Part 363 (1/2)

MORTIMER.

She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.

MARY.

And can she thus roll in the very dust Her own, and every monarch's majesty?

MORTIMER.

She thinks on nothing now but present danger, Nor looks to that which is so far removed.

MARY.

And fears she not the dread revenge of France?

MORTIMER.

With France she makes an everlasting peace; And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.

MARY.

Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?

MORTIMER.

She fears not a collected world in arms?

If with her people she remains at peace.

MARY.

Were this a spectacle for British eyes?

MORTIMER.

This land, my queen, has, in these latter days, Seen many a royal woman from the throne Descend and mount the scaffold:--her own mother And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path; And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?

MARY (after a pause).

No, Mortimer, vain fears have blinded you; 'Tis but the honest care of your true heart, Which conjures up these empty apprehensions.

It is not, sir, the scaffold that I fear: There are so many still and secret means By which her majesty of England may Set all my claims to rest. Oh, trust me, ere An executioner is found for me, a.s.sa.s.sins will be hired to do their work.

'Tis that which makes me tremble, Mortimer: I never lift the goblet to my lips Without an inward shuddering, lest the draught May have been mingled by my sister's love.

MORTIMER.

No:--neither open or disguised murder Shall e'er prevail against you:--fear no more; All is prepared;--twelve n.o.bles of the land Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day, Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you, With dauntless arm, from this captivity.

Count Aubespine, the French amba.s.sador, Knows of our plot, and offers his a.s.sistance: 'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.

NARY.

You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!

An evil boding penetrates my heart.

Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared By Babington and Tichburn's b.l.o.o.d.y heads, Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?

Nor by the ruin of those many victims Who have, in such attempts, found certain death, And only made my chains the heavier?

Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!

Fly, if there yet be time for you, before That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes, And mix his traitors in your secret plots.

Fly hence:--as yet, success hath never smiled On Mary Stuart's champions.