Wretched me,
Then let my woful ill
Immortal be."

This last verse died away as if the queen were exhausted, and at the same
time the mandolin slipped from her hands, and would have fallen to the
ground had not Mary Seyton thrown herself on her knees and prevented it.
The young girl remained thus at her mistress's feet for some time, gazing
at her silently, and as she saw that she was losing herself more and more
in gloomy reverie--

"Have those lines brought back to your Majesty some sad remembrance?" she
asked hesitatingly.

"Oh, yes," answered the queen; "they reminded me of the unfortunate being
who composed them."

"And may I, without indiscretion, inquire of your grace who is their
author?"

"Alas! he was a noble, brave, and handsome young man, with a faithful
heart and a hot head, who would defend me to-day, if I had defended him
then; but his boldness seemed to me rashness, and his fault a crime.
What was to be done? I did not love him. Poor Chatelard! I was very
cruel to him."

"But you did not prosecute him, it was your brother; you did not condemn
him, the judges did."

"Yes, yes; I know that he too was Murray's victim, and that is no doubt