en cudgel, the other swiftly running over his rosary.

Mary of Avenel next appeared, and (or it may have been fancy) near her
floated the airy vision of the White Lady.

There was Sir Piercie Shafton, too, and the miller's black-eyed
daughter. The voice of the knight was low and apparently his words
were tender; for poor Mysie Happer, with cheeks like a fresh-blown
rose, and sparkling eyes, drank in with her whole soul the honeyed
accents of the Euphoist.

"Certes, O my discretion," said he, "thou shalt arise from thy
never-to-be-lamented-sufficiently-lowliness; thou shalt leave the
homely occupations of that rude boor unto whom it beseemeth thee to
give the appellation of father, and shalt attain to the-all-to-be-desired
greatness of my love, even as the resplendent sun condescends to shine
down upon the earth-crawling beetle."

I now approached a deep embrasure elevated one step above the level
of the apartment, over which magnificent hangings of crimson and gold
swept to the floor. Not for a moment could I doubt who the splendid
being might be occupying the centre of the little group on which my
eyes now rested enraptured.

The most lovely, the most unfortunate Mary of Scotland was before me,
and, as if spell-bound, I could not withdraw my gaze. How did all the
portraits my fancy had drawn fade in comparison with the actual
beauty, the indescribable loveliness of this peerless woman. How was
it possible to give to fancy any thing so exquisitely graceful and
beautiful as the breathing form before me. Ask me not to depict the
color of her eyes; ask me not to paint that wealth of splendid
hair--that complexion no artist's skill could match--that mouth so
eloquent in its repose--those lips--those teeth. As well attempt to
_paint the strain_ of delicious music which reaches our ears at
midnight, stealing over the moonlit wave; or to _color the fragrance_
of the new-blown rose, or of the lily of the vale, when first plucked
from its humble bed. For even thus did the unrivaled charms of Mary of
Scotland blend themselves indescribably with our enraptured senses.

On a low stool at the feet of Mary sat Catharine Seyton, whose fair,
round arm seemed as a snow-wreath resting amid the rich folds of her
royal mistress' black velvet robe. Yet not so deeply absorbed was she
in devotion to her lady as to prevent her now and then casting a
mischievous glance on Roland Graeme, who, with the Douglas, were also
in attendance upon