There was something perplexing and distressing to Cis in this sudden mood of exultation at such a suitor.  However, Parma’s proposal might mean liberty and a recovered throne, and who could wonder at the joy that even the faintest gleam of light afforded to one whose captivity had lasted longer than Cicely’s young life?—­and then once more there was an alternation of feeling at the last moment, when Cicely, dressed in her best, came to receive instructions.

“I ken not, I ken not,” said Mary, speaking the Scottish tongue, to which she recurred in her moments of deepest feeling, “I ought not to let it go.  I ought to tell the noble Prince to have naught to do with a being like me.  ’Tis not only the jettatura wherewith the Queen Mother used to reproach me.  Men need but bear me good will, and misery overtakes them.  Death is the best that befalls them!  The gentle husband of my girlhood—­then the frantic Chastelar, my poor, poor good Davie, Darnley, Bothwell, Geordie Douglas, young Willie, and again Norfolk, and the noble and knightly Don John!  One spark of love and devotion to the wretched Mary, and all is over with them!  Give me back that paper, child, and warn Babington against ever dreaming of aid to a wretch like me.  I will perish alone!  It is enough!  I will drag down no more generous spirits in the whirlpool around me.”

“Madam! madam!” exclaimed De Preaux the almoner, who was standing, “this is not like your noble self.  Have you endured so much to be fainthearted when the end is near, and you are made a smooth and polished instrument, welded in the fire, for the triumph of the Church over her enemies?”

“Ah, Father!” said the Queen, “how should not my heart fail me when I think of the many high spirits who have fallen for my sake?  Ay, and when I look out on yonder peaceful vales and happy homesteads, and think of them ravaged by those furious Spaniards and Italians, whom my brother of Anjou himself called very fiends!”

“Fiends are the tools of Divine wrath,” returned Preaux.  “Look at the profaned sanctuaries and outraged convents on which these proud English have waxen fat, and say whether a heavy retribution be not due to them.”

“Ah, father!  I may be weak, but I never loved persecution.  King Francis and I were dragged to behold the executions at Amboise.  That was enough for us.  His gentle spirit never recovered it, and I—­I see their contorted visages and forms still in my restless nights; and if the Spanish dogs should deal with England as with Haarlem or Antwerp, and all through me!—­Oh!  I should be happier dying within these walls!”

“Nay, madam, as Queen you would have the reins in your own hand:  you could exercise what wholesome severity or well-tempered leniency you chose,” urged the almoner; “it were ill requiting the favour of the saints who have opened this door to you at last to turn aside now in terror at the phantasy that long weariness of spirit hath conjured up before you.”