nse 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,