rison.

Scarcely was Mary alone, and certain that she was no longer seen or
heard, than all her strength deserted her, and, sinking into an
arm-chair, she burst out sobbing.

Indeed, all her courage had been needed to sustain her so far, and the
sight of her enemies alone had given her this courage; but hardly had
they gone than her situation appeared before her in all its fatal
hardship. Dethroned, a prisoner, without another fiend in this
impregnable castle than a child to whom she had scarce given attention,
and who was the sole and last thread attaching her past hopes to her
hopes for the future, what remained to Mary Stuart of her two thrones and
her double power? Her name, that was all; her, name with which, free,
she had doubtless stirred Scotland, but which little by little was about
to be effaced in the hearts of her adherents, and which during her
lifetime oblivion was to cover perhaps as with a shroud. Such an idea
was insupportable to a soul as lofty as Mary Stuart's, and to an
organisation which, like that of the flowers, has need, before
everything, of air, light, and sun.

Fortunately there remained to her the best beloved of her four Marys,
who, always devoted and consoling, hastened to succour and comfort her;
but this time it was no easy matter, and the queen let her act and speak
without answering her otherwise than with sobs and tears; when suddenly,
looking through the window to which she had drawn up her mistress's
armchair--

"The light!" cried she, "madam, the light!"

At the same time she raised the queen, and with arm outstretched from the
window, she showed her the beacon, the eternal symbol of hope, relighted
in the midst of this dark night on Kinross hill: there was no mistake
possible, not a star was shining in the sky.

"Lord God, I give Thee thanks," said the queen, falling on her knees and
raising her arms to heaven with a gesture of gratitude: "Douglas has
escaped, and my friends still keep watch."

Then, after a fervent prayer, which restored to her a little strength,
the queen re-entered her room, and, tired out by her varied successive
emotions, she slept an uneasy, agitated sleep, over which the
indefatigable Mary Seyton kept watch till daybreak.

As William Douglas had said, from this time forward the queen was a
prisoner indeed, and permission to go down into the garden was no longer
granted but under the surveillance of two soldiers; but this annoyance
seemed to her