"
"Her words go like a knife through my heart," said the Lady of
Lochleven--"With a breaking heart, I pray your Grace to tell me what
is your ailment, that aid may be had, if there be yet time."
"Nay, my ailment," replied the Queen, "is nothing worth telling, or
worth a leech's notice--my limbs feel heavy--my heart feels cold--a
prisoner's limbs and heart are rarely otherwise--fresh air, methinks,
and freedom, would soon revive me; but as the Estates have ordered it,
death alone can break my prison-doors."
"Were it possible, madam," said the Lady, "that your liberty could
restore your perfect health, I would myself encounter the resentment
of the Regent--of my son, Sir William--of my whole friends, rather
than you should meet your fate in this castle."
"Alas! madam," said the Lady Fleming, who conceived the time
propitious to show that her own address had been held too lightly of;
"it is but trying what good freedom may work upon us; for myself, I
think a free walk on the greensward would do me much good at heart."
The Lady of Lochleven rose from the bedside, and darted a penetrating
look at the elder valetudinary. "Are you so evil-disposed, Lady
Fleming?"
"Evil-disposed indeed, madam," replied the court dame, "and more
especially since breakfast."
"Help! help!" exclaimed Catherine, anxious to break off a conversation
which boded her schemes no good; "help! I say, help! the Queen is
about to pass away. Aid her, Lady Lochleven, if you be a woman!"
The Lady hastened to support the Queen's head, who, turning her eyes
towards her with an air of great languor, exclaimed, "Thanks, my
dearest Lady of Lochleven--notwithstanding some passages of late, I
have never misconstrued or misdoubted your affection to our house.
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