To him she made answer; she would die in the faith in which she had lived.

The hour was at hand. She must now prepare herself for the block. Seeing this, the two executioners came forward and begged for her forgiveness.

“I forgive you and all the world with all mine heart,” she told them, “for I hope this death will give an end to all my troubles. Come, Jane. Come, Elizabeth.”

Shuddering the two women stood as though unable to move. Jane was shaking her head as though she had not until this moment realized that they could come to this.

“Nay, nay,” Mary scolded. “You should be ashamed to weep. See how happy I am to leave this world.”

They were trembling so much that they could not assist her, and she herself took off her pomander and rosary. “I should like the Countess of Arundel to have this in memory of me,” she murmured. But Bulle, the executioner, laid greedy hands on it. “Nay,” he insisted, “it is mine.” And he snatched it from her and put it in his shoe.

Jane Kennedy’s anger temporarily overcame her grief. “Give it to me,” she cried. “You heard Her Majesty’s wish.”

Bulle shook his head, and Mary interposed: “Let her have it. She will pay you more than it is worth.”

But the executioner still shook his head and grumbled that it was his and he would keep it.

“It is a small matter,” murmured Mary. “Come, help me remove my gown.”

Standing in her petticoat of crimson velvet and her plaid camisole, she looked toward Jane who held the handkerchief with its gold-fringed border with which she was to bind Mary’s eyes.

Jane’s hands were shaking so much that she could not fold it, and her tears fell onto the handkerchief as she bent over it.

“Weep no more, Jane. Rather pray for me. Come, I will fold the handkerchief.”

This she did, and Elizabeth and Jane placed it over her eyes.

She stood regal yet piteous, the handkerchief shutting out the sight of the block, the axe, and the faces distorted in anguish or alive with curiosity.

This is the end, she thought, for I shall never look on the world again.

Paulet signed for Elizabeth and Jane to leave the platform, and they were hustled away while Mary was led to the cushion on which she was to kneel.

The moment had come. The Earl of Shrewsbury lifted his baton, and his cheeks were wet with tears as he did so.

“In Thee, Lord, have I hope,” murmured the Queen. “Let me never be put to confusion. Into Thy hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit.”

There was a tense silence in the hall. The axe was raised, but then it was noticed that Mary was gripping the block with both hands beneath her chin. Bulle signed to the second executioner to move them. This he did, and the axe fell. The blow struck Mary’s head but did not sever it, and there was a deep groan throughout the hall. Bulle struck again, and again the blow was ineffective. For the third time the axe fell, and this time Mary’s head rolled away from her body.

With a cry of triumph Bulle seized the chestnut hair and, to the horror of all, the head, covered with short gray hair, rolled from his grasp, leaving him clutching the chestnut wig.

“God save Queen Elizabeth,” he said.

“So perish all her enemies!” cried the Dean of Peterborough.

There were few who could look unmoved on that scene. Bulle had stooped to take the Queen’s garters, which were, like the pomander, his perquisite, when from the red velvet petticoat there crept Mary’s little Skye terrier who was whimpering piteously as he ran and stopped to cower between his mistress’s head and her body.

Elizabeth and Jane came forward. “I pray you,” they said to Paulet, “allow us to take Her Majesty’s body. Do not allow it to remain here to be degraded by those who would snatch at her garments.”

The Earl of Kent told them to go away. They no longer had a mistress; they should regard her fate as a warning.

Weeping bitterly, Jane and Elizabeth were dragged away from their mistress, but the little dog could not be moved, and snarled at all who approached him.

LONDON WAS WILD WITH JOY. The fair devil of Scotland was no more. Their Queen was safe; Protestant England was safe. Light the bonfires! This was as good an excuse as any to dance and make merry.

The King of France received the news in sorrow, and there were memorial services in Notre Dame for Mary Queen of Scots. The King of Spain heard the news with his usual serenity. In his shipyards building should go on apace. The death of Mary Queen of Scots would make no difference to the dream of Philip II.

Elizabeth was uneasy. I never desired it, she said. It was never my will that she should die.

But she spoke thus for her Catholic subjects, and she rested happier in her bed after the death of that hated rival.

And all those who had lived and served Mary continued to mourn for her.

Jacques Nau and Gilbert Curle remained long in prison, for their obstinacy had not endeared them to their jailors. Bessie Pierpont was soon released from the Tower, but she did not marry Jacques Nau who continued to be a state prisoner. Eventually she settled down with a Yorkshire Squire named Richard Stapleton; and when he was at length released, Nau returned to his native France and there married a Frenchwoman. Gilbert Curle found his faithful wife, Barbara, waiting for him on his release; and with his daughter Mary, whom the Queen had baptized, and his sister Elizabeth, went to Antwerp where they lived happily for the rest of their lives.

Jane Kennedy married Andrew Melville; and on their return to Scotland they were favored by King James for the manner in which they had served his mother. It was this favor, however, which resulted in Jane’s death, for when she crossed the Firth of Forth on her way to greet James’s bride, Anne of Denmark, the boat in which she was traveling capsized and she was drowned.

Mary’s Skye terrier refused all food after her death and died of his misery.

IN ORDER TO SHOW THE WORLD that she had not wished the Queen of Scots to die, Elizabeth ordered that she should be buried in state in Peterborough; and on the black velvet pall which covered her coffin a gold crown was placed as it was borne to the Cathedral. Here it remained for twenty years, until her son James ordered that it should be removed to Westminster Abbey and placed in the center aisle of Henry VII’s Chapel.

Many were the friends who mourned Mary. Seton who herself had not long to live in her convent; Jane and Andrew Melville; the Curles; Bessie; Jacques; all her friends in Scotland; all her friends in France; and there were some in England, for all who had known her—even such as Shrewsbury and Paulet—could not help but respect her.

It was said that the Queen of Scots was dead. But for many it was as though she still lived, because for them—and for many who came after—she would never die; and in the years to come there would be those to love and mourn her.