University of Virginia Library

Scene II.

Fotheringay.
Sir Amyas Paulet and Sir Drew Drury.
Paulet.
I never gave God heartier thanks than these
I give to have you partner of my charge
Now most of all, these letters being to you
No less designed than me, and you in heart
One with mine own upon them. Certainly,
When I put hand to pen this morning past
That Master Davison by mine evidence
Might note what sore disquietudes I had
To increase my griefs before of body and mind,
I looked for no such word to cut off mine
As these to us both of Walsingham's and his.
Would rather yet I had cause to still complain
Of those unanswered letters two months past
Than thus be certified of such intents
As God best knoweth I never sought to know,
Or search out secret causes: though to hear
Nothing at all did breed, as I confessed,
In me some hard conceits against myself,
I had rather yet rest ignorant than ashamed
Of such ungracious knowledge. This shall be
Fruit as I think of dread wrought on the queen
By those seditious rumours whose report
Blows fear among the people lest our charge
Escape our trust, or as they term it now
Be taken away,—such apprehensive tongues
So phrase it—and her freedom strike men's hearts
More deep than all these flying fears that say
London is fired of Papists, or the Scots
Have crossed in arms the Border, or the north
Is risen again rebellious, or the Guise
Is disembarked in Sussex, or that now
In Milford Haven rides a Spanish fleet—
All which, albeit but footless floating lies,
May all too easily smite and work too far
Even on the heart most royal in the world
That ever was a woman's.

Drury.
Good my friend,
These noises come without a thunderbolt
In such dense air of dusk expectancy
As all this land lies under; nor will some
Doubt or think much to say of those reports
They are broached and vented of men's credulous mouths
Whose ears have caught them from such lips as meant
Merely to strike more terror in the queen
And wring that warrant from her hovering hand
Which falters yet and flutters on her lip
While the hand hangs and trembles half advanced
Upon that sentence which, the treasurer said,
Should well ere this have spoken, seeing it was
More than a full month old and four days more
When he so looked to hear the word of it
Which yet lies sealed of silence.

Paulet.
Will you say,
Or any as wise and loyal, say or think
It was but for a show, to scare men's wits,
They have raised this hue and cry upon her flight
Supposed from hence, to waken Exeter
With noise from Honiton and Sampfield spread
Of proclamation to detain all ships
And lay all highways for her day and night,
And send like precepts out four manner of ways
From town to town, to make in readiness
Their armour and artillery, with all speed,
On pain of death, for London by report
Was set on fire? though, God be therefore praised,
We know this is not, yet the noise hereof
Were surely not to be neglected, seeing
There is, meseems, indeed no readier way
To levy forces for the achieving that
Which so these lewd reporters feign to fear.

Drury.
Why, in such mighty matters and such mists
Wise men may think what hardly fools would say,
And eyes get glimpse of more than sight hath leave
To give commission for the babbling tongue
Aloud to cry they have seen. This noise that was
Upon one Arden's flight, a traitor, whence
Fear flew last week all round us, gave but note
How lightly may men's minds take fire, and words
Take wing that have no feet to fare upon
More solid than a shadow.

Paulet.
Nay, he was
Escaped indeed: and every day thus brings
Forth its new mischief: as this last month did
Those treasons of the French ambassador
Designed against our mistress, which God's grace
Laid by the knave's mean bare to whom they sought
For one to slay her, and of the Pope's hand earn
Ten thousand blood-encrusted crowns a year
To his most hellish hire. You will not say
This too was merely fraud or vision wrought
By fear or cloudy falsehood?

Drury.
I will say
No more or surelier than I know: and this
I know not thoroughly to the core of truth
Or heart of falsehood in it. A man may lie
Merely, or trim some bald lean truth with lies,
Or patch bare falsehood with some tatter of truth,
And each of these pass current: but of these
Which likeliest may this man's tale be who gave
Word of his own temptation by these French
To hire them such a murderer, and avowed
He held it godly cunning to comply
And bring this envoy's secretary to sight
Of one clapped up for debts in Newgate, who
Being thence released might readily, as he said,
Even by such means as once this lady's lord
Was made away with, make the queen away
With powder fired beneath her bed—why, this,
Good sooth, I guess not; but I doubt the man
To be more liar than fool, and yet, God wot,
More fool than traitor; most of all intent
To conjure coin forth of the Frenchman's purse
With tricks of mere effrontery: thus at least
We know did Walsingham esteem of him:
And if by Davison held of more account,
Or merely found more serviceable, and made
A mean to tether up those quick French tongues
From threat or pleading for this prisoner's life,
I cannot tell, and care not. Though the queen
Hath stayed this envoy's secretary from flight
Forth of the kingdom, and committed him
To ward within the Tower while Châteauneuf
Himself should come before a council held
At my lord treasurer's, where being thus accused
At first he cared not to confront the man,
But stood upon his office, and the charge
Of his king's honour and prerogative—
Then bade bring forth the knave, who being brought forth
Outfaced him with insistence front to front
And took the record of this whole tale's truth
Upon his soul's damnation, challenging
The Frenchman's answer in denial hereof,
That of his own mouth had this witness been
Traitorously tempted, and by personal plea
Directly drawn to treason: which awhile
Struck dumb the ambassador as amazed with wrath,
Till presently, the accuser being removed,
He made avowal this fellow some while since
Had given his secretary to wit there lay
One bound in Newgate who being thence released
Would take the queen's death on his hand: whereto
Answering, he bade the knave avoid his house
On pain, if once their ways should cross, to be
Sent bound before the council: who replied
He had done foul wrong to take no further note,
But being made privy to this damned device
Keep close its perilous knowledge; whence the queen
Might well complain against him; and hereon
They fell to wrangling on this cause, that he
Professed himself to no man answerable
For declaration or for secret held
Save his own master: so that now is gone
Sir William Wade to Paris, not with charge
To let the king there know this queen shall live,
But to require the ambassador's recall
And swift delivery of our traitors there
To present justice: yet may no man say,
For all these half-faced scares and policies,
Here was more sooth than seeming.

Paulet.
Why, these crafts
Were shameful then as fear's most shameful self,
If thus your wit read them aright; and we
Should for our souls and lives alike do ill
To jeopard them on such men's surety given
As make no more account of simple faith
Than true men make of liars: and these are they,
Our friends and masters, that rebuke us both
By speech late uttered of her majesty
For lack of zeal in service and of care
She looked for at our hands, in that we have not
In all this time, unprompted, of ourselves
Found out some way to cut this queen's life off,
Seeing how great peril, while her enemy lives,
She is hourly subject unto: saying, she notes,
Besides a kind of lack of love to her,
Herein we have not that particular care
Forsooth of our own safeties, or indeed
Of the faith rather and the general good,
That politic reason bids; especially,
Having so strong a warrant and such ground
For satisfaction of our consciences
To Godward, and discharge of credit kept
And reputation toward the world, as is
That oath whereby we stand associated
To prosecute inexorably to death
Both with our joint and our particular force
All by whose hand and all on whose behalf
Our sovereign's life is struck at: as by proof
Stands charged upon our prisoner. So they write,
As though the queen's own will had warranted
The words that by her will's authority
Were blotted from the bond, whereby that head
Was doomed on whose behoof her life should be
By treason threatened: for she would not have
Aught pass which grieved her subjects' consciences,
She said, or might abide not openly
The whole world's view: nor would she any one
Were punished for another's fault: and so
Cut off the plea whereon she now desires
That we should dip our secret hands in blood
With no direction given of her own mouth
So to pursue that dangerous head to death
By whose assent her life were sought: for this
Stands fixed for only warrant of such deed,
And this we have not, but her word instead
She takes it most unkindly toward herself
That men professing toward her loyally
That love that we do should in any sort,
For lack of our own duty's full discharge,
Cast upon her the burden, knowing as we
Her slowness to shed blood, much more of one
So near herself in blood as is this queen,
And one with her in sex and quality.
And these respects, they find, or so profess,
Do greatly trouble her: who hath sundry times
Protested, they assure us, earnestly,
That if regard of her good subjects' risk
Did not more move her than the personal fear
Of proper peril to her, she never would
Be drawn to assent unto this bloodshedding:
And so to our good judgments they refer
These speeches they thought meet to acquaint us with
As passed but lately from her majesty,
And to God's guard commend us: which God knows
We should much more need than deserve of him
Should we give ear to this, and as they bid
Make heretics of these papers; which three times
You see how Davison hath enforced on us:
But they shall taste no fire for me, nor pass
Back to his hands till copies writ of them
Lie safe in mine for sons of mine to keep
In witness how their father dealt herein.

Drury.
You have done the wiselier: and what word soe'er
Shall bid-them know your mind, I am well assured
It well may speak for me too.

Paulet.
Thus it shall:
That having here his letters in my hands,
I would not fail, according to his charge,
To send back answer with all possible speed
Which shall deliver unto him my great grief
And bitterness of mind, in that I am
So much unhappy as I hold myself
To have lived to look on this unhappy day,
When I by plain direction am required
From my most gracious sovereign's mouth to do
An act which God forbiddeth, and the law.
Hers are my goods and livings, and my life,
Held at her disposition, and myself
Am ready so to lose them this next day
If it shall please her so, acknowledging
I hold them of her mere goodwill, and do not
Desire them to enjoy them but so long
As her great grace gives leave: but God forbid
That I should make for any grace of hers
So foul a shipwreck of my conscience, or
Leave ever to my poor posterity
So great a blot, as privily to shed blood
With neither law nor warrant. So, in trust
That she, of her accustomed clemency,
Will take my dutiful answer in good part,
By his good mediation, as returned
From one who never will be less in love,
Honour, obedience, duty to his queen,
Than any Christian subject living, thus
To God's grace I commit him.

Drury.
Though I doubt
She haply shall be much more wroth hereat
Than lately she was gracious, when she bade
God treblefold reward you for your charge
So well discharged, saluting you by name
Most faithful and most careful, you shall do
Most like a wise man loyally to write
But such good words as these, whereto myself
Subscribe in heart: though being not named herein
(Albeit to both seem these late letters meant)
Nor this directed to me, I forbear
To make particular answer. And indeed,
Were danger less apparent in her life
To the heart's life of all this living land,
I would this woman might not die at all
By secret stroke nor open sentence.

Paulet.
I
Will praise God's mercy most for this of all,
When I shall see the murderous cause removed
Of its most mortal peril: nor desire
A guerdon ampler from the queen we serve,
Besides her commendations of my faith
For spotless actions and for safe regards,
Than to see judgment on her enemy done;
Which were for me that recompense indeed
Whereof she writes as one not given to all,
But for such merit reserved to crown its claim
Above all common service: nor save this
Could any treasure's promise in the world
So ease those travails and rejoice this heart
That hers too much takes thought of, as to read
Her charge to carry for her sake in it
This most just thought, that she can balance not
The value that her grace doth prize me at
In any weight of judgment: yet it were
A word to me more comfortable at heart
Than these, though these most gracious, that should speak
Death to her death's contriver.

Drury.
Nay, myself
Were fain to see this coil wound up, and her
Removed that makes it: yet such things will pluck
Hard at men's hearts that think on them, and move
Compassion that such long strange years should find
So strange an end: nor shall men ever say
But she was born right royal; full of sins,
It may be, and by circumstance or choice
Dyed and defaced with bloody stains and black,
Unmerciful, unfaithful, but of heart
So fiery high, so swift of spirit and clear,
In extreme danger and pain so lifted up,
So of all violent things inviolable,
So large of courage, so superb of soul,
So sheathed with iron mind invincible
And arms unbreached of fireproof constancy—
By shame not shaken, fear or force or death,
Change, or all confluence of calamities—
And so at her worst need beloved, and still,
Naked of help and honour when she seemed,
As other women would be, and of hope
Stripped, still so of herself adorable
By minds not always all ignobly mad
Nor all made poisonous with false grain of faith,
She shall be a world's wonder to all time,
A deadly glory watched of marvelling men
Not without praise, not without noble tears,
And if without what she would never have
Who had it never, pity—yet from none
Quite without reverence and some kind of love
For that which was so royal. Yea, and now
That at her prayer we here attend on her,
If, as I think, she have in mind to send
Aught written to the queen, what we may do
To further her desire shall on my part
Gladly be done, so be it the grace she craves
Be nought akin to danger.

Paulet.
It shall be
The first of all then craved by her of man,
Or by man's service done her, that was found
So harmless ever.

Enter Mary Stuart and Mary Beaton.
Mary Stuart.
Sirs, in time past by
I was desirous many times, ye know,
To have written to your queen: but since I have had
Advertisement of my conviction, seeing
I may not look for life, my soul is set
On preparation for another world:
Yet none the less, not for desire of life,
But for my conscience's discharge and rest,
And for my last farewell, I have at heart
By you to send her a memorial writ
Of somewhat that concerns myself, when I
Shall presently be gone out of this world.
And to remove from her, if such be there,
Suspicion of all danger in receipt
Of this poor paper that should come from me,
Myself will take the assay of it, and so
With mine own hands to yours deliver it.

Paulet.
Will you not also, madam, be content
To seal and close it in my presence up?

Mary Stuart.
Sir, willingly: but I beseech your word
Pledged for its safe delivery to the queen.

Paulet.
I plight my faith it shall be sent to her.

Mary Stuart.
This further promise I desire, you will
Procure me from above certificate
It hath been there delivered.

Drury.
This is more
Than we may stand so pledged for: in our power
It is to send, but far beyond our power,
As being above our place, to promise you
Certificate or warrant.

Mary Stuart.
Yet I trust
Consideration may be had of me
After my death, as one derived in blood
From your queen's grandsire, with all mortal rites
According with that faith I have professed
All my life-days as I was born therein.
This is the sum of all mine askings: whence
Well might I take it in ill part of you
To wish me seal my letter in your sight,
Bewraying your hard opinion of me.

Paulet.
This
Your own words well might put into my mind,
That so beside my expectation made
Proffer to take my first assay for me
Of the outer part of it: for you must think
I was not ignorant that by sleight of craft
There might be as great danger so conveyed
Within the letter as without, and thus
I could not for ill thoughts of you be blamed,
Concurring with you in this jealousy:
For had yourself not moved it of yourself
Sir Drew nor I had ever thought on it.

Mary Stuart.
The occasion why I moved it was but this,
That having made my custom in time past
To send sometimes some tokens to your queen,
At one such time that I sent certain clothes
One standing by advised her cause my gifts
To be tried thoroughly ere she touched them; which
I have since observed, and taken order thus
With Nau, when last he tarried at the court,
To do the like to a fur-fringed counterpane
Which at that time I sent: and as for this,
Look what great danger lies between these leaves
That I dare take and handle in my hands,
And press against my face each part of them
Held open thus, and either deadly side,
Wherein your fear smells death sown privily.

Paulet.
Madam, when so you charged your secretary
Her majesty was far from doubt, I think,
Or dream of such foul dealing: and I would
Suspicion since had found no just cause given,
And then things had not been as now they are.

Mary Stuart.
But things are as they are, and here I stand
Convicted, and not knowing how many hours
I have to live yet.

Paulet.
Madam, you shall live
As many hours as God shall please: but this
May be said truly, that you here have been
Convicted in most honourable sort
And favourable.

Mary Stuart.
What favour have I found?

Paulet.
Your cause hath been examined scrupulously
By many our eldest nobles of this realm,
Whereas by law you should but have been tried
By twelve men as a common person.

Mary Stuart.
Nay,
Your noblemen must by their peers be tried.

Paulet.
All strangers of what quality soe'er
In matter of crime are only to be tried
In other princes' territories by law
That in that realm bears rule.

Mary Stuart.
You have your laws:
But other princes all will think of it
As they see cause; and mine own son is now
No more a child, but come to man's estate,
And he will think of these things bitterly.

Drury.
Ingratitude, whate'er he think of them,
Is odious in all persons, but of all
In mightiest personages most specially
Most hateful: and it will not be denied
But that the queen's grace greatly hath deserved
Both of yourself and of your son.

Mary Stuart.
What boon
Shall I acknowledge? Being in bonds, I am set
Free from the world, and therefore am I not
Afraid to speak; I have had the favour here
To have been kept prisoner now these many years
Against my will and justice.

Paulet.
Madam, this
Was a great favour, and without this grace
You had not lived to see these days.

Mary Stuart.
How so?

Paulet.
Seeing your own subjects did pursue you, and had
The best in your own country.

Mary Stuart.
That is true,
Because your Mildmay's ill persuasions first
Made me discharge my forces, and then caused
Mine enemies to burn my friends' main holds,
Castles and houses.

Paulet.
Howsoe'er, it was
By great men of that country that the queen
Had earnest suit made to her to have yourself
Delivered to them, which her grace denied,
And to their great misliking.

Drury.
Seventeen years
She hath kept your life to save it: and whereas
She calls your highness sister, she hath dealt
In truth and deed most graciously with you
And sisterlike, in seeking to preserve
Your life at once and honour.

Mary Stuart.
Ay! wherein?

Drury.
In that commission of your causes held
At York, which was at instance of your friends
Dissolved to save your honour.

Mary Stuart.
No: the cause
Why that commission was dissolved indeed
Was that my friends could not be heard to inform
Against my loud accusers.

Paulet.
But your friend
The bishop's self of Ross, your very friend,
Hath written that this meeting was dismissed
All only in your favour: and his book
Is extant: and this favour is but one
Of many graces which her majesty
Hath for mere love extended to you.

Mary Stuart.
This
Is one great favour, even to have kept me here
So many years against my will.

Paulet.
It was
For your own safety, seeing your countrymen
Sought your destruction, and to that swift end
Required to have you yielded up to them,
As was before said.

Mary Stuart.
Nay, then, I will speak.
I am not afraid. It was determined here
That I should not depart: and when I was
Demanded by my subjects, this I know,
That my lord treasurer with his own close hand
Writ in a packet which by trustier hands
Was intercepted, and to me conveyed,
To the earl of Murray, that the devil was tied
Fast in a chain, and they could keep her not,
But here she should be safely kept.

Drury.
That earl
Was even as honourable a gentleman
As I knew ever in that country bred.

Mary Stuart.
One of the worst men of the world he was:
A foul adulterer, one of general lust,
A spoiler and a murderer.

Drury.
Six weeks long,
As I remember, here I saw him; where
He bore him very gravely, and maintained
The reputation even on all men's tongues
In all things of a noble gentleman:
Nor have I heard him evil spoken of
Till this time ever.

Mary Stuart.
Yea, my rebels here
Are honest men, and by the queen have been
Maintained.

Paulet.
You greatly do forget yourself
To charge her highness with so foul a fault,
Which you can never find ability
To prove on her.

Mary Stuart.
What did she with the French,
I pray you, at Newhaven?

Paulet.
It appears
You have conceived so hardly of the queen
My mistress, that you still inveterately
Interpret all her actions to the worst,
Not knowing the truth of all the cause: but yet
I dare assure you that her majesty
Had most just cause and righteous, in respect
As well of Calais as for other ends,
To do the thing she did, and more to have done,
Had it so pleased her to put forth her power:
And this is in you great unthankfulness
After so many favours and so great,
Whereof you will acknowledge in no wise
The least of any: though her majesty
Hath of her own grace merely saved your life,
To the utter discontentment of the best
Your subjects once in open parliament
Who craved against you justice on the charge
Of civil law-breach and rebellion.

Mary Stuart.
I
Know no such matter, but full well I know
Sir Francis Walsingham hath openly,
Since his abiding last in Scotland, said
That I should rue his entertainment there.

Paulet.
Madam, you have not rued it, but have been
More honourably entertained than ever yet
Was any other crown's competitor
In any realm save only this: whereof
Some have been kept close prisoners, other some
Maimed and unnaturally disfigured, some
Murdered.

Mary Stuart.
But I was no competitor:
All I required was in successive right
To be reputed but as next the crown.

Paulet.
Nay, madam, you went further, when you gave
The English arms and style, as though our queen
Had been but an usurper on your right.

Mary Stuart.
My husband and my kinsmen did therein
What they thought good: I had nought to do with it.

Paulet.
Why would you not then loyally renounce
Your claim herein pretended, but with such
Condition, that you might be authorized
Next heir apparent to the crown?

Mary Stuart.
I have made
At sundry times thereon good proffers, which
Could never be accepted.

Paulet.
Heretofore
It hath been proved unto you presently
That in the very instant even of all
Your treaties and most friendlike offers were
Some dangerous crafts discovered.

Mary Stuart.
You must think
I have some friends on earth, and if they have done
Anything privily, what is that to me?

Paulet.
Madam, it was somewhat to you, and I would
For your own sake you had forborne it, that
After advertisement and conscience given
Of Morgan's devilish practice, to have killed
A sacred queen, you yet would entertain
The murderer as your servant.

Mary Stuart.
I might do it
With as good right as ever did your queen
So entertain my rebels.

Drury.
Be advised:
This speech is very hard, and all the case
Here differs greatly.

Mary Stuart.
Yea, let this then be;
Ye cannot yet of my conviction say
But I by partial judgment was condemned,
And the commissioners knew my son could have
No right, were I convicted, and your queen
Could have no children of her womb; whereby
They might set up what man for king they would.

Paulet.
This is in you too great forgetfulness
Of honour and yourself, to charge these lords
With two so foul and horrible faults, as first
To take your life by partial doom from you,
And then bestow the kingdom where they liked.

Mary Stuart.
Well, all is one to me: and for my part
I thank God I shall die without regret
Of anything that I have done alive.

Paulet.
I would entreat you yet be sorry at least
For the great wrong, and well deserving grief,
You have done the queen my mistress.

Mary Stuart.
Nay, thereon
Let others answer for themselves: I have
Nothing to do with it. Have you borne in mind
Those matters of my monies that we last
Conferred upon together?

Paulet.
Madam, these
Are not forgotten.

Mary Stuart.
Well it is if aught
Be yet at all remembered for my good.
Have here my letter sealed and superscribed,
And so farewell—or even as here men may.
[Exeunt Paulet and Drury.
Had I that old strength in my weary limbs
That in my heart yet fails not, fain would I
Fare forth if not fare better. Tired I am,
But not so lame in spirit I might not take
Some comfort of the winter-wasted sun
This bitter Christmas to me, though my feet
Were now no firmer nor more helpful found
Than when I went but in my chair abroad
Last weary June at Chartley. I can stand
And go now without help of either side,
And bend my hand again, thou seest, to write:
I did not well perchance in sight of these
To have made so much of this lame hand, which yet
God knows was grievous to me, and to-day
To make my letter up and superscribe
And seal it with no outward show of pain
Before their face and inquisition; yet
I care not much in player's wise piteously
To blind such eyes with feigning: though this Drew
Be gentler and more gracious than his mate
And liker to be wrought on; but at last
What need have I of men?

Mary Beaton.
What then you may
I know not, seeing for all that was and is
We are yet not at the last; but when you had,
You have hardly failed to find more help of them
And heartier service than more prosperous queens
Exact of expectation: when your need
Was greater than your name or natural state,
And wage was none to look for but of death,
As though the expectancy thereof and hope
Were more than man's prosperities, men have given
Heart's thanks to have this gift of God and you
For dear life's guerdon, even the trust assured
To drink for you the bitterness of death.

Mary Stuart.
Ay, one said once it must be—some one said
I must be perilous ever, and my love
More deadly than my will was evil or good
Toward any of all these that through me should die—
I know not who, nor when one said it: but
I know too sure he lied not.

Mary Beaton.
No; I think
This was a seer indeed. I have heard of men
That under imminence of death grew strong
With mortal foresight, yet in life-days past
Could see no foot before them, nor provide
For their own fate or fortune anything
Against one angry chance of accident
Or passionate fault of their own loves or hates
That might to death betray them: such an one
Thus haply might have prophesied, and had
No strength to save himself.

Mary Stuart.
I know not: yet
Time was when I remembered.

Mary Beaton.
It should be
No enemy's saying whom you remember not;
You are wont not to forget your enemies; yet
The word rang sadder than a friend's should fall
Save in some strange pass of the spirit or flesh
For love's sake haply hurt to death.

Mary Stuart.
It seems
Thy mind is bent to know the name of me
That of myself I know not.

Mary Beaton.
Nay, my mind
Has other thoughts to beat upon: for me
It may suffice to know the saying for true
And never care who said it.

Mary Stuart.
True? too sure,
God to mine heart's grief hath approved it. See,
Nor Scot nor Englishman that takes on him
The service of my sorrow but partakes
The sorrow of my service: man by man,
As that one said, they perish of me: yea,
Were I a sword sent upon earth, or plague
Bred of aerial poison, I could be
No deadlier where unwillingly I strike,
Who where I would can hurt not: Percy died
By his own hand in prison, Howard by law,
These young men with strange torments done to death,
Who should have rid me and the world of her
That is our scourge, and to the church of God
A pestilence that wastes it: all the north
Wears yet the scars engraven of civil steel
Since its last rising: nay, she saith but right,
Mine enemy, saying by these her servile tongues
I have brought upon her land mine own land's curse,
And a sword follows at my heel, and fire
Is kindled of mine eyeshot: and before,
Whom did I love that died not of it? whom
That I would save might I deliver, when
I had once but looked on him with love, or pledged
Friendship? I should have died I think long since,
That many might have died not, and this word
Had not been written of me nor fulfilled,
But perished in the saying, a prophecy
That took the prophet by the throat and slew—
As sure I think it slew him. Such a song
Might my poor servant slain before my face
Have sung before the stroke of violent death
Had fallen upon him there for my sake.

Mary Beaton.
Ah!
You think so? this remembrance was it not
That hung and hovered in your mind but now,
Moved your heart backward all unwittingly
To some blind memory of the man long dead?

Mary Stuart.
In sooth, I think my prophet should have been
David.

Mary Beaton.
You thought of him?

Mary Stuart.
An old sad thought:
The moan of it was made long since, and he
Not unremembered.

Mary Beaton.
Nay, of him indeed
Record was made—a royal record: whence
No marvel is it that you forgot not him.

Mary Stuart.
I would forget no friends nor enemies: these
More needs me now remember. Think'st thou not
This woman hates me deadlier—or this queen
That is not woman—than myself could hate
Except I were as she in all things? then
I should love no such woman as am I
Much more than she may love me: yet I am sure,
Or so near surety as all belief may be,
She dare not slay me for her soul's sake: nay,
Though that were made as light of as a leaf
Storm-shaken, in such stormy winds of state
As blow between us like a blast of death,
For her throne's sake she durst not, which must be
Broken to build my scaffold. Yet, God wot,
Perchance a straw's weight now cast in by chance
Might weigh my life down in the scale her hand
Holds hardly straight for trembling: if she be
Woman at all, so tempered naturally
And with such spirit and sense as thou and I,
Should I for wrath so far forget myself
As these men sometime charge me that I do,
My tongue might strike my head off. By this head
That yet I wear to swear by, if life be
Thankworthy, God might well be thanked for this
Of me or whoso loves me in the world,
That I spake never half my heart out yet,
For any sore temptation of them all,
To her or hers; nor ever put but once
My heart upon my paper, writing plain
The things I thought, heard, knew for truth of her,
Believed or feigned—nay, feigned not to believe
Of her fierce follies fed with wry-mouthed praise,
And that vain ravin of her sexless lust
Which could not feed nor hide its hunger, curb
With patience nor allay with love the thirst
That mocked itself as all mouths mocked it. Ha,
What might the reading of these truths have wrought
Within her maiden mind, what seed have sown,
Trow'st thou, in her sweet spirit, of revenge
Toward me that showed her queenship in the glass
A subject's hand of hers had put in mine
The likeness of it loathed and laughable
As they that worshipped it with words and signs
Beheld her and bemocked her?

Mary Beaton.
Certainly,
I think that soul drew never breath alive
To whom this letter might seem pardonable
Which timely you forbore to send her.

Mary Stuart.
Nay,
I doubt not I did well to keep it back—
And did not ill to write it: for God knows
It was no small ease to my heart.

Mary Beaton.
But say
I had not burnt it as you bade me burn,
But kept it privily safe against a need
That I might haply sometime have of it?

Mary Stuart.
What, to destroy me?

Mary Beaton.
Hardly, sure, to save.

Mary Stuart.
Why shouldst thou think to bring me to my death?

Mary Beaton.
Indeed, no man am I that love you; nor
Need I go therefore in such fear of you
As of my mortal danger.

Mary Stuart.
On my life,
(Long life or short, with gentle or violent end,
I know not, and would choose not, though I might
So take God's office on me) one that heard
Would swear thy speech had in it, and subtly mixed,
A savour as of menace, or a sound
As of an imminent ill or perilous sense
Which was not in thy meaning.

Mary Beaton.
No: in mine
There lurked no treason ever; nor have you
Cause to think worse of me than loyally,
If proof may be believed on witness.

Mary Stuart.
Sure,
I think I have not nor I should not have:
Thy life has been the shadow cast of mine,
A present faith to serve my present need,
A foot behind my footsteps; as long since
In those French dances that we trod, and laughed
The blithe way through together. Thou couldst sing
Then, and a great while gone it is by this
Since I heard song or music: I could now
Find in my heart to bid thee, as the Jews
Were once bid sing in their captivity
One of their songs of Sion, sing me now,
If one thou knowest, for love of that far time,
One of our songs of Paris.

Mary Beaton.
Give me leave
A little to cast up some wandering words
And gather back such memories as may beat
About my mind of such a song, and yet
I think I might renew some note long dumb
That once your ear allowed of.—I did pray, [Aside.

Tempt me not, God: and by her mouth again
He tempts me—nay, but prompts me, being most just,
To know by trial if all remembrance be
Dead as remorse or pity that in birth
Died, and were childless in her: if she quite
Forget that very swan-song of thy love,
My love that wast, my love that wouldst not be,
Let God forget her now at last as I
Remember: if she think but one soft thought,
Cast one poor word upon thee, God thereby
Shall surely bid me let her live: if none,
I shoot that letter home and sting her dead.
God strengthen me to sing but these words through
Though I fall dumb at end for ever. Now—
[She sings.

Mary Stuart.
Nay, I should once have known that song, thou say'st,
And him that sang it and should now be dead:
Was it—but his rang sweeter—was it not
Remy Belleau?

Mary Beaton.
(My letter—here at heart!)
[Aside.
I think it might be—were it better writ
And courtlier phrased, with Latin spice cast in,
And a more tunable descant.

Mary Stuart.
Ay; how sweet
Sang all the world about those stars that sang
With Ronsard for the strong mid star of all,
His bay-bound head all glorious with grey hairs,
Who sang my birth and bridal! When I think
Of those French years, I only seem to see
A light of swords and singing, only hear
Laughter of love and lovely stress of lutes,
And in between the passion of them borne
Sound of swords crossing ever, as of feet
Dancing, and life and death still equally
Blithe and bright-eyed from battle. Haply now
My sometime sister, mad Queen Madge, is grown
As grave as I should be, and wears at waist
No hearts of last year's lovers any more
Enchased for jewels round her girdlestead,
But rather beads for penitence; yet I doubt
Time should not more abash her heart than mine,
Who live not heartless yet. These days like those
Have power but for a season given to do
No more upon our spirits than they may,
And what they may we know not till it be
Done, and we need no more take thought of it,
As I no more of death or life to-day.

Mary Beaton.
That shall you surely need not.

Mary Stuart.
So I think,
Our keepers being departed: and by these,
Even by the uncourtlier as the gentler man,
I read as in a glass their queen's plain heart,
And that by her at last I shall not die.