"It was then," says Brantorne, "that it was delightful to see her; for
the whiteness of her countenance and of her veil contended together; but
finally the artificial white yielded, and the snow-like pallor of her
face vanquished the other. For it was thus," he adds, "that from the
moment she became a widow, I always saw her with her pale hue, as long as
I had the honour of seeing her in France, and Scotland, where she had to
go in eighteen months' time, to her very great regret, after her
widowhood, to pacify her kingdom, greatly divided by religious troubles.
Alas! she had neither the wish nor the will for it, and I have often
heard her say so, with a fear of this journey like death; for she
preferred a hundred times to dwell in France as a dowager queen, and to
content herself with Touraine and Poitou for her jointure, than to go and
reign over there in her wild country; but her uncles, at least some of
them, not all, advised her, and even urged her to it, and deeply repented
their error."

Mary was obedient, as we have seen, and she began her journey under such
auspices that when she lost sight of land she was like to die. Then it
was that the poetry of her soul found expression in these famous lines:

"Farewell, delightful land of France,
My motherland,
The best beloved!
Foster-nurse of my young years!
Farewell, France, and farewell my happy days!
The ship that separates our loves
Has borne away but half of me;
One part is left thee and is throe,
And I confide it to thy tenderness,
That thou may'st hold in mind the other part."'