Call my
French guards--_a moi! a moi! mes Francais_!--I am beset
with traitors in mine own palace--they have murdered my
husband--Rescue! Rescue! for the Queen of Scotland!' She
started up from her chair--her features late so exquisitely
lovely in their paleness, now inflamed with the fury of
frenzy, and resembling those of a Bellona. 'We will take the
field ourself,' she said; 'warn the city--warn Lothian and
Fife--saddle our Spanish barb, and bid French Paris see our
petronel be charged. Better to die at the head of our brave
Scotsmen, like our grandfather at Flodden, than of a broken
heart like our ill-starred father.' 'Be patient--be
composed, dearest sovereign,' said Catherine; and then
addressing Lady Fleming angrily, she added, 'How could you
say aught that reminded her of her husband?' The word
reached the ear of the unhappy princess who caught it up,
speaking with great rapidity, 'Husband!--what husband? Not
his most Christian Majesty--he is ill at ease--he cannot
mount on horseback--not him of the Lennox--but it was the
Duke of Orkney thou wouldst say?' 'For God's love, madam, be
patient!' said the Lady Fleming.
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