought to make a great event of the betrothal by having the queen act as a witness to the marriage contract. As the day approached Sir George became thoughtful, while Dorothy grew gleeful. The girl was frequently seen with Leicester, and Sir George could not help noticing that nobleman's pronounced admiration for his daughter. These exhibitions of gallantry were never made in the presence of the queen. The morning of the day when the Stanleys were expected Sir George called me to his room for a private consultation. The old gentleman was in a state of excitement, not unmixed with perplexity and trouble.

He said, "I have great and good news to impart to you, Malcolm; yet I am in a dilemma growing out of it."

"Tell me the good news first, Sir George," I replied. "The dilemma may wait."

"Is Doll a very beautiful girl?" he asked eagerly.

"I believe she is the most beautiful woman in the world," I answered.

"Good, good," he replied, rubbing his hands. "Is she so fascinating, brilliant, and attractive, think you—of course I speak in jest—but think you she might vie with the court ladies for beauty, and think you she might attract—for the sake of illustration I will say—might she attract a man like Leicester?"

"Unless I am much mistaken," I answered, "Leicester is over his ears in love with the girl now."

"Ah, do you believe so, Malcolm?" replied Sir George, laughing and slapping his thigh, as he walked to and fro across the room. "You have seen so much of that sort of thing that you should know it when it comes under your nose. Eh, Malcolm, eh?"

"I should suppose that any one, however inexperienced in such matters, could easily see Leicester's infatuation for Dorothy. If you wish me to tell you what I really believe—"

"I do, I do," interrupted Sir George.

"I should say," I continued, "that Dorothy has deliberately gone in for conquest. Leave the girl to herself, Sir George. She can conduct the campaign without help from any one. She understands the art of such warfare as well as if she were a veteran."

"Gad, but she does, but she does. I believe she could give Venus herself some good points in the matter. But let me tell you, Malcolm,"—the old man dropped his voice to a whisper,—"I questioned Doll this morning, and she confessed that Leicester had spoken words of love to her. Would it not be a great match for our house?"

He said "our house," mind you, not "our Doll." I might call his condition of mind patrimonial selfishness. Simple old man! He did not know that words of love are not necessarily words of marriage.

"Has Leicester spoken to you?" I asked in alarm for John's sake.

"No, no, he has not spoken," returned my cousin; "for that, of course, he must have the queen's consent. But he will speak, I am sure, all in good time, Malcolm, all in good time."

"How about the Stanleys?" I asked. "They will be here this afternoon."

"That's the devil's finger in the matter," cried Sir George. "That's where my dilemma lies. How shall I put them off, and still retain them in case nothing should come from Leicester? Besides, I am in honor bound to the earl."

"I have a plan," I replied. "You carry out your part of the agreement with the earl, but let Dorothy, at the last moment, refuse to give her consent. Let her ask for more time, on the plea that she does not know her mind. I will suggest to her, if you wish, the part she is to play; but I will conceal from her the fact that you are a party to it."

"No," said the old man, "that would be bad faith toward the earl." After a pause he continued doubtingly: "No, do not speak to Doll. I believe she needs no suggestions in the matter. I fear that mischief is in her mind already. Her easy acquiescence in my wishes have of late had a suspicious appearance. No, don't speak to her, Malcolm. If ever there lived a girl who could be perverse and wilful on her own account, without help from any one, it is my girl Doll. God bless you, man, if she but knew that I wanted her to reject Stanley, she would have him in spite of hell itself. I wonder what she means by her docility and obedience? No, don't speak a word to her on the subject. Let her believe I am serious regarding this marriage, and she will have some plan of her own to raise the devil. I have been expecting signs of it every day. I had determined not to bear with her perversity, but now that the Leicester possibility has come up we'll leave Doll to work out her own salvation, Malcolm. Don't interfere. No man living can teach that girl a new trick in deviltry. Gods, Malcolm! I am curious to know what she will be doing, for she certainly will be doing something rather than sign that contract of betrothal."

"But suppose out of obedience to you she should sign the contract?" I asked.

"Malcolm, you don't know Doll," he replied. Then, after a pause, "Neither do I. I wish she were well married."

When I left Sir George, I found Dorothy in close consultation with the queen and two of her ladies. I heard the name of Lord James Stanley spoken amid suppressed laughter, and I suspected Dorothy had on foot some prank touching that young man, to which her Majesty was a party.

After dinner the Stanleys came a-wooing. The party consisted of father, son, and four retainers, who looked as if they had been preserved in alcohol for the occasion, so red were their faces.

The Earl of Derby was a fine old gentleman of the rural type. His noble son was an uncouth rustic, who had no thought above a stable boy or tavern maid, nor any ambition above horse trading. His attire was a wonder to behold. He wore a ruff of stupendous proportions. His trunks were so puffed out and preposterous in size that they looked like a great painted knot on a tree; and the many-colored splendors of his sleeves, his hat, his hose, and his shoes were dazzling to the eye. Add to this wondrous raiment feet and hands that could not be satisfactorily disposed of, and an unrest of manner painful to behold, and you may possibly conceive the grandiose absurdity of Dorothy's wooer. The sight of him almost made Sir George ill; and his entrance into the long gallery, where the queen was seated with her ladies and gentlemen, and Sir George and his friends standing about her, was a signal for laughter in which her Majesty openly joined.

I shall not lead you through the tedious ceremony of presentation and introduction, nor shall I tell you of the pompous manner in which one of the earl's retinue, a lawyer, read the marriage contract. The fact that the contract was read without the presence of Dorothy, whom it so nearly concerned, was significant of the small consideration which at that time was given to a girl's consent. When all was ready for the signing, Dorothy was summoned.

Sir George stood beside the Stanleys, and his nervousness was painfully apparent. Two servants opened the great doors at the end of the long gallery, and Dorothy, holding up the skirt of her gown, bounded into the room. She kneeled to the queen, and turned toward her uncle Stanley and her lover-cousin with a low bow. Then she courtesied and said—

"Good even, uncle, and how do you do, cousin. Have you come to inspect me, and, perchance, to buy?"

Sir George's face bore an expression of mingled shame, wonder, and alarm, and the queen and her suite laughed behind their fans.

"It is well," continued Dorothy. "Here am I, ready for inspection." Thereupon she began to disrobe herself before the entire company. Leicester laughed outright, and the queen and her ladies suppressed their merriment for a moment, and then sent forth peals of laughter without restraint. Sir George stepped toward the girl and raised his hand warningly, but the queen interposed:—

"Silence, Sir George, I command you;" and Sir George retreated to his former place beside the Earl of Derby. Dorothy first removed her bodice, showing her shoulders and a part of her arms, clothed in the fashion of a tavern maid.

Leicester, who stood by me, whispered, "God never made anything more beautiful than Mistress Vernon's arms."

Sir George again spoke angrily, "Doll, what are you doing?" But the queen by a wave of her hand commanded silence. Then the girl put her hands behind her, and loosened the belt which held her skirt in place. The skirt fell to the floor, and out of it bounded Dorothy in the short gown of a maid.

"You will be better able to judge of me in this costume, cousin," said Dorothy. "It will be more familiar to you than the gowns which ladies wear."

"I will retract," said Leicester, whispering to me, and gazing ardently at Dorothy's ankles. "God has made something more beautiful than Mistress Vernon's arms. By Venus! I suppose that in His omnipotence He might be able to create something more beautiful than her ankles, but up to this time He has not vouchsafed to me a vision of it. Ah! did any one ever behold such strength, such perfect symmetry, such—St. George! the gypsy doesn't live who can dance like that."

Sure enough, Dorothy was dancing. The pipers in the balcony had burst forth in a ribald jig of a tune, and the girl was whirling in a wild, weird, and wondrous dance before her lover-cousin. Sir George ordered the pipers to cease playing; but again Elizabeth, who was filled with mirth, interrupted, and the music pealed forth in wanton volumes which flooded the gallery. Dorothy danced like an elfin gypsy to the inspiring strains. Soon her dance changed to wondrous imitations of the movements of a horse. She walked sedately around in an ever increasing circle; she trotted and paced; she gave the single foot and racked; she galloped, slowly for a while, and then the gallop merged into a furious run which sent the blood of her audience thrilling through their veins with delight. The wondrous ease and grace, and the marvellous strength and quickness of her movements, cannot be described. I had never before thought the human body capable of such grace and agility as she displayed.

After her dance was finished she stepped in front of her cousin and delivered herself as follows:—

"I am sound from ear tip to fetlock. There is not a blemish in me."

"No, by my faith, I will swear there is not!" cried the Earl of Leicester.

"I have good wind," continued Dorothy, "two good eyes. By night or by day I can see everything within the range of my vision, and a great deal that is not. I shy, at times, when an uncouth object suddenly comes upon me. I am warranted gentle if properly handled, but otherwise it is unsafe to curry my heels."

Sir George could no longer restrain himself, and again tried to prevent Dorothy from proceeding with her terrible insult to the Stanleys. The queen, however, was determined to see the end of the frolic, and she said:—

"Proceed, Mistress Vernon, proceed."

Dorothy, nothing loath, continued: "As for my disposition, it might be better. It probably will improve with age, if it doesn't grow worse. I have all the gaits a horse should have. I am four years old, I have never been trained to work double, and I think I never shall be. What think you? Now what have you to offer in exchange? Step out and let me see you move."

She took the poor youth by the hand and led him to the middle of the floor.

"How old are you? Show me your teeth," she said. The heir to Derby smiled uneasily, and drew his hand across his nose.

"Ah, you have a touch of the distemper, I see. Are you subject to it?"

Stanley smiled, and the earl said:—

"Sir George, this insult has gone far enough."

"Stand back, my Lord Derby," said the queen. "Do not interfere with this interesting barter."

The earl reluctantly lapsed into silence. He remembered the insult of her Majesty's words all his life.

"Now step off," said Dorothy to Lord James.

The young man stood in helpless confusion. Dorothy took a step backward from him, and after watching Stanley a moment said:—

"What! You can neither trot, pace, nor gallop? I don't believe you can even walk alone." Then she turned toward Sir George. A smile was on her lips, but a look from hell was in her eyes as she said:—

"Father, take a lesson from this day. I gave you fair warning. Bring me no more scurvy cobs for barter nor trade." Then she turned to the Earl of Derby and to her cousin Lord James, made a deep courtesy, and said:—

"You can have no barter with me. Good day."

She ran from the room, and a great peal of laughter from all save Sir George and the Stanleys followed her as she passed out through the double door. When the laughter had subsided, the Earl of Derby turned to Sir George and said:—

"Sir George, this insult is unbearable, and I shall expect satisfaction for it." Then he turned to the queen: "I beg that your Majesty will give me leave to depart with my son."

"Granted," answered Elizabeth, and father and son started to leave the room, moving backward toward the great doors. Sir George asked the earl and Lord Stanley to remain, and in the presence of the company who had witnessed the insult, he in the humblest manner made abject apology for the treatment his distinguished guests had received at the hands of his daughter. He very honestly and in all truth disclaimed any sympathy with Dorothy's conduct, and offered, as the only reparation he could make, to punish her in some way befitting the offence. Then he conducted the guests to the mounting block near the entrance tower and saw them depart. Dorothy had solved her father's dilemma with a vengeance.

Sir George was not sure that he wanted to be angry at Dorothy, though he felt it was a duty he owed to himself and to the Stanleys. He had wished that the girl would in some manner defer the signing of the contract, but he had not wanted her to refuse young Stanley's hand in a manner so insulting that the match would be broken off altogether.

As the day progressed, and as Sir George pondered over Dorothy's conduct, he grew more inclined to anger; but during the afternoon she kept well under the queen's wing, and he found no opportunity to give vent to his ill-temper.

Late that night he called me to his room. He had been drinking during the evening and was poised between good-humored hilarity and ill-tempered ferocity. The latter condition was usually the result of his libations. When I entered the room it was evident he was amused.

"Did you ever hear or see such brazen effrontery?" he asked, referring to Dorothy's treatment of the Stanleys. "Is there another girl on earth who would have conceived the absurd thought, or, having conceived it, would have dared to carry it out?"

I took a chair and replied, "I think there is not another."

"I hope not," continued Sir George. He sat in thought for a moment, and then broke forth into a great laugh. When he had finished laughing he said: "I admit it was laughable and—and pretty—beautiful. Damme, I didn't know the girl could do it, Malcolm! I didn't know she had it in her. There is not another girl living could have carried the frolic through." Then he spoke seriously, "But I will make her smart for it when the queen leaves Haddon."

"Sir George, if you will allow me to suggest what I feel on the subject, I would say that you have no reason whatever for desiring to make Dorothy smart. She may have deeper designs than we can see."

"What designs do you suppose she can have? Tell me, Malcolm," asked Sir George.

I remained silent for a moment, hardly knowing how to express my thought. "Certainly she could not have appeared to a better advantage than in her tavern maid's costume," I said.

"That is true," answered Sir George. "Though she is my own daughter, I must admit that I have never seen any woman so beautiful as she." The old gentleman laughed softly for a moment and said: "But wasn't it brazen? Wasn't it shameless? I have always given the girl credit for modesty, but—damme, damme—"

"Her beauty in the tavern maid's costume fired Leicester's heart as nothing else could have done," I said. "He stood by my side, and was in raptures over her charms."

Sir George mused a moment and said something about the "Leicester possibility," which I knew to be an impossibility, and before I left him he had determined to allow the matter to drop for the present. "I am making a damned pretty mess of the whole affair, I fear, Malcolm," he said.

"You don't seem to be clearing it up, Sir George," I responded.

After talking over some arrangements for the queen's entertainment, I said good night, and left my cousin brooding over as complicated a problem as man ever tried to solve.

The next morning I told Dorothy how her father felt with respect to the "Leicester possibility." She laughed and said:—

"I will encourage father in that matter, and," with a saucy twinkle in her eye, "incidentally I will not discourage my proud lord of Leicester. I will make the most of the situation, fear not, Malcolm."

"I do not fear," said I, emphatically.

There it was: the full-blown spirit of conquest, strong even in a love-full heart. God breathed into Adam the breath of life; but into Eve he breathed the love of conquest, and it has been growing stronger in the hearts of her daughters with each recurring generation.

"How about John?" I asked.

"Oh, John?" she answered, throwing her head contemplatively to one side. "He is amply able to protect his own interests. I could not be really untrue to him if I wished to be. It is I who am troubled on the score of infidelity. John will be with the most beautiful queen—" She broke off in the midst of her sentence, and her face became clouded with an expression of anger and hatred. "God curse her! I wish she were dead, dead, dead. There! you know how I feel toward your English-French-Scottish beauty. Curse the mongrel—" She halted before the ugly word she was about to use; but her eyes were like glowing embers, and her cheeks were flushed by the heat of anger.

"Did you not promise me, Dorothy, that you would not again allow yourself to become jealous of Queen Mary?" I asked.

"Yes, I promised, but I cannot prevent the jealousy, and I do not intend to try. I hate her, and I love to hate her."

"Why should you hate her?" I asked. "If John remains true to you, there is certainly no cause for you to hate any one. If he should be untrue to you, you should hate him."

"Hate him?" she exclaimed. "That, indeed, is pretty reasoning. If he should be untrue to me, I should of course hate her. I could not hate him. I did not make myself love him. I would never have been so great a fool as to bring that pain upon myself intentionally. I suppose no girl would deliberately make herself love a man and bring into her heart so great an agony. I feel toward John as I do, because I must; and I hate your Scottish mongrel because I must. I tell you, Malcolm, when she comes to Rutland, if I hear of her trying any of her wanton tricks on John there will be trouble—mark my words!"

"I ask you to promise me this, Dorothy: that you will do nothing concerning John and Queen Mary without first speaking to me."

She paced across the room angrily. "I promise you nothing, Malcolm, save that I shall not allow that woman to come between John and me. That I promise you, on my oath."

Dorothy continued to shed her luminous smiles on Leicester, though she was careful not to shine in the queen's presence. My lord was dazzled by the smiles, and continually sought opportunities to bask in their dangerous light. As a result of this smiling and basking the great London heart-breaker was soon helplessly caught in the toils of Doll, the country maiden. She played him as an angler plays a trout. The most experienced court coquette could not have done the part better than did this girl, whose knowledge of the subject was wholly intuitive, for her life had all been spent amid the green hills and groves of Derbyshire. She so managed the affair that her father should see enough of Leicester's preference to keep alive in Sir George's mind the hope for the "Leicester possibility." Those words had become with her a phrase slyly to play upon.

One afternoon when the sun was graciously warm and bright, I induced Madge to walk with me upon the terrace, that I might for a few moments feel the touch of her hand and hear her whispered words. We took a seat by a large holly bush, which effectually concealed us from view. We had been there but a few moments when we heard footsteps approaching. Looking between the branches of the holly bush I saw Dorothy and Leicester coming toward us from the north end of the terrace. Dorothy's eyes were cast down demurely, and her head hung in the attitude of a shy, modest girl, who listens timidly to words that are music in her ears. Never have I seen an attitude more indicative of the receptive mood than that which Dorothy assumed toward Leicester.

"Ah," thought I, "poor John has given his heart and has risked his life for the sake of Doll, and Doll is a miserable coquette."

But there was conduct still more objectionable to come from Dorothy.

Unconscious of our presence, Leicester said, "My fair beauty, my Venus, here is a settle under this holly bush, well hidden from prying eyes. It invites us. Will you sit here with me for one happy moment, and give me a taste of Paradise?"

"I fear I should not sit with you, my lord, however much I—may—may wish to do so. My father or the queen might observe us." The black lashes fell upon the fair cheek, and the red golden head with its crown of glory hung forward convincingly.

"You false jade," thought I.

"I ask for but one moment," pleaded Leicester. "The queen sleeps at this time after dinner, and perhaps your father would not object if you were to grant this little favor to the first nobleman of the realm."

"You do not know my father, my lord. He is very strict regarding my conduct," murmured the drooping head.

"I ask for but one little moment," continued the earl, "in which to tell you that you have filled my heart with adoration and love."

"I should not listen to you, my lord. Were I mindful of my happiness, I should return to the Hall at once," said the drooping lashes and hanging head.

"You lying wench," thought I. By that time I was thoroughly angered.

"Only one little moment on the settle," pleaded Leicester, "that I may speak to you that which I wish so ardently to say."

"Can you not speak while we walk, my lord?" asked Dorothy.

I felt a bitter desire to curse the girl.

"It is difficult for me to speak while we walk," said Leicester, cautiously taking the girl's hand; so she permitted him to lead her to the settle under the holly bush, on the opposite side of which Madge and I were sitting.

The earl retained the hand for a moment after he and Dorothy were seated, but she gently drew it away and moved a little distance from his Lordship. Still, her eyes were drooped, her head hung low, and her bosom actually heaved as if with emotion.

"I will tell John of your shamelessness," I said to myself. "He shall feel no more heartaches for you—you wanton huzzy."

Then Leicester poured forth his passion most eloquently. Poesy, verse, and rhetoric all came to help him in his wooing. Now and then the girl would respond to his ardor with "Please, my lord," or "I pray you, my lord," and when he would try to take her hand she would say, "I beg you, my lord, do not." But Leicester evidently thought that the "do not" meant "do," for soon he began to steal his arm about her waist, and she was so slow in stopping him that I thought she was going to submit. She, however, arose gently to her feet and said:—

"My lord, I must return to the Hall. I may not longer remain here with you."

The earl caught her hand and endeavored to kiss it, but she adroitly prevented him, and stepping out into the path, started slowly toward the Hall. She turned her head slightly toward Leicester in a mute but eloquent invitation, and he quickly followed her.

I watched the pair walk up the terrace. They descended the steps to the garden, and from thence they entered the Hall by way of the porch.

"Was it not very wicked in Dorothy to listen to such words from Leicester?" asked Madge. "I do not at all understand her."

Madge, of course, knew only a part of what had happened, and a very small part at that, for she had not seen Dorothy. Madge and I returned to the Hall, and we went at once to Dorothy's room, hoping to see her, and intending to tell her our opinion of the shameless manner in which she had acted.

Dorothy was in her room alone when we entered. She clapped her hands, ran to the door, bolted it, and bounded back toward us.

"I have the greatest news to tell you," she cried laughingly,—"the greatest news and the greatest sport of which you ever heard. My lord Leicester is in love with me."

"Indeed, that is very fine," I responded; but my irony met its usual fate. She did not see it.

"Yes," continued Dorothy, brimming over with mirth, "you should have heard him pleading with me a few moments since upon the terrace."

"We did hear him," said Madge.

"You heard him? Where? How?" Her eyes were wide with wonder.

"We were on the opposite side of the holly bush from you," I answered. "We heard him and we saw you."

"Did you? Good. I am glad of it," said Dorothy.

"Yes, we saw and we heard all, and we think that your conduct was shameless," I responded severely.

"Shameless?" demanded Dorothy. "Now pray tell me what I did or said that was shameless.".

I was at a loss to define the wrong in her conduct, for it had been of an intangible quality which in itself was nothing, but notwithstanding meant a great deal.

"You permitted him to hold your hand," I said, trying to fix on something real with which to accuse her.

"I did nothing of the sort," said Dorothy, laughingly. "He caught my hand several times, but I withdrew it from him"

I knew she spoke the truth regarding her hand, so I tried again.

"You—you hung your head and kept your eyes cast down, and you looked—"

"Oh, I hung my head, I cast down my eyes, and I looked?" she answered, laughing heartily. "Pray let me ask you, Master Fault-finder, for what use else are heads and eyes made?"

I was not prepared to say that the uses to which Dorothy had put her head and eyes were not some of the purposes for which they were created. They are good purposes, too, I admit, although I would not have conceded as much to Dorothy. I knew the girl would soon wheedle me into her way of thinking, so I took a bold stand and said:—

"It is my intention to tell John about your conduct with Leicester, and I shall learn for what purpose he thinks eyes and heads are created."

"Tell John?" cried Dorothy. "Of course you may tell John. He well knows the purposes of heads and eyes, and their proper uses. He has told me many times his opinion on the subject." She laughed for a moment, and then continued: "I, too, shall tell John all that happened or shall happen between Lord Leicester and me. I wish I could tell him now. How I wish I could tell him now." A soft light came to her eyes, and she repeated huskily: "If I might tell him now; if I might tell him now. Why, Malcolm, I despise Leicester. He is a poor, weak fool. He has no more force nor strength than I have. He is not a man. He is no more attractive than a woman. He wanted to kiss me. He begged me to give him but one. It is but a poor kiss which a man gets by begging. Think you I would give him one? Had he but touched my lips, think you I would ever allow John to soil himself again by kissing them? Fear not, Malcolm. Fear not for John nor for me. No man will ever receive from me a favor, the granting of which would make me unfit to be John's—John's wife. I have paid too dearly for him to throw him away for a penny whistle that I do not want." Then she grew earnest, with a touch of anger: "Leicester! What reason, suppose you, Malcolm, have I for treating him as I do? Think you I act from sheer wantonness? If there were one little spot of that fault upon my soul, I would tear myself from John, though I should die for it."

Her laughing mood had passed away, and I feared to say that I could see no reason other than coquetry for her conduct, I feared the red-haired tigress would scratch my eyes out.

"I have wanted to see you," she continued, "that I might tell you of my plans and of the way they are working out, but now since you have spoken to me in this manner, Sir Malcolm Francois de Lorraine Vernon, I shall tell you nothing. You suspect me. Therefore, you shall wait with the rest of the world to learn my purposes. You may tell John all you have seen and heard. I care not how quickly you do it." Then with a sigh: "I pray God it may be very soon. He will wish for no explanation, and he shall one day have in me a rich reward for his faith."

"Do you trust him as he trusts you?" I asked, "and would you demand an explanation were he to act toward Mary Stuart as you have acted toward Leicester?"

"He could not act toward her as I did toward Lord Leicester," she said thoughtfully. Then after a moment she laughingly continued: "John can't—he can't hang his head and—droop his eyes and look."

"But if—" I began.

"I want no more of your hellish 'ifs,'" cried the girl in sudden fury. "If John were to—to look at that Scottish mongrel as I looked at Leicester, I would—I would kill the royal wanton. I would kill her if it cost my life. Now, for God's sake, leave me. You see the state into which you have wrought me." I left Madge with Dorothy and walked out upon Bowling Green to ponder on the events that were passing before me.

From the time we learned that John had gone to fetch the Scottish queen I had fears lest Dorothy's inflammable jealousy might cause trouble, and now those fears were rapidly transforming themselves into a feeling of certainty. There is nothing in life so sweet and so dangerous as the love of a hot-blooded woman.

I soon saw Dorothy again. "Tell me," said I, in conciliation, "tell me, please, what is your reason for acting as you do toward Leicester, and why should you look differently upon similar conduct on John's part?"

"I will not tell you my plans," she responded,—"not now, at least. Perhaps I shall do so when I have recovered from my ill-temper. It is hard for me to give my reasons for feeling differently about like conduct on John's part. Perhaps I feel as I do because—because—It is this way: While I might do little things—mere nothings—such as I have done—it would be impossible for me to do any act of unfaithfulness to John. Oh, it could not be. But with him, he—he—well, he is a man and—and—oh, don't talk to me! Don't talk to me! You are driving me mad. Out of my sight! Out of my room! Holy Virgin! I shall die before I have him; I know I shall."

There it was again. The thought of Mary Stuart drove her wild. Dorothy threw herself on her face upon the bed, and Madge went over and sat by her side to soothe her. I, with a feeling of guilt, so adroit had been Dorothy's defence, left the girls and went to my room in the tower to unravel, by the help of my pipe, the tangled web of woman's incomprehensibility. I failed, as many another man had failed before me, and as men will continue to fail to the end of time.



CHAPTER XIV

MARY STUART

And now I come to an event in this history which I find difficult to place before you in its true light. For Dorothy's sake I wish I might omit it altogether. But in true justice to her and for the purpose of making you see clearly the enormity of her fault and the palliating excuses therefor, if any there were, I shall pause briefly to show the condition of affairs at the time of which I am about to write—a time when Dorothy's madness brought us to the most terrible straits and plunged us into deepest tribulations.

Although I have been unable to show you as much of John as I have wished you to see, you nevertheless must know that he, whose nature was not like the shallow brook but was rather of the quality of a deep, slow-moving river, had caught from Dorothy an infection of love from which he would never recover. His soul was steeped in the delicious essence of the girl. I would also call your attention to the conditions under which his passion for Dorothy had arisen. It is true he received the shaft when first he saw her at the Royal Arms in Derby-town, but the shaft had come from Dorothy's eyes. Afterward she certainly had done her full part in the wooing. It was for her sake, after she had drawn him on to love her, that he became a servant in Haddon Hall. For her sake he faced death at the hands of her father. And it was through her mad fault that the evil came upon him of which I shall now tell you. That she paid for her fault in suffering does not excuse her, since pain is but the latter half of evil.

During the term of Elizabeth's residence in Haddon Hall John returned to Rutland with Queen Mary Stuart, whose escape from Lochleven had excited all England. The country was full of rumors that Mary was coming to England not so much for sanctuary as to be on the ground ready to accept the English crown when her opportunity to do so should occur. The Catholics, a large and powerful party, flushed with their triumphs under the "Bloody Queen," were believed to sympathize with Mary's cause. Although Elizabeth said little on the subject, she felt deeply, and she feared trouble should the Scottish queen enter her dominion. Another cause of annoyance to Elizabeth was the memory that Leicester had once been deeply impressed with Mary's charms, and had sought her hand in marriage. Elizabeth's prohibition alone had prevented the match. That thought rankled in Elizabeth's heart, and she hated Mary, although her hatred, as in all other cases, was tempered with justice and mercy. This great queen had the brain of a man with its motives, and the heart of a woman with its emotions.

When news of Mary's escape reached London, Cecil came in great haste to Haddon. During a consultation with Elizabeth he advised her to seize Mary, should she enter England, and to check the plots made in Mary's behalf by executing the principal friends of the Scottish queen. He insistently demanded that Elizabeth should keep Mary under lock and key, should she be so fortunate as to obtain possession of her person, and that the men who were instrumental in bringing her into England should be arraigned for high treason.

John certainly had been instrumental in bringing her into England, and if Cecil's advice were taken by the queen, John's head would pay the forfeit for his chivalric help to Mary.

Elizabeth was loath to act on this advice, but Cecil worked upon her fears and jealousies until her mind and her heart were in accord, and she gave secret orders that his advice should be carried out. Troops were sent to the Scottish border to watch for the coming of the fugitive queen. But Mary was already ensconced, safely, as she thought, in Rutland Castle under the assumed name of Lady Blanche. Her presence at Rutland was, of course, guarded as a great secret.

Dorothy's mind dwelt frequently upon the fact that John and the beautiful young Scottish queen lived under the same roof, for John had written to Dorothy immediately after his return. Nothing so propagates itself as jealousy. There were in Haddon Hall two hearts in which this self-propagating process was rapidly progressing—Elizabeth's and Dorothy's. Each had for the cause of her jealousy the same woman.

One night, soon after Cecil had obtained from Elizabeth the order for Mary's arrest, Dorothy, on retiring to her room at a late hour found Jennie Faxton waiting for her with a precious letter from John. Dorothy drank in the tenderness of John's letter as the thirsty earth absorbs the rain; but her joy was neutralized by frequent references to the woman who she feared might become her rival. One-half of what she feared, she was sure had been accomplished: that is, Mary's half. She knew in her heart that the young queen would certainly grow fond of John. That was a foregone conclusion. No woman could be with him and escape that fate, thought Dorothy. Her hope as to the other half-John's part-rested solely upon her faith in John, which was really great, and her confidence in her own charms and in her own power to hold him, which in truth, and with good reason, was not small, Dorothy went to bed, and Jennie, following her usual custom, when at Haddon, lay upon the floor in the same room. John's letter, with all its tenderness, had thrown Dorothy into an inquisitive frame of mind. After an hour or two of restless tossing upon the bed she fell asleep, but soon after midnight she awakened, and in her drowsy condition the devil himself played upon the strings of her dream-charged imagination. After a time she sprang from the bed, lighted a candle at the rush light, and read John's letter in a tremor of dream-wrought fear. Then she aroused Jennie Faxton and asked:—

"When were you at Rutland?"

"I spent yesterday and to-day there, mistress," answered Jennie.

"Did you see a strange lady?" asked Dorothy.

"Oh, yes, mistress, I did see her three or four times," answered Jennie. "Lady Blanche is her name, and she be a cousin of Sir John's. She do come, they say, from France, and do speak only in the tongue of that country."

"I—I suppose that this—this Lady Blanche and—and Sir John are very good friends? Did you—did you—often see them together?" asked Dorothy. She felt guilty in questioning Jennie for the purpose of spying upon her lover. She knew that John would not pry into her conduct.

"Indeed, yes, mistress," returned Jennie, who admired John greatly from her lowly sphere, and who for her own sake as well as Dorothy's was jealous of Queen Mary. "They do walk together a great deal on the ramparts, and the white snaky lady do look up into Sir John's face like this"—here Jennie assumed a lovelorn expression. "And—and once, mistress, I thought—I thought—"

"Yes, yes, Jesu!" hissed Dorothy, clutching Jennie by the arm, "you thought, you thought. Tell me! Tell me! What in hell's name did you think? Speak quickly, wench."

"I be not sure, mistress, but I thought I saw his arm about her waist one evening on the ramparts. It was dark, and for sure I could not tell, but—"

"God's curse upon the white huzzy!" screamed Dorothy. "God's curse upon her! She is stealing him from me, and I am helpless."

She clasped her hands over the top of her head and ran to and fro across the room uttering inarticulate cries of agony. Then she sat upon the bedside and threw herself into Madge's arms, crying under her breath: "My God! My God! Think of it, Madge. I have given him my heart, my soul, O merciful God, my love—all that I have worth giving, and now comes this white wretch, and because she is a queen and was sired in hell she tries to steal him from me and coaxes him to put his arm around her waist."

"Don't feel that way about it, Dorothy," said Madge, soothingly. "I know Sir John can explain it all to you when you see him. He is true to you, I am sure."

"True to me, Madge! How can he be true to me if she coaxes him to woo her and if he puts his arm—I am losing him; I know it. I—I—O God, Madge, I am smothering; I am strangling! Holy Virgin! I believe I am about to die." She threw herself upon the bed by Madge's side, clutching her throat and breast, and her grand woman's form tossed and struggled as if she were in convulsions.

"Holy mother!" she cried, "take this frightful agony from my breast. Snatch this terrible love from my heart. God! If you have pity, give it now. Help me! Help me! Ah, how deeply I love. I never loved him so much as I do at this awful moment. Save me from doing that which is in my heart. If I could have him for only one little portion of a minute. But that is denied me whose right it is, and is given to her who has no right. Ah, God is not just. If he were he would strike her dead. I hate her and I hate—hate him."

She arose to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed and held out her arms toward Madge.

"Madge," she continued, frenzied by the thought, "his arm was around her waist. That was early in the evening. Holy Virgin! What may be happening now?"

Dorothy sprang from the bed and staggered about the room with her hands upon her throbbing temples.

"I cannot bear this agony. God give me strength." Soon she began to gasp for breath. "I can—see—them now—together, together. I hate her; I hate him. My love has turned bitter. What can I do? What can I do? I will do it. I will. I will disturb their sweet rest. If I cannot have him, she shall not. I'll tell the queen, I'll tell the queen."

Dorothy acted on her resolution the moment it was taken, and at once began to unbolt the door.

"Stay, Dorothy, stay!" cried Madge. "Think on what you are about to do. It will cost John his life. Come to me for one moment, Dorothy, I pray you." Madge arose from the bed and began groping her way toward Dorothy, who was unbolting the door.

Madge could have calmed the tempest-tossed sea as easily as she could have induced Dorothy to pause in her mad frenzy. Jennie Faxton, almost paralyzed by fear of the storm she had raised, stood in the corner of the room trembling and speechless. Dorothy was out of the room before poor blind Madge could reach her. The frenzied girl was dressed only in her night robes and her glorious hair hung dishevelled down to her waist. She ran through the rooms of Lady Crawford and those occupied by her father and the retainers. Then she sped down the long gallery and up the steps to Elizabeth's apartment.

She knocked violently at the queen's door.

"Who comes?" demanded one of her Majesty's ladies.

"I, Dorothy," was the response. "I wish to speak to her Majesty at once upon a matter of great importance to her."

Elizabeth ordered her ladies to admit Dorothy, and the girl ran to the queen, who had half arisen in her bed.

"You must have affairs of great moment, indeed," cried Elizabeth, testily, "if they induce you to disturb me in this manner."

"Of great moment, indeed, your Majesty," replied Dorothy, endeavoring to be calm, "of moment to you and to me. Mary Stuart is in England at this instant trying to steal your crown and my lover. She is now sleeping within five leagues of this place. God only knows what she is doing. Let us waste no time, your Majesty."

The girl was growing wilder every second.

"Let us go—you and I—and seize this wanton creature. You to save your crown; I to save my lover and—my life."

"Where is she?" demanded Elizabeth, sharply. "Cease prattling about your lover. She would steal both my lover and my crown if she could. Where is she?"

"She is at Rutland Castle, your Majesty," answered Dorothy.

"Ah, the Duke of Rutland and his son John," said Elizabeth. "I have been warned of them. Send for my Lord Cecil and Sir William St. Loe."

Sir William was in command of the yeoman guards.

"Is Sir John Manners your lover?" asked Elizabeth, turning to Dorothy.

"Yes," answered the girl.

"You may soon seek another," replied the queen, significantly.

Her Majesty's words seemed to awaken Dorothy from her stupor of frenzy, and she foresaw the result of her act. Then came upon her a reaction worse than death.

"You may depart," said the queen to Dorothy, and the girl went back to her room hardly conscious that she was moving.

At times we cannot help feeling that love came to the human breast through a drop of venom shot from the serpent's tongue into the heart of Eve. Again we believe it to be a spark from God's own soul. Who will solve me this riddle?

Soon the hard, cold ringing of arms, and the tramp of mailed feet resounded through Haddon Hall, and the doom-like din reached Dorothy's room in the tones of a clanging knell. There seemed to be a frightful rhythm in the chaos of sounds which repeated over and over again the words: "John will die, John will die," though the full import of her act and its results did nor for a little time entirely penetrate her consciousness. She remembered the queen's words, "You may soon seek another." Elizabeth plainly meant that John was a traitor, and that John would die for his treason. The clanking words, "John will die, John will die," bore upon the girl's ears in ever increasing volume until the agony she suffered deadened her power to think. She wandered aimlessly about the room, trying to collect her senses, but her mind was a blank. After a few minutes she ran back to the queen, having an undefined purpose of doing something to avert the consequences of her mad act. She at first thought to tell the queen that the Information she had given concerning Mary Stuart's presence in Rutland was false, but she well knew that a lie seldom succeeds; and in this case, even through her clouded mentality, she could see that a lie would surely fail. She determined to beg the queen to spare John's life. She did not know exactly what she would do, but she hoped by the time she should reach the queen's room to hit upon some plan that would save him. When she knocked at Elizabeth's door it was locked against her. Her Majesty was in consultation with Cecil, Sir William St. Loe, and a few other gentlemen, among whom was Sir George Vernon.

Dorothy well knew there was no help for John if her father were of the queen's council. She insisted upon seeing the queen, but was rudely repulsed. By the time she again reached her room full consciousness had returned, and agony such as she had never before dreamed of overwhelmed her soul. Many of us have felt the same sort of pain when awakened suddenly to the fact that words we have spoken easily may not, by our utmost efforts, be recalled, though we would gladly give our life itself to have them back. If suffering can atone for sin, Dorothy bought her indulgence within one hour after sinning. But suffering cannot atone for sin; it is only a part of it—the result.

"Arise, Madge, and dress," said Dorothy, gently. "I have made a terrible mistake. I have committed a frightful crime. I have betrayed John to death. Ah, help me, Madge, if you can. Pray God to help me. He will listen to you. I fear to pray to Him. He would turn my prayers to curses. I am lost." She fell for a moment upon the bed and placed her head on Madge's breast murmuring, "If I could but die."

"All may turn out better than it now appears," said Madge. "Quiet yourself and let us consider what may be done to arrest the evil of your—your act."

"Nothing can be done, nothing," wailed Dorothy, as she arose from the bed and began to dress. "Please arise, Madge, and dress yourself. Here are your garments and your gown."

They hastily dressed without speaking, and Dorothy began again to pace the floor.

"He will die hating me," said Dorothy. "If he could live I willingly would give him to the—the Scottish woman. Then I could die and my suffering would cease. I must have been mad when I went to the queen. He trusted me with his honor and his life, and I, traitress that I am, have betrayed both. Ah, well, when he dies I also shall die. There is comfort at least in that thought. How helpless I am."

She could not weep. It seemed as if there were not a tear in her. All was hard, dry, burning agony. She again fell upon the bed and moaned piteously for a little time, wringing her hands and uttering frantic ejaculatory prayers for help.

"My mind seems to have forsaken me," she said hoarsely to Madge. "I cannot think. What noise is that?"

She paused and listened for a moment. Then she went to the north window and opened the casement.

"The yeoman guards from Bakewell are coming," she said. "I recognize them by the light of their flambeaux. They are entering the gate at the dove-cote."

A part of the queen's guard had been quartered in the village of Bakewell.

Dorothy stood at the window for a moment and said: "The other guards are here under our window and are ready to march to Rutland. There is Lord Cecil, and Sir William St. Loe, and Malcolm, and there is my father. Now they are off to meet the other yeomen at the dove-cote. The stable boys are lighting their torches and flambeaux. They are going to murder John, and I have sent them."

Dorothy covered her face with her hands and slowly walked to and fro across the room.

"Call Malcolm," said Madge. "Perhaps he can help us. Lead me to the window, Dorothy, and I will call him." Dorothy led Madge to the window, and above the din of arms I heard her soft voice calling, "Malcolm, Malcolm."

The order to march had been given before Madge called, but I sought Sir William and told him I would return to the Hall to get another sword and would soon overtake him on the road to Rutland.

I then hastened to Dorothy's room. I was ignorant of the means whereby Elizabeth had learned of Mary's presence at Rutland. The queen had told no one how the information reached her. The fact that Mary was in England was all sufficient for Cecil, and he proceeded to execute the order Elizabeth had given for Mary's arrest, without asking or desiring any explanation. I, of course, was in great distress for John's sake, since I knew that he would be attainted of treason. I had sought in vain some plan whereby I might help him, but found none. I, myself, being a Scottish refugee, occupied no safe position, and my slightest act toward helping John or Mary would be construed against me.

When I entered Dorothy's room, she ran to me and said: "Can you help me, Malcolm? Can you help me save him from this terrible evil which I have brought upon him?"

"How did you bring the evil upon him?" I asked, in astonishment. "It was not your fault that he brought Mary Stuart to—"

"No, no," she answered; "but I told the queen she was at Rutland."

"You told the queen?" I exclaimed, unwilling to believe my ears. "You told—How—why—why did you tell her?"

"I do not know why I told her," she replied. "I was mad with—with jealousy. You warned me against it, but I did not heed you. Jennie Faxton told me that she saw John and—but all that does not matter now. I will tell you hereafter if I live. What we must now do is to save him—to save him if we can. Try to devise some plan. Think—think, Malcolm."

My first thought was to ride to Rutland Castle and give the alarm. Sir George would lead the yeomen thither by the shortest route—the road by way of Rowsley. There was another route leading up the Lathkil through the dale, and thence by a road turning southward to Rutland. That road was longer by a league than the one Sir George would take, but I could put my horse to his greatest speed, and I might be able to reach the castle in time to enable John and Mary to escape. I considered the question a moment. My own life certainly would pay the forfeit in case of failure; but my love for John and, I confess it with shame, the memory of my old tenderness for Mary impelled me to take the risk. I explained the plan upon which I was thinking, and told them of my determination. When I did so, Madge grasped me by the arm to detain me, and Dorothy fell upon her knees and kissed my hand.

I said, "I must start at once; for, ride as I may, I fear the yeomen will reach Rutland gates before I can get there."

"But If the guards should be at the gates when you arrive, or if you should be missed by Cecil, you, a Scottish refugee and a friend of Queen Mary, would be suspected of treason, and you would lose your life," said Madge, who was filled with alarm for my sake.

"That is true," I replied; "but I can think of no other way whereby John can possibly be saved."

Dorothy stood for a moment in deep thought, and said:—

"I will ride to Rutland by way of Lathkil Dale—I will ride in place of you, Malcolm. It is my duty and my privilege to do this if I can."

I saw the truth of her words, and felt that since Dorothy had wrought the evil, it was clearly her duty to remedy it if she could. If she should fail, no evil consequences would fall upon her. If I should fail, it would cost me my life; and while I desired to save John, still I wished to save myself. Though my conduct may not have been chivalric, still I was willing that Dorothy should go in my place, and I told her so. I offered to ride with her as far as a certain cross-road a league distant from Rutland Castle. There I would leave her, and go across the country to meet the yeomen on the road they had taken. I could join them before they reached Rutland, and my absence during the earlier portion of the march would not be remarked, or if noticed it could easily be explained.

This plan was agreed upon, and after the guards had passed out at Dove-cote Gate and were well down toward Rowsley, I rode out from the Hall, and waited for Dorothy at an appointed spot near Overhaddon.

Immediately after my departure Dolcy was saddled, and soon Dorothy rode furiously up to me. Away we sped, Dorothy and I, by Yulegrave church, down into the dale, and up the river. Never shall I forget that mad ride. Heavy rains had recently fallen, and the road in places was almost impassable. The rivers were in flood, but when Dorothy and I reached the ford, the girl did not stop to consider the danger ahead of her. I heard her whisper, "On, Dolcy, on," and I heard the sharp "whisp" of the whip as she struck the trembling, fearful mare, and urged her into the dark flood. Dolcy hesitated, but Dorothy struck her again and again with the whip and softly cried, "On, Dolcy, on." Then mare and rider plunged into the swollen river, and I, of course, followed them. The water was so deep that our horses were compelled to swim, and when we reached the opposite side of the river we had drifted with the current a distance of at least three hundred yards below the road. We climbed the cliff by a sheep path. How Dorothy did it I do not know; and how I succeeded in following her I know even less. When we reached the top of the cliff, Dorothy started off at full gallop, leading the way, and again I followed. The sheep path leading up the river to the road followed close the edge of the cliff, where a false step by the horse would mean death to both horse and rider. But Dorothy feared not, or knew not, the danger, and I caught her ever whispered cry,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, on." Ashamed to fall behind, yet fearing to ride at such a pace on such a path, I urged my horse forward. He was a fine, strong, mettlesome brute, and I succeeded in keeping the girl's dim form in sight. The moon, which was rapidly sinking westward, still gave us light through rifts in the black bank of floating clouds, else that ride over the sheep path by the cliff would have been our last journey in the flesh.

Soon we reached the main road turning southward. It was a series of rough rocks and mudholes, and Dorothy and Dolcy shot forward upon it with the speed of the tempest, to undo, if possible, the evil which a dozen words, untimely spoken, had wrought. I urged my horse until his head was close by Dolcy's tail, and ever and anon could I hear the whispered cry,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy, sweet Dolcy, good Dolcy; on, my pet, on."

No word was spoken between Dorothy and me; but I could hear Dolcy panting with her mighty effort, and amid the noise of splashing water and the thud, thud, thud of our horses' hoofs came always back to me from Dorothy's lips the sad, sad cry, full of agony and longing,—"On, Dolcy, on; on Dolcy, on."

The road we took led us over steep hills and down through dark, shadow-crowded ravines; but up hill, down hill, and on the level the terrible girl before me plunged forward with unabated headlong fury until I thought surely the flesh of horse, man, and woman could endure the strain not one moment longer. But the horses, the woman, and—though I say it who should not—the man were of God's best handiwork, and the cords of our lives did not snap. One thought, and only one, held possession of the girl, and the matter of her own life or death had no place in her mind.

When we reached the cross-road where I was to leave her, we halted while I instructed Dorothy concerning the road she should follow from that point to Rutland, and directed her how to proceed when she should arrive at the castle gate. She eagerly listened for a moment or two, then grew impatient, and told me to hasten in my speech, since there was no time to lose. Then she fearlessly dashed away alone into the black night; and as I watched her fair form fade into the shadows, the haunting cry came faintly back to me,—"On, Dolcy, on; on, Dolcy on," and I was sick at heart. I was loath to leave her thus in the inky gloom. The moon had sunk for the night, and the clouds had banked up without a rift against the hidden stars; but I could give her no further help, and my life would pay the forfeit should I accompany her. She had brought the evil upon herself. She was the iron, the seed, the cloud, and the rain. She was fulfilling her destiny. She was doing that which she must do: nothing more, nothing less. She was filling her little niche in the universal moment. She was a part of the infinite kaleidoscope—a fate-charged, fate-moved, fragile piece of glass which might be crushed to atoms in the twinkling of an eye, in the sounding of a trump.

After leaving Dorothy I rode across the country and soon overtook the yeoman guard whom I joined unobserved. Then I marched with them, all too rapidly to suit me, to Rutland. The little army had travelled with greater speed than I had expected, and I soon began to fear that Dorothy would not reach Rutland Castle in time to enable its inmates to escape.

Within half an hour from the time I joined the yeomen we saw the dim outlines of the castle, and Sir William St. Loe gave the command to hurry forward. Cecil, Sir William, Sir George, and myself rode in advance of the column. As we approached the castle by the road leading directly to the gate from the north, I saw for a moment upon the top of the hill west of the castle gate the forms of Dorothy and Dolcy in dim silhouette against the sky. Then I saw them plunge madly down the hill toward the gate. I fancied I could hear the girl whispering in frenzied hoarseness,—"On, Dolcy, on," and I thought I could catch the panting of the mare. At the foot of the hill, less than one hundred yards from the gate, poor Dolcy, unable to take another step, dropped to the ground. Dolcy had gone on to her death. She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at her post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare's head, and a cry of alarm came from my lips despite me. I was sure the girl had been killed. She, however, instantly sprang to her feet. Her hair was flying behind her and she ran toward the gate crying: "John, John, fly for your life!" And then she fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.

We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward the gates and fall before reaching them. Cecil and Sir William rode to the spot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.

In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:—

"The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy."

"What in hell's name brings her here?" cried Sir George, hurriedly riding forward, "and how came she?"

I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears. I cannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the end of my days. Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and blood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff. Her hair had fallen from its fastenings. She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in shreds and covered with mud. I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet and supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her temple.

"Poor Dolcy," she said, almost incoherently, "I have killed her and I have failed—I have failed. Now I am ready to die. Would that I had died with Dolcy. Let me lie down here, Malcolm,—let me lie down."

I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.

"Why are you here?" demanded Sir George.

"To die," responded Dorothy.

"To die? Damned nonsense!" returned her father.

"How came you here, you fool?"

"On Dolcy. She is dead," returned Dorothy.

"Were you not at Haddon when we left there?" asked her father.

"Yes," she replied.

"Did you pass us on the road?" he asked.

"How came you here?" Sir George insisted.

"Oh, I flew hither. I am a witch. Don't question me, father. I am in no temper to listen to you. I warn you once and for all, keep away from me; beware of me. I have a dagger in my bosom. Go and do the work you came to do; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own life, and my blood shall be upon your soul."

"My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?" asked Sir George, touched with fear by the strength of his daughter's threat. "Has she lost her wits?"

"No," the girl quickly responded, "I have only just found them."

Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further response from her. She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly toward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration. She leaned against me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and trembled as if with a palsy.

Cecil and Sir William St. Loe then went toward the gate, and Sir George said to me:—

"I must go with them. You remain with Doll, and see that she is taken home. Procure a horse for her. If she is unable to ride, make a litter, or perhaps there is a coach in the castle; if so, take possession of it. Take her home by some means when we return. What, think you, could have brought her here?"

I evaded the question by replying, "I will probably be able to get a coach in the castle, Sir George. Leave Dorothy with me."

Soon, by the command of Sir William, the yeomen rode to the right and to the left for the purpose of surrounding the castle, and then I heard Cecil at the gates demanding:—

"Open in the name of the queen."

"Let us go to the gates," said Dorothy, "that we may hear what they say and see what they do. Will they kill him here, think you?" she asked, looking wildly into my face.

The flambeaux on the castle gate and those which the link-boys had brought with them from Haddon were lighted, and the scene in front of the gate was all aglow.

"No, no, my sweet one," I answered, "perhaps they will not kill him at all. Certainly they will not kill him now. They must try him first."

I tried to dissuade her from going to the gates, but she insisted, and I helped her to walk forward.

When Dorothy and I reached the gates, we found that Cecil and Lord Rutland were holding a consultation through the parley-window. The portcullis was still down, and the gates were closed; but soon the portcullis was raised, a postern was opened from within, and Sir William entered the castle with two score of the yeomen guards.

Sir George approached and again plied Dorothy with questions, but she would not speak. One would have thought from her attitude that she was deaf and dumb. She seemed unconscious of her father's presence.

"She has lost her mind," said Sir George, in tones of deep trouble, "and I know not what to do."

"Leave her with me for a time, cousin. I am sure she will be better if we do not question her now."

Then Dorothy seemed to awaken. "Malcolm is right, father. Leave me for a time, I pray you."

Sir George left us, and waited with a party of yeomen a short distance from the gate for the return of Sir William with his prisoners.

Dorothy and I sat upon a stone bench, near the postern through which Sir William and the guardsmen had entered, but neither of us spoke.

After a long, weary time of waiting Sir William came out of the castle through the postern, and with him came Mary Stuart. My heart jumped when I saw her in the glare of the flambeaux, and the spirit of my dead love for her came begging admission to my heart. I cannot describe my sensations when I beheld her, but this I knew, that my love for her was dead past resurrection.

Following Mary came Lord Rutland, and immediately following his Lordship walked John. When he stepped through the postern, Dorothy sprang to her feet and ran to him with a cry, "John, John!"

He looked at her in surprise, and stepped toward her with evident intent to embrace her. His act was probably the result of an involuntary impulse, for he stopped before he reached the girl.



Sir George had gone at Sir William's request to arrange the guards for the return march.

Dorothy and John were standing within two yards of each other.

"Do not touch me," cried Dorothy, "save to strike me If you will. The evil which has come upon you is of my doing. I betrayed you to the queen."

I saw Mary turn quickly toward the girl when she uttered those words.

"I was insane when I did it," continued Dorothy. "They will take your life, John. But when you die I also shall die. It is a poor reparation, I know, but it is the only one I can make."

"I do not understand you, Dorothy," said John. "Why should you betray me?"

"I cannot tell you," she answered. "All I know is that I did betray you and I hardly know how I did it. It all seems like a dream—like a fearful monster of the night. There is no need for me to explain. I betrayed you and now I suffer for it, more a thousand-fold than you can possibly suffer. I offer no excuse. I have none. I simply betrayed you, and ask only that I may die with you."

Then was manifest in John's heart the noblest quality which God has given to man-charity, strengthened by reason. His face glowed with a light that seemed saintlike, and a grand look of ineffable love and pity came to his eyes. He seemed as if by inspiration to understand all that Dorothy had felt and done, and he knew that if she had betrayed him she had done it at a time when she was not responsible for her acts. He stepped quickly to the girl's side, and caring naught that we all should see him, caught her to his breast. He held her in his arms, and the light of the flambeaux fell upon her upturned face.

"Dorothy," he said, "it matters not what you have done; you are my only love. I ask no explanation. If you have betrayed me to death, though I hope it will not come to that evil, you did not do it because you did not love me."

"No, no, John, you know that," sobbed the girl.

"I do know it, Dorothy; I know all that I wish to know. You would not intentionally bring evil upon me while you love me."

"Ah, that I do, John; only God knows how deeply, how desperately. My love was the cause—my love was my curse—it was your curse."

"Do not weep, Dorothy," said John, interrupting her. "I would that I could take all your suffering upon myself. Do not weep."

Dorothy buried her face upon his breast and tears came to her relief. She was not alone in her weeping, for there stood I like a very woman, and by my side stood rough old Sir William. Tears were coursing down the bronzed cheek of the grand old warrior like drops of glistening dew upon the harrowed face of a mountain rock. When I saw Sir William's tears, I could no longer restrain my emotions, and I frankly tell you that I made a spectacle of myself in full view of the queen's yeoman guard.

Sir George approached our little group, and when he saw Dorothy in John's arms, he broke forth into oaths and stepped toward her intending to force her away. But John held up the palm of his free hand warningly toward Sir George, and drawing the girl's drooping form close to his breast he spoke calmly:—

"Old man, if you but lay a finger on this girl, I will kill you where you stand. No power on earth can save you."

There was a tone in John's voice that forced even Sir George to pause. Then Sir George turned to me.

"This is the man who was in my house. He is the man who called himself Thomas. Do you know him?"

Dorothy saved me from the humiliation of an answer.

She took one step from John's side and held him by the hand while she spoke.

"Father," she said, "this man is Sir John Manners. Now you may understand why he could not seek my hand openly, and you also know why I could not tell you his name." She again turned to John, and he put his arm about her. You can imagine much better that I can describe Sir George's fury. He snatched a halberd from the hands of a yeoman who was standing near by and started toward John and Dorothy. Thereupon the hard old warrior, Sir William St. Loe, whose heart one would surely say was the last place where sentiment could dwell, performed a little act of virtue which will balance many a page on the debtor side of his ledger of life, he lifted his sword and scabbard and struck Sir George's outstretched hand, causing the halberd to fall to the ground.

"Don't touch the girl," cried Sir William, hoarsely.

"She is my daughter," retorted Sir George, who was stunned mentally as well as physically by Sir William's blow.

"I care not whose daughter she is," returned Sir William. "You shall not touch her. If you make but one other attempt, I will use my blade upon you."

Sir William and John had been warm friends at London court, and the old captain of the guards quickly guessed the true situation when he saw Dorothy run to John's arms.

"Sir, you shall answer for this," said Sir George, angrily, to Sir William.

"With pleasure," returned Sir William. "I will give you satisfaction whenever you wish it, save this present time. I am too busy now."

Blessed old Sir William! You have been dead these many winters; and were I a priest, I would say a mass for your soul gratis every day in the year.

"Did the girl betray us?" asked Queen Mary.

No one answered her question. Then she turned toward Sir John and touched him upon the shoulder. He turned his face toward her, signifying that he was listening.

"Who is this girl?" Mary demanded.

"My sweetheart, my affianced wife," John answered.

"She says she betrayed us," the queen responded.

"Yes," said John.

"Did you trust her with knowledge of our presence in Rutland?" Mary demanded angrily.

"I did," he answered.

"You were a fool," said Mary.

"I know it," responded John.

"You certainly bear her no resentment for her treason," said Mary.

"I certainly do not," quietly answered John. "Her suffering is greater than mine. Can you not see that it is?"

"It is your privilege," said Mary, scornfully, "to intrust your own secrets to whomsoever you may choose for your confidant, and it is quite saintlike in you to forgive this person for betraying you; but what think you of the hard case in which her treason and your folly have placed me?"

"That is my greatest grief, save for Dorothy," answered John, softly. Lived there ever a man possessed of broader charity or deeper love than John? God surely made him of gold dust, not of common clay.

Queen Mary stepped away from John in disgust, and when she turned she saw me for the first time. She started and was about to speak, but I placed my fingers warningly upon my lips and she remained silent.

"Where do you take us, Sir William?" asked John.

"To Haddon Hall. There you will await the commands of the queen."

"How came you here?" John asked gently of Dorothy.

"I rode Dolcy," she whispered. "She dropped dead at the foot of the hill. Yonder she lies. I came up the Lathkil by the long road, and I hoped that I might reach you in time to give warning. When the guard left Haddon I realized the evil that would come upon you by reason of my base betrayal." Here she broke down and for a moment could not proceed in the narrative. She soon recovered and continued: "Then I mounted Dolcy, and tried to reach here by way of the long road. Poor Dolcy seemed to understand my trouble and my despair, and she brought me with all the speed that a horse could make; but the road was too long and too rough; and she failed, and I failed. Would that I could have died in her place. She gave her life in trying to remedy my fault."

Dorothy again began to weep, and John tenderly whispered:—

"All will yet come right" Then he kissed her before us all, and handed her to me saying, "Care for her, I pray you, sir."

John spoke a few words to Sir William, and in a moment they both went back to the castle.

In a short time the gates were opened, and the Rutland coach drawn by four horses emerged from the castle grounds. Sir William then directed Mary and Dorothy to enter the coach and requested me to ride with them to Haddon Hall.

The yeoman guards were in marching order, and I took my seat in the coach. The fates surely were in a humorous mood when they threw Dorothy, Queen Mary, and myself together. Pause for a moment and consider the situation. You know all the facts and you can analyze it as well as I. I could not help laughing at the fantastic trick of destiny.

Soon after I entered the coach Sir William gave the word, and the yeomen with Lord Rutland and John moved forward on the road to Haddon.

The coach at once followed the guard and a score of yeomen followed us.

Queen Mary occupied the back seat of the coach, and Dorothy and I sat upon the front seat facing her.

Dorothy was exhausted, and her head lay upon my shoulder. Now and again she would softly moan and sob, but she said nothing. After a few minutes of silence Queen Mary spoke:—

"Why did you betray me, you miserable wretch? Why did you betray me?"

Dorothy did not answer. Mary continued:—

"Have I ever injured you in any manner? Have I ever harmed you by thought, word, or deed?"

Dorothy's only answer was a sob.

"Perhaps you are a canting fanatic, and it may be that you hate me for the sake of that which you call the love of God?"

"No, no, madam," I said, "that was not the reason."

"Do you know the reason, Malcolm?" asked Mary, addressing me for the first time. My name upon her lips had a strange effect on me. It was like the wafting to my nostrils of a sweet forgotten odor, or the falling upon my ears of a tender refrain of bygone days. Her voice in uttering my name thrilled me, and I hated myself for my weakness.

I told Mary that I did not know Dorothy's reasons, and she continued:—

"Malcolm, you were not a party to my betrayal for the sake of revenging yourself on me?"

"God forbid!" I answered. "Sir John Manners will assure you of my innocence. I rode with Mistress Vernon to a cross-road within a league of Rutland, hoping thereby to assist her to give you and Sir John the alarm."

My admission soon brought me into trouble.

"I alone am to blame," said Dorothy, faintly.

"I can easily believe you," said Mary, sharply. "Did you expect to injure me?"

No answer came from Dorothy.

"If you expect to injure me," Mary continued, "you will be disappointed. I am a queen, and my Cousin Elizabeth would not dare to harm me, even though she might wish to do so. We are of the same blood, and she will not wish to do me injury. Your doting lover will probably lose his head for bringing me to England without his queen's consent. He is her subject. I am not. I wish you joy of the trouble you have brought upon him and upon yourself."

"Upon him!" cried Dorothy.

"Yes, upon him," continued Mary, relishing the torture she was inflicting. "You will enjoy seeing him beheaded, will you not, you fool, you huzzy, you wretch? I hope his death will haunt you till the end of your days."

Poor Dorothy, leaning against me, said faintly:—

"It will—it will. You—you devil."

The girl was almost dead from exhaustion and anguish, but she would have been dead indeed had she lacked the power to strike back. I believe had it not been for Dorothy's physical weakness she would have silenced Mary with her hands.

After a little time Dorothy's heavy breathing indicated that she had fallen asleep. Her head rested upon my shoulder, and the delicious perfume of her hair and the sweet warm breath from her lips were almost intoxicating even to me, though I was not in love with her. How great must their effect have been coming upon John hot from her intense young soul!

As the link-boys passed the coach some and some with their flambeaux I could see Dorothy's sweet pale face, almost hidden in the tangled golden red hair which fell in floods about her. The perfect oval of her cheek, the long wet lashes, the arched eyebrows, the low broad forehead, the straight nose, the saucy chin—all presented a picture of beauty and pathos sufficient to soften a heart of stone. Mary had no heart of any sort, therefore she was not moved to pity. That emotion, I am sure, she never felt from the first to the last day of her life. She continued to probe Dorothy's wound until I told her the girl was asleep. I changed Dorothy's position and placed her head against the corner cushion of the coach that she might rest more comfortably. She did not awaken when I moved her. She slept and looked like a child. For a little time after I had changed Dorothy's position Mary and I sat in silence. She was the first to speak. She leaned forward and placing her hands upon mine, whispered my name:—

"Malcolm!"

After a brief silence I said:—

"What would you, your Majesty?"

"Not 'your Majesty'" said Mary, softly, "but Mary, as of old."

She remained for a moment with her hand upon my knee, and then whispered:—

"Will you not sit by me, Malcolm?"

I believe that Mary Stuart's voice was the charm wherewith she fascinated men. I resisted to my utmost strength, but that seemed to be little more than utter weakness; so I took a seat by her side, and she gently placed her hand in mine. The warm touch of her strong, delicate fingers gave me a familiar thrill. She asked me to tell her of my wanderings since I had left Scotland, and I briefly related all my adventures. I told her of my home at Haddon Hall and of the welcome given me by my cousin, Sir George.

"Malcolm, have you forgotten?" she whispered, leaning gently against me. "Have you forgotten our old-time vows and love? Have you forgotten all that passed between us in the dear old chateau, when I gave to you my virgin love, fresh from my virgin heart?" I sighed and tried to harden my heart to her blandishments, for I knew she wished to use me and was tempting me to that end. She continued, "I was then only fourteen years old—ten years ago. You said that you loved me and I believed you. You could not doubt, after the proof I gave to you, that my heart was all yours. We were happy, oh, so happy. Do you remember, Malcolm?"

She brought her face close to mine while she spoke, and pressed my hand upon her breast.

My reason told me that it was but the song of the siren she was singing to my ears. My memory told me that she had been false to me twice two score times, and I knew full well she would again be false to me, or to any other man whom she could use for her purposes, and that she cared not the price at which she purchased him. Bear in mind, you who would blame me for my fall, that this woman not only was transcendently beautiful and fatally fascinating, but she was a queen and had held undisputed sway over my heart for more years than I could accurately number. As I said, added to all her beauty, she was a queen. If you have never known royalty, you cannot understand its enthralling power.

"I remember it all, madam," I replied, trying to hold myself away from her. "It is fresh to me as if it all had happened yesterday." The queen drew my arm closely to her side and nestled her cheek for an instant upon my shoulder.