this inscription, "O Lord! judge and
revenge my cause!" Mary reined in her horse abruptly at this sight, and
wanted to turn back; but she had scarcely moved a few paces when the
accusing banner again blocked her passage. Wherever she went, she met
this dreadful apparition. For two hours she had incessantly under her
eyes the king's corpse asking vengeance, and the young prince her son
praying God to punish the murderers. At last she could endure it no
longer, and, crying out, she threw herself back, having completely lost
consciousness, and would have fallen, if someone had not caught hold of
her. In the evening she entered Edinburgh, always preceded by the cruel
banner, and she already had rather the air of a prisoner than of a
queen; for, not having had a moment during the day to attend to her
toilet, her hair was falling in disorder about her shoulders, her face
was pale and showed traces of tears; and finally, her clothes were
covered with dust and mud. As she proceeded through the town, the
hootings of the people and the curses of the crowd followed her. At
last, half dead with fatigue, worn out with grief, bowed down with
shame, she reached the house of the Lord Provost; but scarcely had
she got there when the entire population of Edinburgh crowded into the
square, with cries that from time to time assumed a tone of terrifying
menace. Several times, then, Mary wished to go to the window, hoping
that the sight of her, of which she had so often proved the influence,
would disarm this multitude; but each time she saw this banner unfurling
itself like a bloody curtain between herself and the people--a terrible
rendering of their feelings.

However, all this hatred was meant still more for Bothwell than for
her: they were pursuing Bothwell in Darnley's widow. The curses were
for Bothwell: Bothwell was the adulterer, Bothwell was the murderer,
Bothwell was the coward; while Mary was the weak, fascinated woman, who,
that same evening, gave afresh proof of her folly.

In fact, directly the falling night had scattered the crowd and a little
quiet was regained, Mary, ceasing to be uneasy on her own account,
turned immediately to Bothwell, whom she had been obliged to abandon,
and who was now proscribed and fleeing; while she, as she believed,
was about to reassume her title and station of queen. With that eternal
confidence of the woman in her own love, by which she invariably
measures the love of another, she thought that