of Scotland, now prisoner in her cousin's hands, going to and fro from
house to house, with a guard about her, yet with all the seeming of
liberty and none of its reality....

The rough bitterness died out of the boy's face, and a look came upon it
as of one who sees a vision.

"Queen Mary?" he said, as if he pronounced the name of the Mother of
God. "Yes; I have heard of her.... She is in Norfolk, I think."

Then he let flow out of him the stream that always ran in his heart like
sorrowful music ever since the day when first, as a page, in my Lord
Shrewsbury's house in Sheffield, he had set eyes on that queen of
sorrows. Then, again, upon the occasion of his journey to Paris, he had
met with Mr. Morgan, her servant, and the Bishop of Glasgow, her
friend, whose talk had excited and inspired him. He had learned from
them something more of her glories and beauties, and remembering what he
had seen of her, adored her the more. He leaned back now, shading his
eyes from the candles upon the table, and began to sing his love and his
queen. He told of new insults that had been put upon her, new
deprivations of what was left to her of liberty; he did not speak now of
Elizabeth by name, since a fountain, even of talk, should not give out
at once sweet water and bitter; but he spoke of the day when Mary should
come herself to the throne of England, and take that which was already
hers; when the night should roll away, and the morning-star arise; and
the Faith should come again like the flowing tide, and all things be
again as they had been from the beginning. It was rank treason that he
talked, such as would have brought him to Tyburn if it had been spoken
in London in indiscreet company; it was that treason which her Grace
herself had made possible by her faithlessness to God and man; such