“It is unmeet,” said the Earl of Kent, “troublesome to Your Grace and unpleasing to us. They would put into practice some superstitious trumpery, such as dipping their handkerchiefs into Your Graces blood.”

“My lord, you shall have my word that no such thing shall be done.”

Finally the two Earls gave her permission to take with her as escort, two of her women and four of her men. She took sir Andrew Melville, Master of her Household; Bourgoigne, her physician; Gourion, her surgeon; and Gervais, her apothecary for the four men; and the two women were her beloved Jane Kennedy and Elizabeth Curie.

As she was assisted slowly and painfully down the staircase to the hall, she saw that Andrew Melville was overcome by his grief.

“Weep not, Melville,” she said. “This world is full of vanities and full of sorrows. And fortunate I am to leave it. I am a Catholic, dear Melville, and you a Protestant; but remember this, there is one Christ. I die, firm in my religion, a true Scotswoman and true to France. Commend me to my sweet son. Tell him to appeal to God and not to human aid. Let him learn from his mothers sorrows. May God forgive all those who have long thirsted for my blood as the hart doth for the brooks of water. Farewell, good Melville. Pray for your Queen.”

Melville could not answer her. He could only turn away while the uncontrollable sobs shook his body.

Into the hall of death she went. Melville bore her train, and Jane and Elizabeth, who had put on mourning weeds, covered their faces with their hands so that only their shaking bodies betrayed their grief.

Mary saw that a platform had been set up at the end of the hall. A fire was burning in the grate. She saw the platform, covered with black cloth; she saw the ax and the block.

She reached the chair—also black-covered—which had been provided for her, but she could not, without aid, mount the two steps to reach it.

As she was helped to this, she said in a clear voice: “I thank you. This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.”

The death warrant was read to her. The Dean of Peterborough pleaded with her to turn from the Catholic Faith while there was yet time. To both she preserved a dignified indifference.

The moment of death was drawing near. The executioner was, in the traditional manner, asking her forgiveness.

“I forgive you with all my heart,” she cried.

Looking about her she prayed silently for courage. It was not her enemies who unnerved her. It was Jane Kennedy’s quivering body, Elizabeth Curie’s suppressed sobbing, Andrew Melville’s tears and the sad looks of the others which made her want to weep.

Her uncle, the great Balafré, had once told her that when her time came she would know well how to die, for she possessed the courage of the Guises.

She was in urgent need of that courage now. Her two women had come forward to help her prepare herself. She kissed them and blessed them, but they could do little to help her remove her gown; their fingers trembled, but the Queens were steady. She stood calm and brave in her camisole and red velvet petticoat, while Jane Kennedy fumbled with the gold-edged handkerchief which she tied over her mistress’s eyes.

Now Mary was shut away from the hall of tragedy; she could no longer see the faces of those who loved her, distorted with grief; she was shut in with her own courage.

Jane had flung herself at her mistress’s feet and was kissing her petticoat. Mary felt the soft face and knew it was Jane.

“Weep not, dear Jane,” she said, “but pray for me.”

She knelt there on the cushion provided for her, murmuring: “In thee, Lord, have I hoped. Let me never be put to confusion.”

Groping, she felt for the block; the executioner guided her to it. She laid her head upon it saying: “Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

Bulle, the executioner, hesitated. This was his trade; his victim had forgiven him, knowing this; yet never before had he been called upon to wield the ax for one who affected him so deeply with her grace and dignity.

Every eye in the hall was upon him. He faltered. He dealt a blow. There was a gasp from the watchers, for the ax had slipped and though the blood of Mary Stuart gushed forth, she was merely wounded.

Trembling, Bulle again raised his ax; but his nerve was affected. Again he struck, and again he failed to complete his work.

It was with the third stroke that he severed the Queen’s head from her body.

Then he grasped the beautiful chestnut hair, crying: “God save Queen Elizabeth! So perish all her enemies.”

But the head had rolled on to the bloodstained cloth which covered the scaffold, and it was a wig which the executioner held up before him.

There was silence in the hall as all eyes turned to the head with the cropped grey hair—the head of a woman grown old in captivity.

And as they watched, they saw a movement beneath the red velvet petticoat, and Mary little Skye terrier, who unnoticed had followed his mistress into the hall, ran to the head and crouched beside it, whimpering.

The silence was only broken by the sounds of sobbing.

The Queen of Scotland and the Isles had come to the end of her journey—from triumph and glory to captivity, from joy to sorrow, from the thrones of France and Scotland to the ax in the hall of Fotheringhay Castle—and to peace.