to meet our rebel subjects

“I am ashamed of my weakness, girls,” she said, taking the hands of her attendants; “but it is over — and I am Mary Stewart once more. The savage tone of that man’s voice — my knowledge of his insolence — the name which he named — the purpose for which they come — may excuse a moment’s weakness, and it shall be a moment’s only.” She snatched from her head the curch or cap, which had been disordered during her hysterical agony, shook down the thick clustered tresses of dark brown which had been before veiled under it — and, drawing her slender fingers across the labyrinth which they formed, she arose from the chair, and stood like the inspired image of a Grecian prophetess in a mood which partook at once of sorrow and pride, of smiles and of tears. “We are ill appointed,” she said, “to meet our rebel subjects; but, as far as we may, we will strive to present ourselves as becomes their Queen. Follow me, my maidens,” she said; “Alas!” she added, when she had repeated with a smile these lines of an old ballad, “violence has already robbed me of the ordinary decorations of my rank; and the few that nature gave me have been destroyed by sorrow and by fear.” Yet while she spoke thus, she again let her slender fingers stray through the wilderness of the beautiful tresses which veiled her kingly neck and swelling bosom, as if, in her agony of mind, she had not altogether lost the consciousness of her unrivalled charms. Roland Graeme, on whose youth, inexperience, and ardent sense of what was dignified and lovely, the demeanour of so fair and high-born a lady wrought like the charm of a magician, stood rooted to the spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard his life in a quarrel so fair as that which Mary Stewart’s must needs be. She had been bred in France — she was possessed of the most distinguished beauty — she had reigned a Queen and a Scottish Queen, to whom knowledge of character was as essential as the use of vital air.