"If the furniture of Lochleven Castle is in such bad condition, madam," the old lady replied, "it is the fault of the kings of Scotland: the poor Douglases for nearly a century have had such a small part of their sovereigns' favour, that they have not been able to keep up the splendour of their ancestors to the level of that of private individuals, and because there was in Scotland a certain musician, as I am informed, who spent their income for a whole year in one month." "Those who know how to take so well, my lady," the queen answered, "have no need of being given to: it seems to me the Douglases have lost nothing by waiting, and there is not a younger son of this noble family who might not aspire to the highest alliances; it is truly vexatious that our sister the queen of England has taken a vow of virginity; as is stated." "Or rather," interrupted Lady Lochleven, "that the Queen of Scotland is not a widow by her third husband.

But," continued the old lady, pretending to recollect herself, "I do not say that to reproach your grace.

Catholics look upon marriage as a sacrament, and on this head receive it as often as they can." "This, then," returned Mary, "is the difference between them and the Huguenots; for they, not having the same respect for it, think it is allowed them to dispense with it in certain circumstances." At this terrible sarcasm Lady Lochleven took a step towards Mary Stuart, holding in her hand the knife which she had just been using to cut off a piece of meat brought her to taste; but the queen rose up with so great a calm and with such majesty, that either from involuntary respect or shame of her first impulse, she let fall the weapon she was holding, and not finding anything sufficiently strong in reply to express her feelings, she signed to the servants to follow her, and went out of the apartment with all the dignity that anger permitted her to summon to her aid.
Scarcely had Lady Lochleven left the room than the queen sat down again, joyful and triumphant at the victory she had just gained, and ate with a better appetite than she had yet done since she was a prisoner, while Mary Seyton deplored in a low tone and with all possible respect this fatal gift of repartee that Mary had received, and which, with her beauty, was one of the causes of all her misfortunes; but the queen did nothing but laugh at all her observations, saying she was curious to see the figure her good hostess would cut at dinnertime.
After breakfast, the queen went down into the garden: her satisfied pride had restored some of her cheerfulness, so much so that, seeing, while crossing the hall, a mandolin lying forgotten on a chair, she told Mary Seyton to take it, to see, she said, if she could recall her old talent.

In reality the queen was one of the best musicians of the time, and played admirably, says Brantome, on the lute and viol d'amour, an instrument much resembling the mandolin.
Mary Seyton obeyed.
Arrived in the garden, the queen sat down in the deepest shade, and there, having tuned her instrument, she at first drew from it lively and light tones, which soon darkened little by little, at the same time that her countenance assumed a hue of deep melancholy.

Mary Seyton looked at her with uneasiness, although for a long time she had been used to these sudden changes in her mistress's humour, and she was about to ask the reason of this gloomy veil suddenly spread over her face, when, regulating her harmonies, Mary began to sing in a low voice, and as if for herself alone, the following verses:-- "Caverns, meadows, plains and mounts, Lands of tree and stone, Rivers, rivulets and founts, By which I stray alone, Bewailing as I go, With tears that overflow, Sing will I The miserable woe That bids me grieve and sigh.
Ay, but what is here to lend Ear to my lament?
What is here can comprehend My dull discontent?
Neither grass nor reed, Nor the ripples heed, Flowing by, While the stream with speed Hastens from my eye.
Vainly does my wounded heart Hope, alas, to heal; Seeking, to allay its smart, Things that cannot feel.
Better should my pain Bitterly complain, Crying shrill, To thee who dost constrain My spirit to such ill.
Goddess, who shalt never die, List to what I say; Thou who makest me to lie Weak beneath thy sway, If my life must know Ending at thy blow, Cruellest! Own it perished so But at thy behest.
Lo! my face may all men see Slowly pine and fade, E'en as ice doth melt and flee Near a furnace laid.
Yet the burning ray Wasting me away Passion's glow, Wakens no display Of pity for my woe.
Yet does every neighbour tree, Every rocky wall, This my sorrow know and see; So, in brief, doth all Nature know aright This my sorry plight; Thou alone Takest thy delight To hear me cry and moan.
But if it be thy will, To see tormented still 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.