ver had gone his mysterious ways, seemed lost in a troubled
reverie.

It was a troubled reverie indeed, for Angele's eyes were on the stranger
who was present with Sir Andrew Melvill the night before. Her gaze upon
him now became fixed and insistent, for the sense of foreboding so heavy
on her deepened to a torturing suspense. Where had she seen this man
before? To what day or hour in her past did he belong? What was there in
his smooth, smiling, malicious face that made her blood run cold? As she
watched him, he turned his head. She followed his eyes. The horse which
Mary Queen of Scots had sent with the message of the birth of her son
was being led to the Queen by the dark browed, pale-faced churl who had
brought it from Scotland. She saw a sharp dark look pass between the
two.

Suddenly her sight swam, she swayed and would have fainted, but
resolution steadied her, and a low exclamation broke from her lips. Now
she knew!

The face that had eluded her was at last in the grasp of horrified
memory. It was the face of one who many years ago was known to have
poisoned the Due de Chambly by anointing the pommel of his saddle with
a delicate poison which the rider would touch, and touching would,
perhaps, carry to his nostrils or mouth as he rode, and die upon the
instant. She herself had seen the Due de Chambly fall; had seen this man
fly from Paris for his life; and had thereafter known of his return to
favour at the court of Mary and Francis, for nothing could be proved
against him. The memory flashed like lightning through her brain. She
moved swiftly forward despite the detaining hand of the Duke's Daughter.
The Queen was already mounted, her hand already upon the pommel of the
saddle.

Elizabeth noted the look of anguished anxiety in Angele's eyes, her
face like that of one who had seen souls in purgatory; and some swift
instinct, born of years upon years of peril in old days when her life
was no boon to her enemies, made her lean towards the girl, whose
quick whispered words were to her as loud as thunder. She was, however,
composed and still. Not a tremor passed through her.

"Your wish is granted, mistress," she said aloud, then addressed a word
to Cecil at her side, who passed on her command. Presently she turned
slowly to the spot where Sir Andrew Melvill and the other sat upon
their horses. She scanned complacently the faces of both, then her eyes
settled steadily on the face of the murderer. Still gazing