if, while explaining my conduct to you, this confession would not have given you greater confidence in me.  Yes, for seven years I have loved you, but as one loves a star that one can never reach, a madonna to whom one can only pray; for seven years I have followed you everywhere without you ever having paid attention to me, without my saying a word or making a gesture to attract your notice.  I was on the knight of Mevillon’s galley when you crossed to Scotland; I was among the regent’s soldiers when you beat Huntly; I was in the escort which accompanied you when you went to see the sick king at Glasgow; I reached Edinburgh an hour after you had left it for Lochleven; and then it seemed to me that my mission was revealed to me for the first time, and that this love for which till then, I had reproached myself as a crime, was on the contrary a favour from God.  I learned that the lords were assembled at Dumbarton:  I flew thither.  I pledged my name, I pledged my honour, I pledged my life; and I obtained from them, thanks to the facility I had for coming into this fortress, the happiness of bringing you the paper they have just signed.  Now, madam, forget all I have told you, except the assurance of my devotion and respect:  forget that I am near you; I am used to not being seen:  only, if you have need of my life, make a sign; for seven years my life has been yours.”

“Alas!” replied Mary, “I was complaining this morning of no longer being loved, and I ought to complain, on the contrary, that I am still loved; for the love that I inspire is fatal and mortal.  Look back, Douglas, and count the tombs that, young as I am, I have already left on my path—­Francis II, Chatelard, Rizzio, Darnley....  Oh to attach one’s self to my fortunes more than love is needed now heroism and devotion are requisite so much the more that, as you have said, Douglas, it is love without any possible reward.  Do you understand?”

“Oh, madam, madam,” answered Douglas, “is it not reward beyond my deserts to see you daily, to cherish the hope that liberty will be restored to you through me, and to have at least, if I do not give it you, the certainty of dying in your sight?”

“Poor young man!” murmured Mary, her eyes raised to heaven, as if she were reading there beforehand the fate awaiting her new defender.

“Happy Douglas, on the contrary,” cried George, seizing the queen’s hand and kissing it with perhaps still more respect than love, “happy Douglas! for in obtaining a sigh from your Majesty he has already obtained more than he hoped.”

“And upon what have you decided with my friends?” said the queen, raising Douglas, who till then had remained on his knees before her.