veil of white linen fastened to her hair, and
her chaplet of beads is by her side.Then
comes a very touching little episode in the
last scene of all. Suddenly an old servant
of hers, Sir Robert Melville, her house-
steward, falls on his knees weeping
passionately, being heart-broken at having to
bear such sorrowful news to Scotland.

"Good Melville," said the queen, with
placid dignity and gentleness, "cease
to lament, but rather rejoice, for thou
shalt now see a final period to Mary
Stuart's troubles. The world, my servant,
is all but vanity, and subject to more
sorrow than an ocean of tears can wash
away. But I pray thee take this message
when thou goest: that I die true to my
religion, to Scotland, and to France. God
forgive them that have thirsted for my blood
as the hart longeth for the water brooks!
Commend me to my son, and tell him I
have done nothing to prejudice the kingdom
of Scotland."

Melville sobbed, and could not utter a
word. Mary stooped, turned to the faithful
old servitor, and weeping, also, herself, said:

"Once more farewell, good Melville:
pray for thy mistress and queen."

She then requested the four earls to treat
her servants with kindness, and to allow
them to stand by her at her death. The
Earl of Kent, hard and icily fanatical,
objected, however, saying it would be troublesome
to her majesty and unpleasant to the
company; besides, as Papists, the servants
would be sure to put in practice some
superstitious trumpery, such as dipping
handkerchiefs in her grace's blood.

"My lords," said Mary, "I will give you
my word they shall deserve no blame, nor
do such thing as you mention; but, poor
souls, it would do them good to see the last
of their mistress; and I hope your
mistress, as a maiden queen, would not deny
me in regard of womanhood, to have
some of my women about me at my death.
Surely you might grant a greater favour
than this, though I were a woman of less
rank than the Queen of Scots."

The lords reluctantly consented, and
poor old Sir Robert Melville the steward,
the apothecary, the surgeon, and
Kennedy and Curle, two of her maids,
followed Mary to the scaffold, the sheriff
and his officers leading, Sir Amyas Paulet
and Sir Drew Drury following, and after
them coming the Earls of Shrewsbury and
Kent. The scaffold, which stood in the
hall, was a railed-in platform, three feet
high, and covered with black cloth. On
it stood a low stool, a cushion, and the
block, all covered with black. By the
horrible block, axe in hand, stood the
headsman from the Tower, dressed in sable
velvet, and his assistant. Mary, with no
change of face, and no tremor, sat down
cheerfully, while Beale, the clerk of the
council, read the death-warrant aloud;
as he concluded, the spectators cried out,
"God save Queen Elizabeth!" Mary said
but little, only asserting that she was a
princess not subject to the laws of
England, declaring that she had never sought
the life of Elizabeth, and that from her
heart she pardoned all her enemies. The
Dean of Peterborough then stood up and
preached to her the necessity of conversion,
his gracious mistress being most anxious
for the welfare of her soul. Mary replied
firmly and scornfully:

"Mr. Dean, trouble not yourself; I am
fixed in the ancient religion, and by God's
grace I will shed my blood for it." So
saying, she turned away, but the dean went
on again, till the Earl of Shrewsbury set
him to begin a prayer: all this time Mary
repeated with fervour the Penitential psalms
in Latin, and then, when the dean became
silent, she prayed aloud in English for
the Church, her unworthy son, and Queen
Elizabeth. She then kissed the crucifix she
held, and exclaimed:

"As thy arms, O Jesus, were stretched
upon the cross, so receive me, God, into
the arms of mercy."

"Madam," said the fanatical Earl of
Kent, reproachfully, "you had better put
such Popish trumpery out of your hand
and carry Christ in your heart."

Mary replied: "I can hardly bear this
emblem in my hand without at the same
time bearing Him in my heart."

The two executioners then came forward
and kneeling before the queen, prayed her
forgiveness. Her women began to disrobe
her, but the executioners, nervously hurrying,
stepped forward to pull off her veil
and ruff, and Mary said to the earls, as if
apologetically at the delay:

"I am not used to be undressed by such
attendants, or to put off my clothes before
such a company."

At this little playfulness the servants
burst into loud sobs and into tears; but
Mary calmly put her finger to her lips to
hush them, kissed them all again, and bade
them pray for her. The maid Kennedy
then took a handkerchief edged with gold
and bound her eyes. The two grim men
in black then led her to the block, and