“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.

“I remember also,” I continued, “your marriage with Darnley when I had your promise that you would marry me; and, shame upon shame, I remember your marriage with Darnley’s murderer, Bothwell.”

“Cruel, cruel, Malcolm,” she said.  “You well know the overpowering reasons of state which impelled me to sacrifice my own happiness by marrying Darnley.  I told you at the time that I hated the marriage more than I dreaded death.  But I longed to quiet the factions in Scotland, and I hoped to save my poor bleeding people from the evils of war.  You know I hated Darnley.  You know I loved you.  You knew then and you know now that you are the only man who has ever possessed my heart.  You know that my words are true.  You know that you, alone, have had my love since the time when I was a child.”

“And Rizzio?” I asked.

“Ah, Malcolm,” she answered tearfully, “I hope you, of all men, do not believe that I ever gave a thought of love to Rizzio.  He was to me like my pet monkey or my favorite falcon.  He was a beautiful, gentle, harmless soul.  I loved him for his music.  He worshipped me as did my spaniel.”

Still I was determined that her blandishments should not move me.

“And Bothwell?” I asked.

“That is past endurance from you, Malcolm,” she said, beginning to weep.  “You know I was brutally abducted and was forced into marriage with him.  He was an outlaw, an outcast.  He was an uncouth brute whom any woman would loathe.  I was in his power, and I feigned acquiescence only that I might escape and achieve vengeance upon him.  Tell me, Malcolm, tell me,” continued Mary, placing her arms about my neck and clinging to me, “tell me, you, to whom I gave my maiden’s love, you who have my woman’s heart, tell me, do you believe that I could willingly have married Bothwell, even though my heart had not been filled with the image of you, who are strong, gentle, and beautiful?”

You, if you are a man, may think that in my place you would have resisted the attack of this beautiful queen, but if so you think—­pardon me, my friend—­you are a fool.  Under the spell of her magic influence I wavered in the conviction which had long since come upon me, that I had for years been her fool and her dupe.  I forgot the former lessons I had learned from her perfidy.  I forgot my manhood.  I forgot all of good that had of late grown up in me.  God help me, I forgot even Madge.

“If I could only believe you, Mary,” I answered, growing insane under the influence of her fascinations, “If I could only believe you.”

“Give me your lips, Malcolm,” she whispered, “give me your lips.—­Again, my Malcolm.—­Ah, now you believe me.”

The lying logic of a wanton kiss is irresistible.  I was drunk and, alas!  I was convinced.  When I think of that time, Samson is my only comfort—­Samson and a few hundred million other fools, who like Samson and me have been wheedled, kissed, and duped into misery and ruin.