She said to James: “I cannot ride through the city thus mounted.”

“Remember, dear sister,” was James’s reply, “the people of Edinburgh have never seen your grand French processions. They will think you magnificent enough.”

“I could weep for chagrin. What must my uncles think?”

“They must take us as they find us,” said James grimly. “Here we are more prone to admire that which is simple in life than lavish spectacles.”

Mary shivered, and not from the damp air.

They were a few miles from Holyrood when, turning a bend in the road, Mary saw before them a crowd of shouting people. At first she thought they were the citizens of Edinburgh come out to welcome her, but as they drew nearer it seemed to her that this was a menacing crowd. They shouted and, although she could not understand what they said, she heard her name mentioned. Their mottled flesh showed through their rags; their feet were bare and bleeding; and to her horror she saw that many of them were brandishing sticks.

“The Queen! The Queen!” shouted the ringleaders, and the crowd rushed forward, surrounding the cavalcade.

Mary was brought to a standstill, but she was not afraid. Rather she welcomed the excitement. She preferred these raucous shouts to the sullen indifference of the fisherfolk of Leith. She discovered in that moment that she was stimulated by danger; instinctively she drew herself up on the worn-out saddle, and nothing at that moment could make her look anything but queenly.

“What do they say?” she demanded of James. “They are telling me something. Do not spare me, I beg of you. Are they telling me to go back to France?”

James held up his hand. Mary was proud of him as she watched. There was about him that which commanded immediate respect.

“Silence!” he roared. “Silence in the presence of the Queen!”

There was an immediate hush. Mary looked into the wild faces of the men and women who were pressing so close to her, as James said: “They do not come to attack you. They come to ask your clemency. They have broken into the prison and rescued one James Kellone who was to have been hanged. They are asking for a free pardon for him and for themselves.”

“What was his offense?” asked Mary.

“He is guilty of masquing on the Sabbath Day, which is against the law,” said Lord James in severe tones.

“But surely not worthy of the death penalty! Indeed I am glad that some of my subjects know how to laugh. I will speak to them.”

“Your Majesty, have a care. Remember the Kirk of Scotland.”

But Mary rarely paused to think. She was with these people of hers. They no longer looked fierce. They had longed for gaiety, for masques and laughter. Dear God! she thought. How I do too, and how I understand their longing!

She forced her horse forward a little so that she was no longer beside Lord James. She lifted her hand and cried: “Good people of Scotland, bear with me, your Queen, for I have lived in a strange land and, having just come among you, my speech will sound strange to you.”

There was silence all around her, broken only by the squawking of sea-birds. In the crowd it seemed that no one stirred. They stood, their sticks held lightly, their mouths open, waiting for what the Queen would say; and if they did not entirely understand her words, her smile was friendly and her face the fairest they had ever seen.

“You ask pardon for one who has been condemned to die. My subjects, most happily I grant a free pardon to that man and you all.”

A free pardon! That much they could understand. They called out one to another: “Free pardon! May God bless the Queen.” They cried then as one voice: “God save the Queen!”

And when the cavalcade pressed on, it was surrounded and followed by a mob of poor people waving their sticks and looking barbarous indeed. The stench, so said the more delicate of the French afterward, all but made them vomit. But Mary felt happier than she had since she set foot in Scotland. It was pleasant to know that she had made some of her subjects understand her; it was pleasant to know that some—however humble—were proclaiming their loyalty.

Lord James was disturbed. It was a charming gesture, charmingly made, and it might be that she did right to make it at that moment. But as his eyes met those of Maitland of Lethington he knew that the great diplomat agreed with him that Mary Stuart would find trouble in Scotland. The Kirk—and its leader, John Knox—would find good cause to quarrel with her, and the Kirk and John Knox wielded great power in Scotland.

DUSK HAD FALLEN before Mary reached her capital city and, as it grew dark, she had the pleasure of seeing the bonfires flare up, first on Cal ton Hill, then on Salisbury Crag; she saw them burning in the city itself and she could hear the shouts of the people. It was comforting; their welcome might be rough according to French standards, but it was at least a genuine welcome.

Now she could see the fortress which had been built by her father. It looked dark, even menacing. She gazed uneasily at its towers and their crenelated battlements.

Here she would rest, just outside the city’s walls; for clearly she could not make her triumphal entry into her capital in darkness.

It was a vast and noble palace, but it seemed chill and without comfort. The few tapestries which hung on the walls lacked the brilliance and beauty of those to which she was accustomed; here were no delicate carpets, no carved furniture; everything was plain, heavy and sparse.

Mary had been warmed by the loyal shouts of the mob which had accompanied her to the palace, and soon she would have some of her cherished possessions about her; she would bring warmth and cheer to the place; so that a little discomfort now seemed of small account. She could endure anything, she believed, provided she had the love and loyalty of her people. Even now she could hear the people from the city, crowding about the walls of the palace and calling: “God Save the Queen!”

Tired as she was, in need of a hearty meal and the comfort she had known at the Court of France, she was not unhappy.

She found Flem beside her. Flem seemed touched with a glowing excitement; she had not noticed before that Flem was growing into a real beauty. Mary noticed also that the stern Lord Maitland had his eyes on Flem, although he was doubtless old enough to be her father.

That served to remind her that now they were home there would necessarily be a few marriages in her suite. She was going to enjoy bringing happiness to those she loved. There would certainly be other marriages to consider besides her own.

Dear Flem! She was not indifferent to the admiring glances of that important statesman. Mary would tease her about it tomorrow.

The meal was served and it seemed more tasty than it was, so hungry were they. And when it was over Mary retired to the apartment which had been prepared for her. While her Marys helped her to disrobe she talked excitedly of the way in which they would refurnish these apartments. It seemed to her then that the nostalgic melancholy of the first day and night had diminished a little. They were not in love with their new life—any of them—but they were becoming reconciled to it.

Then suddenly there broke out beneath her window what seemed to them a caterwauling, a barrage of the harshest sounds they had ever heard. Mary started up in horror, and hastily caused herself to be robed once more. Just as Flem and Livy were fastening her gown, and as the noise had grown louder and wilder and more discordant, there was a knocking on the door of the apartment.

It was Lord James with Lord Maitland, Marys three Guise uncles and d’Amville.

“What has happened?” cried Mary in alarm. “Is someone being murdered?”

“The loyal citizens of Edinburgh have come to give you welcome,” said Lord James dryly. “They are playing the bagpipes in your honor. It would be well for you to appear at your window and say a few words of gracious thanks to them.”