Like a bird escaped from its cage, or the turtle-dove which has lost her mate, I shall be alone, weeping your absence, short as it may be.

This letter, happier than I, will go this evening where I cannot go, provided that the messenger does not find you asleep, as I fear.

I have not dared to write it in the presence of Joseph, of Sebastian, and of Joachim, who had only just left me when I began it." Thus, as one sees, and always supposing these letters to be genuine, Mary had conceived for Bothwell one of those mad passions, so much the stronger in the women who are a prey to them, that one the less understands what could have inspired them.

Bothwell was no longer young, Bothwell was not handsome, and yet Mary sacrificed for him a young husband, who was considered one of the handsomest men of his century.

It was like a kind of enchantment.