felt the touch of a pure woman's love, and then--but again I am going
beyond my story.

I did not doubt, nor do I hesitate to say, that my passion was returned by
Mary with a fervor which she felt for no other lover; but she was a queen,
and I, compared with her, was nobody. For this difference of rank I have
since had good cause to be thankful. Great beauty is diffusive in its
tendency. Like the sun, it cannot shine for one alone. Still, it burns and
dazzles the one as if it shone for him and for no other; and he who basks
in its rays need have no fear of the ennui of peace.

The time came when I tasted the unutterable bitterness of Mary's marriage
to a simpering fool, Francis II., whom she loathed, notwithstanding absurd
stories of their sweet courtship and love.

After her marriage to Francis, Mary became hard and callous of heart, and
all the world knows her sad history. The stories of Darnley, Rizzio, and
Bothwell will be rich morsels, I suppose, for the morbid minds of men and
women so long as books are read and scandal is loved.

Ah, well, that was long ago; so long ago that now as I write it seems but
a shadow upon the horizon of time.

And so it happened that Francis died, and when the queen went back to
Scotland to ascend her native throne, I went with her, and mothlike
hovered near the blaze that burned but did not warm me.

Then in the course of time came the Darnley tragedy. I saw Rizzio killed.
Gods! what a scene for hell was that! Then followed the Bothwell
disgrace, the queen's imprisonment at Lochleven, and my own flight from