“Fly, madam,” cried George, “fly without loss of a second; for those who are coming upon us are followed by others.  Gain the road, while I go to check them.  And you,” added he, addressing the escort, “be killed to the last man rather than let them take your queen.”

“George!  George!” cried the queen, motionless, and as if riveted to the spot.

But George had already dashed away with all his horse’s speed, and as he was splendidly mounted, he flew across the space with lightning rapidity, and reached the gorge before the enemy.  There he stopped, put his lance in rest, and alone against five bravely awaited the encounter.

As to the queen, she had no desire to go; but, on the contrary, as if turned to stone, she remained in the same place, her eyes fastened on this combat which was taking place at scarcely five hundred paces from her.  Suddenly, glancing at her enemies, she saw that one of them bore in the middle of his shield a bleeding heart, the Douglas arms.  Then she uttered a cry of pain, and drooping her head—­

“Douglas against Douglas; brother against brother!” she murmured:  “it only wanted this last blow.”

“Madam, madam,” cried her escort, “there is not an instant to lose:  the young master of Douglas cannot hold out long thus alone against five; let us fly! let us fly!” And two of them taking the queen’s horse by the bridle, put it to the gallop, at the moment when George, after having beaten down two of his enemies and wounded a third, was thrown down in his turn in the dust, thrust to the heart by a lance-head.  The queen groaned on seeing him fall; then, as if he alone had detained her, and as if he being killed she had no interest in anything else, she put Rosabelle to the gallop, and as she and her troop were splendidly mounted, they had soon lost sight of the battlefield.

She fled thus for sixty miles, without taking any rest, and without ceasing to weep or to sigh:  at last, having traversed the counties of Renfrew and Ayr, she reached the Abbey of Dundrennan, in Galloway, and certain of being, for the time at least, sheltered from every danger, she gave the order to stop.  The prior respectfully received her at the gate of the convent.

“I bring you misfortune and ruin, father,” said the queen, alighting from her horse.

“They are welcome,” replied the prior, “since they come accompanied by duty.”

The queen gave Rosabelle to the care of one of the men-at-arms who had accompanied her, and leaning on Mary Seyton, who had not left her for a moment, and on Lord Herries, who had rejoined her on the road, she entered the convent.

Lord Herries had not concealed her position from Mary Stuart:  the day had been completely lost, and with the day, at least for the present, all hope of reascending the throne of Scotland.  There remained but three courses for the queen to take to withdraw into France, Spain or England.  On the advice of Lord Herries, which accorded with her own feeling, she decided upon the last; and that same night she wrote this double missive in verse and in prose to Elizabeth: