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.