y without further remark.

From the officer with whom he had just been speaking, the Earl of Murray
carefully concealed the motives which had prompted his inquiries, but
determined, henceforth, to watch with the utmost vigilance the
proceedings of the queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should
occur that might put them both fairly within his power. Unaware of the
dangerous surveillance under which he was already placed, it was with a
delight which only he himself perhaps could feel, that Chatelard
received, in the evening, the promised invitation from the queen to
attend her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation was
conveyed in some playful verses--an art in which Mary excelled--written
on embossed paper. The enthusiastic poet read the delightful lines a
thousand times over, dwelt with rapture on each word and phrase, and
finally kissed the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour
of a highly-excited and uncontrollable passion. Having indulged in these
tender sensibilities for some time, Chatelard at length folded up the
unconscious object of his adoration, thrust it into his bosom, took up a
small _portfeuille_, covered with red morocco leather, gilt, and
embossed, the depository of his poetical effusions, and hurried to the
apartment of the queen, where he was speedily set to the task of reading
his compositions, for the entertainment of the assembled fair ones; and
it is certain that on more than one of them the tender and impassioned
manner of the bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to
his highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made an
impression by no means favourable to their night's repose. It would,
however, perhaps be more tedious than interesting to the reader, were we
to detail all that passed on the night in question in the queen's
apartment; to record all the witty and pleasant things that were said
and done by the queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say,
that the latter retired at a pretty late hour; his imprudent passion, we
cannot say increased--for of increase it would not admit--but
strengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes.

From that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed that his love was
returned--that he had inspired in the bosom of Mary a passion as ardent
as his own. Into this unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed
imagination had betrayed him, by representing in the light of special
marks