Roland Graeme, on whose youth, inexperience, and
ardent sense of what was dignified and lovely, the demeanour of so
fair and high-born a lady wrought like the charm of a magician, stood
rooted to the spot with surprise and interest, longing to hazard his
life in a quarrel so fair as that which Mary Stewart's must needs be.
She had been bred in France--she was possessed of the most
distinguished beauty--she had reigned a Queen and a Scottish Queen, to
whom knowledge of character was as essential as the use of vital air.
In all these capacities, Mary was, of all women on the earth, most
alert at perceiving and using the advantages which her charms gave her
over almost all who came within the sphere of their influence. She
cast on Roland a glance which might have melted a heart of stone. "My
poor boy," she said, with a feeling partly real, partly politic, "thou
art a stranger to us--sent to this doleful captivity from the society
of some tender mother, or sister, or maiden, with whom you had freedom
to tread a gay measure round the Maypole. I grieve for you; but you
are the only male in my limited household--wilt thou obey my orders?"
"To the death, madam," said Graeme, in a determined tone.
"Then keep the door of mine apartment," said the Queen; "keep it till
they offer actual violence, or till we shall be fitly arrayed to
receive these intrusive visiters."
"I will defend it till they pass over my body," said Roland Graeme;
any hesitation which he had felt concerning the line of conduct he
ought to pursue being completely swept away by the impulse of the
moment.
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