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