ton is gone forth;
She is ill at heart with watching.

QUEEN.
Ay, at heart--
All girls must have such tender sides to the heart
They break for one night's watching, ache to death
For an hour's pity, for a half-hour's love--
Wear out before the watches, die by dawn,
And ride at noon to burial. God's my pity!
Where's Hamilton? doth she ail too? at heart,
I warrant her at heart.

MARY BEATON.
I know not, madam.

QUEEN.
What, sick or dead? I am well holpen of you:
Come hither to me. What pale blood you have--
Is it for fear you turn such cheeks to me?
Why, if I were so loving, by my hand,
I would have set my head upon the chance,
And loosed him though I died. What will you do?
Have you no way?

MARY BEATON.
None but your mercy.

QUEEN.
Ay?
Why then the thing is piteous. Think, for God's sake--
Is there no loving way to fetch him forth?
Nay, what a white thin-blooded thing is love,
To help no more than this doth! Were I in love,
I would unbar the ways to-night and then
Laugh death to death to-morrow, mock him dead;
I think you love well with one half your heart,
And let fear keep the other. Hark you now,
You said there was some friend durst break my bars--
Some Scotch name--faith, as if I wist of it!
Ye have such heavy wits to help one with--
Some man that had some mean to save him by--
Tush, I must be at pains for you!

MARY BEATON.
Nay, madam,
It were no boot; he will not be let forth.

QUEEN.
I say, the name. O, Robert Erskine-yea,
A fellow of some heart: what saith he?

MARY BEATON.
Madam,
The thing was sound all through, yea, all went well,
But for all prayers that we could make to him
He would not fly: we cannot get him forth.

QUEEN.
Great God! that men should have such wits as this!
I have a mind to let him die for that;
And yet I wot not. Said he, he loathed his life?

MARY BEATON.
He says your grace given would scathe yourself,
And little grace for such a grace as that
Be with the little of his life he kept
To cast off some time more unworthily.

QUEEN.
God help me! what should wise folk do with him?
These men be weaker-witted than mere fools
When they fall mad once; yet by Mary's soul
I am sorrier for him than for men right wise.
God wot a fool that were more wise than he
Would love me something worse than Chastelard,
Ay, and his own soul better. Do you thin