The little boy was absorbed with interest in the Queen’s fingers; he then examined her face and, as his plump fingers explored it, Mary caught them and kissed the little palms.

The boy wriggled off her lap and toddled over to a table behind which he hid himself, to emerge after a second or so almost choking with laughter. Then he hid himself again, and the Queen and her women pretended to hunt for him.

This game was in progress when the boy’s mother appeared.

“You have come for your son?” asked Mary.

“I fear he is disturbing Your Majesty.”

“He is giving me much pleasure. May I keep him awhile?”

“If it is Your Majesty’s wish.”

The child had come out and threw himself at his mother’s skirts. He pointed to the Queen, as though to draw his mother’s attention to her.

“Look” he cried. “Look!”

His mother lifted him up and he continued to cry: “Look!” turning to point at Mary.

“Come,” said his mother, “it is time you were in bed. I am sorry, Your Majesty. I know you wish to rest.”

“It was a pleasure to meet your son,” Mary answered.

The little boy, sensing that he was about to be taken away, turned in his mother’s arms and held out his own to the Queen.

“He wants to stay with that one,” he cried.

“Hush! Hush!” said his mother.

But Mary went to him and again took him in her arms. “I should like to keep him with me this night.”

“Your Majesty, he will disturb you.”

“I do not think so. If he is agreeable, it would please me to have him in my bed this night.”

The child’s mother was secretly delighted at the Queen’s pleasure in her son, so she kissed him and left him. As for the boy, he was delighted to be with Mary and her ladies; and when the Queen lay in bed, the boy was beside her.

He slept almost at once and Mary slept too, although several times during the night she awoke and remembered the child; and she wept a little out of longing for her own little James who had been taken from her.

In the morning she left Hazlefield for Dundrennan Abbey, but before she went she took a little ruby ring from her finger and gave it to the boy’s mother.

“I pray you,” she said, “give him this when he is a little older, and tell him that it is a gift from the Queen to whom his company gave such pleasure on what may well be her last night in Scotland for many a long year.”

MARY WAITED with her friends at the secluded Bay of the Abbey of Burn-foot on the Solway Firth. The vessel which George had been able to procure was nothing but a fishing-boat, and there was great misgiving among those assembled there.

Mary uttered a prayer as she stepped into the boat: A safe passage across the water, a warm welcome from the English Queen, the help she needed, and soon she would be back in Scotland.

Several of her friends were looking at her anxiously reminding her that there was still time to change her mind; but Mary had no intention of doing that. She was filled with hope on that beautiful May morning.

The surf in the Abbey Creek impeded the boat for some minutes, and then they were out on the Firth.

Scotland lay behind them—before them was England and what Mary believed to be the way back to her throne.

IV

Carlisle

THE ENGLISH COAST WAS IN SIGHT. For four hours the fishing-boat in which were the Queen and her sixteen followers, together with four sailors, had been on the Solway Firth endeavoring to battle its way against a strong breeze. There had been an occasion during the trip when Mary had thought that they would be blown out to sea; in which case she knew that her friends would have taken that as an omen that their destination should have been France.

But now they were within a few minutes of landing, and already the inhabitants of that stretch of coast had noticed the ship and were coming down to the shore to see who was descending upon them.

These simple people stared in astonishment at the strangers, and immediately all eyes were focused on the tall woman who carried herself with such dignity and whose beauty, in spite of her tattered and soiled gown and the fact that her hair was escaping from her coif, was such as to startle them.

It was Herries who spoke. “This is the Queen of Scotland. Who is the lord of these parts?”

While some of the people pointed to a mansion on an incline a little distance from the coast, one or two of the younger men began to run in that direction, and with satisfaction Herries understood that they were going to acquaint someone of importance of the arrival.

Livingstone came to stand beside the Queen. “Perhaps we might walk toward the house,” he said. “It is not seemly for Your Majesty to remain here among these staring people.”

The others agreed and Herries announced: “We will go to your master’s house. Lead us thither.”

The people continued to stare at the Queen, but some of their number were ready to lead the way and the little party set off.

A strange manner, thought Mary, for a Queen to travel. And she thought of other journeys with the pomp and richness of royalty all about her.

Before they had arrived at Workington Hall, its owner, Sir Henry Curwen, now having been warned of her approach, came out to meet the party.

When he reached the Queen he bowed and bade her welcome to Workington. Then he led the way into a wooded park, and Mary felt a great relief as the gracious mansion with its castellated towers and turrets loomed before her. As she passed through the embattled gateway Sir Henry’s wife and mother were waiting to greet them.

When the younger Lady Curwen had made her curtsy she told the Queen that Workington Hall was at her disposal for as long as she wished and that, having heard of Her Majesty’s arrival, he had immediately ordered that the finest apartments in the house should be made ready for her.

“We are sixteen,” said Mary with an apologetic smile; “and we come unannounced. But I know you will feel pity for us when you hear of our misfortunes.”

“Let me conduct you to my own rooms while yours are being prepared,” said Lady Curwen. “There perhaps I can help you with a change of linen and a clean gown while food is made ready.”

“You are very kind.”

“We count it an honor to have the Queen of Scotland under our roof,” said Sir Henry.

“I am sure,” put in the Dowager Lady Curwen, “that our good Queen would be most displeased if we showed aught but warm hospitality to her kinswoman.”

“I hope soon to be with her,” Mary answered. “Then I shall tell her how happy I was to be so warmly received as soon as I stepped on her soil.”

Lady Curwen led the way to her own rooms, and, while water was brought and Mary and her ladies washed the stains of the journey from their persons, clothes were sent in for them.

For Mary there was a gown of crimson brocade slashed with white satin; it was fortunately loose, which helped to hide the fact that the fit was not perfect. Jane Kennedy combed the long chestnut hair back from the high forehead and a small round cap was placed at the back of Mary’s head, over which was a veil, edged with gold; this draped gracefully over her shoulders.

When she was dressed in these garments Mary felt almost gay. The worst was over, she told herself; the next step would be the meeting place Elizabeth suggested—and then, with England’s help, would begin the regaining of her throne.

There were clean clothes for her female attendants and, when they had changed, they felt their spirits rising. It was only three days since the defeat at Langside, but those had been spent in almost continual travel, frequently by night, and it was a great relief to put on clean garments.