Meantime, Mary seemed, by the train of horrible ideas thus suddenly excited, surprised not only beyond self-command, but for the moment beyond the verge of reason.

'Traitress,' she said to the Lady Fleming, 'thou wouldst slay thy sovereign.

Call my French guards--_a moi! a moi! mes Francais_!--I am beset with traitors in mine own palace--they have murdered my husband--Rescue! Rescue! for the Queen of Scotland!' She started up from her chair--her features late so exquisitely lovely in their paleness, now inflamed with the fury of frenzy, and resembling those of a Bellona.

'We will take the field ourself,' she said; 'warn the city--warn Lothian and Fife--saddle our Spanish barb, and bid French Paris see our petronel be charged.

Better to die at the head of our brave Scotsmen, like our grandfather at Flodden, than of a broken heart like our ill-starred father.' 'Be patient--be composed, dearest sovereign,' said Catherine; and then addressing Lady Fleming angrily, she added, 'How could you say aught that reminded her of her husband ?' The word reached the ear of the unhappy princess who caught it up, speaking with great rapidity, 'Husband!--what husband?
Not his most Christian Majesty--he is ill at ease--he cannot mount on horseback--not him of the Lennox--but it was the Duke of Orkney thou wouldst say ?' 'For God's love, madam, be patient!' said the Lady Fleming.