The village of Fotheringhay is only nine miles to the west.  The melancholy connection of this little hamlet with the Queen of Scots brings many visitors to it every year, although there are few relics of Mary and her lengthy imprisonment now remaining.  Here we came the next morning after a short time on winding and rather hilly byways.  It is an unimportant looking place, this sleepy little village where three hundred years ago Mary fell a victim to the machinations of her rival, Elizabeth.  The most notable building now standing is the quaint inn where the judges of the unfortunate queen made their headquarters during her farcial trial.  Of the gloomy castle, where the fair prisoner languished for nineteen long years, nothing remains except a shapeless mass of grass covered stone and traces of the old-time moat.  Much of the stone was built into cottages of the surrounding country and in some of the mansions of the neighborhood may be found portions of the windows and a few of the ancient mantel pieces.  The great oak staircase which Mary descended on the day of her execution, is built into an old inn at Oundle, not far away.  Thus the great fortress was scattered to the four winds, but there is something more enduring than stone and mortar,—­its memories linger and will remain so long as the story of English history is told.  King James, by the destruction of the castle, endeavored to show fitting respect to the memory of his mother and no doubt hoped to wipe out the recollection of his friendly relations with Queen Elizabeth after she had caused the death of Mary.

The school children of Fotheringhay seemed quite familiar with its history and on the lookout for strangers who came to the place.  Two or three of them quickly volunteered to conduct us to the site of the castle.  There was nothing to see after we got there, but our small guides were thankful for the fee, which they no doubt had in mind from the first.  Mournful and desolate indeed seemed the straggling little village where three centuries ago “a thousand witcheries lay felled at one stroke,” one of the cruelest and most pitiful of the numberless tragedies which disfigure the history of England.

From Fotheringhay we returned to the York road and followed it northward for about twenty miles.  We passed through Woolsthorpe, an unattractive little town whose distinction is that it was the birthplace of Sir Isaac Newton.  The thatched roof farmhouse where he was born is still standing on the outskirts of the village.  At Grantham, a little farther on, we stopped for lunch at the “Royal and Angel” Hotel, one of the most charming of the old-time inns.  Like nearly all of these old hostelries, it has its tradition of a royal guest, having offered shelter to King Charles I when on his endless wanderings during the Parliamentary wars.  It is a delightful old building, overgrown with ivy, and its diamond-paned lattice windows, set in walls of time-worn stone, give evidence to its claims to antiquity.