“Your Majesty,” broke in the exasperated ambassador, “if I report this scene to King Philip, matters will come to the cannon.”

“You really shouldn’t say such things,” said Elizabeth with a coquettish glance at the enraged Spaniard, and she added quietly, “If you do, I shall have to throw you into one of my dungeons.”

Elizabeth made Drake a knight, she wore his jewels in her crown, and she dined with him on board the Golden Hind. She often had him at court, and never wearied of hearing the story of his adventures.

“Tell me of the savages,” she commanded, and Drake began:—

“We saw them moving about under the trees, and when we came near, they paddled out to meet us. They made a long speech with many gestures, and it seemed as if they couldn’t do us reverence enough. The next day they came again, and this time they brought a great ragged bunch of crow’s feathers. The man who stood at the king’s right hand knelt before me and touched the ground with his forehead three times. Then he gave me the feathers. I noticed that the king’s guards all wore such bunches on their heads, so I stuck them in my red cap as well as ever I could, and the savages all danced around me and made the most unearthly screeching that I ever heard. Then they began to show us their wounds and sores, and made signs that we should blow on them to heal them. I gave them plasters and lotions. They ought to do some good, for they were mixed on a day that Dr. Dee said would make any medicine of worth.”

“Tell me about the Cacafuego,” bade the queen, and Drake said:—

“We took a Spanish ship, and one of the sailors said, ‘Let me go free and I will tell you such news as you never heard before.’ I promised, and he said, ‘There’s a ship not far ahead of you, her name is the Cacafuego, and if you can catch her, you’ll have such a prize as you never saw in a dream—and I’ll get my revenge on her captain for this,’ he muttered, and then he put his hand on a great red scar on his forehead. We chased her to Payta, but she had gone to Panama, and when we came to Panama, she was somewhere else. ‘I’ll give a gold chain to the first man that sees her,’ I said, and, your Majesty, if I had even given an order to drop anchor, I verily believe every man of them would have climbed the masthead. Well, about three o’clock one afternoon my page John caught sight of her, and we pursued. Oh, but it was glorious! I wish you had been there!” said the sturdy sailor, forgetting for a moment that he was addressing the sovereign of England.

“So do I,” declared Elizabeth, and she too forgot that she was a queen, she forgot everything but the wild adventures that the man before her had met. Drake went on:—

“We fired across her bow, but she wouldn’t stop. Then we shot three pieces of ordnance and struck down her mizzen mast, and we boarded her. A man could wade up to his waist in the treasure in her hold. There were thirteen chests full of Spanish reals, there were six and twenty tons of silver, and fourscore pounds of gold, and there were jewels and precious stones. Your Majesty can see them in the Tower, but oh, how they glittered and flashed and sparkled in the dark hold of the vessel when we broke open the caskets and turned the light of the lanterns on them, and how the dons swore at us! It’s many a month that they should do penance for that day’s work.”

“I really wonder that you didn’t excommunicate them as you did your own chaplain,” said Elizabeth.

“They were only swearing, and he was a coward,” explained Drake. “A man who’ll go about among the sailors before a fight and tell them he is not sure that it is the will of God to give them the victory ought to be excommunicated, he ought to be hanged.”

“Tell me again just what you said,” demanded the queen, “that I may see what penalty you deserve for daring to show dishonor to one of my chaplains.”

“I chained him by the leg to the forehatch,” replied Drake, “and I said, ‘Francis Fletcher, I do here excommunicate thee out of the church of God, and I renounce thee to the devil and all his angels;’ and then I tied a riband around his arm, and I said, ‘If so be that you dare to unbind this riband, you’ll swing from that yardarm as sure as my name is Francis Drake.’”

“And what was it you wrote on the riband?” asked the queen, though well knowing the answer.

“I wrote ‘Francis Fletcher, the falsest knave that liveth.’ I don’t see how I could have done less.”

“Neither do I,” agreed Elizabeth heartily, “and it would but ill become me to differ with a man who has just given me a New Albion. Where say you that my new domain lies?”

“On the western shores of North America,” answered Drake, “and perchance, your Majesty, this new domain may stretch into Asia itself, for the western land reaches much farther west than I had thought, and it may be that in the far north the New World touches the old.”

“Then I am perhaps queen of the Indies,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “Now go, my brave sailor, but see to it that you come soon to court again, for there is much more that I would know of this wicked journey of yours.”

So it was that these bold buccaneers went on their voyages, not so much for adventure or discovery as for the sake of gold. The easiest way to get gold was to take it from the Spanish settlements in America, but when Drake sailed, the Spaniards on the eastern coast of America were becoming wary. Too many of their treasure ships had been attacked and too many of their settlements robbed for them to live as carelessly as had been the case in the earlier days. Spanish ships on the Atlantic were manned with men who could fight, and Spanish settlements on the eastern coast of America were guarded and fortified.

On the Pacific shore matters were different. Spanish gold from the fabulously rich mines of Peru was carried leisurely up the coast in vessels manned chiefly by negro slaves. At Panama it was unloaded and taken across the isthmus. Then it was carefully guarded, and vessels well supplied with Spanish troops bore it across the ocean to the treasure vaults of Philip. It did not occur to the Spaniards that even an English corsair would venture to round Cape Horn, and when Drake appeared among the unprotected ships and the unfortified settlements, he found an easy prey. It was less dangerous for him to cross the Pacific and double the Cape of Good Hope than to return to England among the Spanish vessels on the Atlantic; and that is why Drake was the first Englishman to sail around the world.

These English buccaneers sailed under a sort of roving commission from the queen. They were to give her a share of their profits, but they knew well that if they could not extricate themselves from any trouble that they might fall into with Philip, she would make no effort to defend them, but would declare that they had had orders to do no harm to her “good friend, the king of Spain.” Still, the prizes of success were so enormous and the charm of adventure so enticing that there was no lack of bold leaders to rob the coffers of Spain, to fill the treasury of Elizabeth, and to prepare experienced seamen for the great struggle that awaited England when Philip “of the leaden foot” should at last arise and show his might.

CHAPTER XIII
THE NEW WORLD

Interest in the New World was increasing. Every year new maps, books of travel, and descriptions of various parts of the earth, especially of America, were published, some of the descriptions real and some almost wholly imaginative; but whatever they were, they always found readers.

One man who watched eagerly for whatever came from the press about the New World was a sea-captain named Martin Frobisher. He read all these books, he studied globes and charts, and at last he felt sure that he knew the way to fame and wealth, but he was a poor man and he could not carry out his plans alone. He sought an audience with the queen.

“I’ve heard of you before, my gallant captain,” said Elizabeth graciously. “Didn’t you care for the building of one of my ships that were sent against the Irish rebels?”

“I did, your Majesty, and if only that ship belonged to me, I would put her to a noble use.”

“And what might that be?” asked the queen.

“Your Majesty, men have sailed to the northeast, to the south, and to the west, but no man has yet gone to the north of the New World. There lies the way to India, and to find that way is the only thing in all the world that is yet left undone whereby a man may become both rich and notable.”

“And so you plan to go to the northwest?” asked Elizabeth.

“He who has little gold must have few plans, but it might well be that as the southern land tapers to a point, so the northern land narrows, and then with an open sea and a short voyage to Cathay, what would the wealth of the Spanish mines be to us? We could buy and sell in every clime. Give us the riches of India, and we could fit out a fleet that would drive King Philip from the shores of the New World, from the waters of the Atlantic, from——”

“Perchance from the face of the earth, my captain?” interrupted Elizabeth. “I promise you that I will think of this scheme of yours.”

Elizabeth did think of it, but to her mind there was a far greater charm in a wild voyage of buccaneering than in the possibilities of slow gain by trading with people across two oceans, and she gave Frobisher no help. He won a friend, however, in the Earl of Warwick, and the fleet of three daring little vessels set out for the north. Elizabeth did not help to pay the costs of the voyage, but she stood on the shore and waved her royal hand to the commander as he dropped slowly down the Thames.

Frobisher came home with great joy. He had entered the strait that is called after him, and he had seen, as he believed, America lying on his left hand and Asia on his right. That was surely the way to India. It is no wonder that crowds went to visit his tiny barque.

“Can you not give me a memento of the voyage?” asked a lady.

“Next year I will bring you a memento from China,” answered Frobisher. “Shall it be silks or jewels or perfumes?”

“Beggars should not be choosers,” said the lady with a smile, “but give me a bit of this strange black stone as a pledge that you will not forget me next year when you are even more famous than you are to-day.”

“One of the sailors brought that aboard,” said Frobisher. “It looks like sea-coal, but it is as heavy as iron.”

This little gift put Frobisher at the head of a fleet of fifteen vessels, but he was no longer free to win glory as an explorer. The bit of black stone was dropped into the fire to see whether it would burn, and then vinegar was poured upon it. It glittered, and an Italian chemist declared that it was rich in gold. After this there was no difficulty in raising funds for a voyage to the marvelous country of the north where gold lay about on the surface of the ground.

The ships sailed, but they met icebergs, fog, and storm. Frobisher hesitated. He believed that he could force his way to the Pacific, but his orders were to make sure of the gold, and he loaded his ships with what proved to be only worthless earth. In later years he won honors and wealth, but his dream of finding the Northwest Passage was never realized.

Thus far most people had thought of America as a place where a man might be fortunate enough to find a gold mine, but where he was quite as likely to be killed by the Indians or captured by the Spaniards. Others looked upon it as a troublesome mass of land that blocked the way to the riches of commerce with India. To one young courtier this strange New World was something more than the home of possible gold mines, and in his mind it was certainly not an obstacle to wealth and success. This young man was named Walter Raleigh. He had shown his scholarship at Oxford and his bravery in a campaign in Ireland. It came to pass that he and the lord deputy of Ireland disagreed. “I wish to defend myself before the royal council,” said Raleigh. This defence was managed so skilfully that the queen listened with the closest attention.

“Bring that young Raleigh to me,” she commanded when the council dissolved.

Raleigh knelt before her and kissed her hand.

“Young man,” said she, “you seem to have been in no way worsted by those mighty councilors of mine.”

“Your Majesty,” answered Raleigh with the look of admiration that was so dear to Elizabeth, “could one fail to be aroused to the best that is in him when he has the honor of speaking in the glorious presence of his sovereign?”

“What can you do?” asked the queen bluntly, but most graciously, for this kind of flattery was ever a delight to her.

“Shall I bring from Ireland the bodies of those who have dared to rebel against your Majesty’s wise and gentle rule?” asked Raleigh, “that they may testify of me?”

“You can fight. Can you do aught beside?”

“Truly, yes, I can count myself the happiest and most favored of mortals in that upon me is turned the kindly thought of her who surpasseth all other women as far as the glowing sun doth surpass the beams of the farthing rushlight.”

Raleigh was wise enough to keep the favor that he had won. Elizabeth could rebuke a maid of honor for wearing too expensive a gown, but of her courtiers she demanded the most handsome attire that their purses could provide. This new favorite had only a shallow purse, but he willingly spent every penny that he could raise on brilliant apparel, and he neglected no opportunity to make himself of use to the queen.

One morning the rain was falling fast, and one of the ladies in waiting said:—

“Surely your Majesty will remain indoors to-day.”

“My servants may dread the raindrops,” answered Elizabeth, “but a queen should fear nothing.”

“With two thousand gowns she may well afford to spoil one for every shower,” said one lady to another. This was before the days of umbrellas, but there was nothing to do save to hope for sunshine. The hour for the walk came, and the queen went forth. The sun had come out.

“Someone has been praying for clear skies,” said she, “and verily I wish he had broadened his prayer a bit and prayed also for dry ground.”

“It must have been young Raleigh,” said one of the ladies to another a little pointedly. “He loves to dwell in the sunshine as the moth loves the beam of the candle.”

“There isn’t another man in England who can tell just what to do in any difficulty as well as he,” declared another lady.

“Then I would that he were here now,” whispered the first. “The queen will go straight across that miry place, and if she is ill, we shall have to bear the blame.”

“There he comes as if he had been sent for by courier,” said the second, for Raleigh was approaching. He was decked out in the bravest attire and was daintily picking his way along the muddy road.

“It’s but this day week that he had a new scarlet cloak,” said a lady in the train, “and see the gorgeousness of the blue plush that he wears this morning! I’ll warrant he put his last shilling into it.”

The queen hesitated a moment, but there was no hesitation in Raleigh. Quick as thought, he slipped off the shining blue plush mantle and spread it on the ground before Elizabeth.

“She who is to her devoted people the glory of the sunlight must never fail to see under her feet the reflection of that clear sky which her shining has bestowed upon her fortunate subjects.” So said the courtier, and he well knew that in the glance of approval given him by Elizabeth lay the promise of many cloaks.

He rose rapidly in the queen’s favor. She gave him whatever he asked, and he did not hesitate to ask for what he wanted. Elizabeth had a fashion of rewarding a favorite by giving him a “monopoly,” as it was called, that is, the sole right to sell some one thing. One man had the right to sell gunpowder, another salt, while yet another was the only man in England who was allowed to collect and export old shoes. To Raleigh she gave the privilege of exporting woolen cloth, and at another time the sole right to sell wine in the kingdom. He was no longer a poor young courtier, straining every resource to dress as handsomely as the taste of the queen demanded. Now he wore silver armor that sparkled with rubies and pearls and diamonds. Even his shoes were so encrusted with jewels that they were said to be worth more than six thousand gold pieces. Money flowed freely into his coffers. Besides Elizabeth’s other gifts, he could ask for his monopolies whatever price he chose, and whoever wished to buy must pay it. There were rumors that this brilliant young favorite had higher aspirations, even to the hand of the queen herself. The story is told that one day when Raleigh was standing by a window, tracing idly scrolls and letters on the pane with a diamond, he heard the queen coming up softly behind him. He went on as if he did not know of her presence and wrote on the glass:—

Elizabeth drew a diamond ring from her finger and put an ending to the couplet:—

With such encouragement, it is no wonder that Raleigh felt sure of her interest in whatever he wished to attempt. He had a great undertaking in mind, and between his compliments to Elizabeth his thoughts often turned to the westward, to the wonderful New World. It was not hard to persuade the queen to give him a grant of land in America, and he sent out two barques to explore the coast north of Florida. When the skippers returned, Raleigh brought them before the queen.

“Is this new country so much better than our own old England?” she asked.

“Nothing could be better than the land which has the happiness to be ruled directly by your Majesty,” answered Raleigh, “but, truly, the New World is a goodly place.”

“How does it differ from our land?” asked the queen of one of the skippers, and he answered:—

“Your Majesty, as we drew near the shore, there was no smell of wharfs or fishing, but a fragrance as if we were in the midst of some delicate garden.”

“We have perfumes in England,” said the queen. “Did you discover anything better than pleasant odors?” she asked of the second skipper.

“Yes, your Majesty, we found what is not in all England, for when we landed, the low, sandy shore was so overgrown with grapes that the very beating and surge of the sea overflowed them; the vines ran over hills and plains, they climbed every little shrub, and they made their way to the tops of the cedars. I do think that in all the world the like abundance is not to be found.”

“Perfumes and grapes,” said the queen. “Raleigh, my man, that is a good beginning. Send your skippers away, and tell me what is your request, for I know you have one. When will you ever cease begging, Walter?”

“When you cease to be so kind a benefactress,” was the courtier’s shrewd and graceful reply.

The skippers were sent away, and the queen said:—

“Now tell me about this land of grapes. Fruit and perfumes are well enough, but they do little to fill an empty treasury. What else lies within your patent?”

“There are beasts of all kinds that roam the forests, there are birds and fish, there are the highest and reddest cedars of the world, coral of red and white, pearls, fruits, vegetables, natives that are gentle and kindly and void of all guile and treason.”

“What do you call this paradise of yours?”

“The natives call it Wingina.”

“I’ll give you a better name. It was visited while a virgin queen was on the throne, so call it Virginia, and I’ll be its godmother.”

“O, Madam,” said Raleigh with enthusiasm, “never had a sovereign such a chance to add to the glory of her renown. America is not only a country in which one may make a fortune, it is a fortune in itself. Why should it not become a second home of the English nation?”

The queen’s eyes kindled. “How could that be?” she asked.

“Your Majesty,” he answered, eagerly, “the soil of Virginia is the richest in the world. The natives sow their corn in May and they reap it in July; they sow it again in June and July, and they reap it but two months after the planting. Our men put peas into the ground, and in ten days they were fourteen inches high. Beans and wheat and oats may be had for the asking.”

“And supposing my good friend Philip should fall upon these amazingly fertile lands, he might put the colonists to the sword even before their peas were above the ground.”

“Might we not also fancy a strong band of colonists building vessels of the goodly trees of the Virginia forests and sailing out boldly into the Atlantic to capture the treasure ships of Spain? Might not the colonists steer to the northward and free our Newfoundland fishing grounds from the hateful presence of the Spaniard?”

“‘Walter, thou reasonest well,’” laughed the queen, “but one little thing you’ve mayhap forgot. Tell me, Walter, my man, where shall we find these worthy colonists who are to raise corn in two months and fight King Philip while it is growing?”

“Your Majesty,” answered the courtier gravely, “those who are driven from England will be our colonists.”

“Driven from England,” repeated the queen, “what mean you by that?”

“Our farmers have long been raising sheep instead of grain,” said he. “One man can easily care for many sheep. Those men that are driven from their old farm work can find naught else to do. They must starve or steal, and, Madam, it grieves me sorely to see that twenty or even thirty are often hanged before the hour of noon for stealing a shilling or perchance but a morsel of bread.”

“They who steal must be punished,” said the queen, “but it would please me well if there were some other remedy than hanging.”

“The corn of Virginia will be a remedy, my queen, and there is yet another benefit that would come to England from colonies across the Atlantic. We wish to spread our commerce to foreign lands, but if we have a second England on the other side of the sea, will not our own countrymen of America buy and sell with us? Cannot laws be made that they shall trade with no others, if, indeed, they should be so disloyal as to think of such a thing? Why need we care for trade with a nation across the Pacific when we can trade with our own people in Virginia?”

“Walter, you are wonderfully in earnest about this scheme of yours. It would ill become me to question the fairness or worthiness of my godchild, and I will think of what you say, I will think of it.”

Elizabeth thought of the plan, indeed the air was so full of talk about the proposed Virginian colony that she could have hardly helped thinking about it. In Virginia there was fertile soil, a good hope of finding gems and gold, and little probability of trouble with the Indians. Her councilors discussed the plan. Said one to another:—

“Think you that the queen will aid young Raleigh?”

“‘Sir Walter’ you must say now that he has become a knight,” rejoined the second. “Yes, I do believe that she will. Has she not followed his every whim till Leicester has fairly turned green with jealousy? She has just given him the wine monopoly, and that is worth thousands of pounds in a single year. If she gives him that, would she withhold aid for the bringing up of this ‘godchild’ of hers?”

“You’re a shrewd man, I admit,” said the first, “but I’ve watched this queen of ours since she was no higher than my table, and I’ve never yet seen her affection for any one get the better of her. She’s a woman, but she’s also a queen, and she’s more queen than woman.”

“I’m not the man to hold an opinion and fear to back it up,” rejoined the other. “I’ve a fair bit of land down in Devon, and I’ll wager it against that house of yours in London that she’ll help ‘educate the godchild.’”

The land was lost, for Elizabeth could not bear to part with her gold pieces unless she could be sure of a generous return. Raleigh did not give up his plan, however, and soon a company of colonists was sent to Roanoke Island, off the coast of what is now North Carolina. The colony failed because the new settlers were too eager to search for gold to spend their time planting corn and beans, or even peas that would grow fourteen inches in ten days. “They are lazy and homesick, and they talk too much,” reported the governor, and when a fleet of Drake’s came to shore, they all went aboard and sailed for home.

These homesick colonists carried tobacco with them to England, and smoking soon became the fashionable amusement. Sir Walter was enthusiastic in its praise.

“One would think that this wonderful plant of yours was your own child,” said the queen to him as he sat puffing out the smoke from his silver pipe, “you claim for it so many virtues.”

“You say well, Madam,” declared Sir Walter. “It is verily a wonderful plant.”

“And I suppose you would even say that you could tell the weight of that smoke of yours. There’s no boundary to your impudence.”

“Indeed I can, your Majesty,” returned Sir Walter calmly.

“I’ll wager this pin against your buckle that you cannot,” retorted the queen.

“I’ll take the wager,” said he, “and with the more joy since the experiment will secure me the delight of your presence.” He weighed some tobacco and put it into his pipe. Then after he had smoked it he weighed the ashes. “The difference is the weight of the smoke,” said he, and Elizabeth paid the bet. “Many a man have I known who has turned his gold into smoke,” she declared merrily, “but you are surely the first who has turned his smoke into gold. You’re a marvelous man, Sir Walter.”

CHAPTER XIV
THE QUEEN OF SCOTS

It was the custom for the general of an English army to serve without salary and to contribute generously to his own expenses and those of his troops. The general, then, must be a rich man, and in order to have the most perfect control over his soldiers he must be a man who was known to be in the confidence of the queen. No one was better qualified in these important respects to lead an army than Leicester, and he was put at the head of the forces that were sent to the aid of the Dutch states then revolting against Philip. Their leader had been assassinated, and they asked to be annexed to England. Elizabeth saw clearly that to grant their request would bring on war with Spain at once, and she refused. When Leicester was appointed commander, she gave him the most positive orders to accept no such position for her as ruler of the Low Countries. News soon came that Leicester had been made governor general.

“Your Majesty,” said her informer, “it is said that Lord Leicester is shown great honor in the Low Countries.”

“That is well,” said the queen. “The commander of an army should ever be treated with deference.”

“The Dutch states prove by the respect given to Lord Leicester what honor they would show to your Majesty if you were with them.”

“In what fashion do they show their respect?” asked the queen so gently that Leicester’s enemy took courage and ventured to go a step further.

“He is called governor-general, and they say that men kneel before him to kiss his hand, and that he has already a court as brilliant as that of England.”

“Is that true?” asked Elizabeth with a feigned indifference. “Do you know more of this court of his?”

“Little now, but there will be more and greater news, for it is said that Lady Leicester is about to go to Holland and that with her will go such a train of ladies and gentlemen and such rich coaches, litters, and sidesaddles, that your Majesty has none such in England.”

Then Elizabeth’s wrath broke forth. “I will let the upstart know,” said she, “how easily the hand that has exalted him can beat him down.” She wrote an angry letter to her absent favorite which said:—

“I have raised you from the dust and shown you favor above all others, and I should never have imagined you would dare to break my express commandment to accept any such title.”

It was a hard position for Burleigh, since he himself and the rest of the council had wished Leicester to accept the title and so force the queen to become sovereign of the Dutch states, whether she would or not. The queen’s rage was visited upon even her old friend and adviser, and to Burleigh himself she declared, “You are nothing but a presumptuous fellow.”

The great test of Elizabeth’s character was soon to come, for the year 1587 was at hand. Would she be woman or queen? A stern question must be decided. Jesting with Raleigh, exasperating King Philip, storming at Leicester and then forgiving him, amusing herself with Leicester’s handsome stepson, the Earl of Essex, bedecking herself in gorgeous attire that flashed with jewels and gold, dreaming over new routes to India and new English nations in Virginia—all these had to be put away for the time. What should be the fate of the Queen of Scots could no longer be left undecided.

Mary had been a captive in England for nearly eighteen years, and those years had been almost as full of peril to Elizabeth as to her prisoner. If Mary was dead, the Catholics who were plotting against Elizabeth would have no object in trying to take her life, for Mary’s son James was the next heir to the throne, and he was as strong a Protestant as Elizabeth. On the other hand, if Elizabeth were no longer alive, Mary would become queen of England, and Protestants would be obliged to be loyal to her as their lawful sovereign. They would be the more content knowing that her Protestant son would succeed her. Thus, if either Mary or Elizabeth were dead, England would be free from the plots and conspiracies that had been revealed, one after another, during the captivity of Mary.

At the discovery of each of these plots, Mary’s imprisonment became more rigorous. It was claimed that she was at the bottom of every conspiracy.

“The Queen of Scots and her friends will yet have my life,” said Elizabeth, and she added jestingly to her councilors, “I’ll come back after I am dead and see her make your heads fly.”

Walsingham, one of Elizabeth’s ministers, had been most watchful of these plots. His spies were ever on the lookout, and in the summer of 1586 he found sure proof of a conspiracy to take the life of the queen. Was Mary connected with this plot? Sworn testimony declared that she was. Her papers were seized, and among them were found letters from many leading nobles of England expressing sympathy in her troubles. Mary was at once removed to Fotheringay Castle, where she was much more closely guarded than ever before. Thirty-six commissioners were appointed to try her on the charge of plotting against the life of the English queen. She was cited to appear before them.

“That will I never do,” she declared. “I have a right to be tried by my peers. I am a queen, and only sovereigns are my peers, but I will defend myself before the queen of England and her council or even before the English Parliament.”

Then a letter was given her from Elizabeth which read;—

“You have attempted to take my life and to bring my kingdom to destruction by bloodshed. I have never proceeded so harshly against you, but have protected and maintained you like myself. It is my will that you answer the nobles and peers of the kingdom as if I were myself present. Act plainly, without reserve, and you will sooner be able to obtain favor from me.”

“Is it wise to make these refusals?” asked one of her friends. “You are in the power of the English queen, is it not better to rouse her no further by hopeless demands?”

“True, it is hopeless,” answered Mary, “it is all hopeless. I am a sovereign kept here unlawfully as a prisoner by the royal cousin to whom I fled for help in my trouble. Her laws have not protected me, why then must I be sentenced under them?”

“The court is convened,” said the commissioners, “and if you refuse to appear, you will be at once declared guilty without a trial. Queen Elizabeth has said many times that nothing would please her so much as to have proof of your innocence. Is it wise to refuse to give proof?”

Finally Mary yielded. Her trial would not be legal to-day, for she was allowed no counsel, she was not even permitted to see her own papers or to hear and question those persons who testified against her, but it was according to the laws of the time, and she was tried with no greater severity than was shown to all prisoners accused of treason.

“Your letters prove that you have allowed your correspondents to address you as queen of England,” declared the crown lawyers, “that you have tried to induce King Philip to invade our country, and that you have been knowing to the late plot to assassinate the lawful queen of the realm.”

“With the plot against the life of my cousin Elizabeth I had nothing to do,” declared Mary. “That I have sought to gain my freedom by the aid of my friends I do not deny. My lords, I am unjustly and cruelly deprived of my liberty. Do you blame me for trying by every means in my power to recover it? Could anyone do otherwise?”

So the charges and the denials went on, and when the trial was over, the judges left Fotheringay Castle. Again they met, and everyone voted that Mary was guilty of high treason in plotting against the life of the English queen. She was sentenced to death. This was the report made to Parliament, and that body solemnly agreed to the verdict. It was proclaimed in London, and the whole city gave itself up to rejoicing. Bells were rung, bonfires blazed in every square, shouts of joy and psalms of thanksgiving resounded throughout the town.

“Think you that the queen will ever carry out the sentence?” asked one Londoner of another.

“It is many years,” was the reply, “that the hand of Elizabeth alone has saved the life of the Scotch queen. Parliament decreed her death fifteen years ago and they say that Elizabeth was the angriest woman in England. ‘Would you have me put to death the bird that, to escape the hawk, has fled to me for protection? I’ll never sign such a bill,’ and she never did.”

“The constant dropping of water will wear away stone,” said the first, “and yet I hear that she has sent a message to Parliament commanding them to find some other way.”

“Until the axe falls, nothing will persuade me that the child of Henry VIII. will consent to see the blood of one of her own proud race flow at the hand of the executioner,” declared the second, “and what is more, she will not do a deed that will arouse the scorn and hatred of Europe. Mary’s head is safe.”

“Not so fast, my friend. Who are the supporters of Mary? Who is the ‘Europe’ whose scorn will check the pen of Elizabeth when she is about to sign the death warrant?”

“Philip, the Pope, the king of France, and Mary’s own son James. They are a powerful company.”

“Are they? Philip is really almost at war with us now, but it is not in Mary’s interest. The Pope cares nothing about putting a Catholic woman of forty-four on the throne when in a few years she will be succeeded by a Protestant son. The king of France can do nothing for her but plead, for if he strikes one blow at England, it is a blow in favor of Spain.”

“Her own son——”

“Has made a treaty with Elizabeth. He will do anything to make sure of the English throne, and indeed, can he be blamed for lack of affection when he knows that his mother planned to leave her claim not to him but to Philip?”

Elizabeth was most unwilling that Mary should be put to death. Her ministers were eager for the execution, for it was their business to secure the peace of England and the welfare of their queen. They believed that only Mary’s death would bring this about. Then, too, as Elizabeth had said jestingly, if Mary were once on the throne, she would “make their heads fly.” Surely they had a right to care for their own safety, they reasoned. Elizabeth could not bear the thought that a princess of the Tudor blood should die on the scaffold. She was always careless of her personal danger, and she knew that the death of Mary would be ascribed to her own fear or jealousy. It is no wonder that she hesitated.

“What shall we do,” queried the ministers. “Elizabeth must be induced to sign the death warrant, of course, but who will order it carried out?”

“The queen will never do such a thing,” said one.

“We must do it ourselves,” said another. “There are ten of us, and ten cannot well be made to suffer for carrying out a written order of the queen’s.”

For many weeks Elizabeth hesitated. She often sat buried in deep thought. “Shall I bear with her or smite her?” the ladies of the bedchamber heard her say to herself. At last she bade the secretary Davison bring her the warrant.

“What have you in your hand?” she asked as he entered the room.

“Sundry papers that await your Majesty’s signature,” answered Davison. Elizabeth took up her pen and signed the warrant. Then she pushed it away from her and it fell upon the floor.

“Are you not heartily sorry to see this done?” she asked.

“I should be far from rejoicing in any one’s calamity,” replied Davison, “but the life of the Queen of Scots is so great a threat to the life of your Majesty that not to sign the paper would be a wrong to your whole realm as much as to yourself.”

“I have done all that either law or reason could require of me,” said the queen, “and now let me hear nothing further.”

Davison reported the scene to the council.

“She means the deed to be done,” said one, “but she has given no orders to carry out the warrant.”

“That is her way of dealing with her sea-captains,” said another. “Does she not provide them with ships and guns and soldiers, and does she not most willingly take a share of Spanish gold? But if a commander gets into trouble with Spain, she will say, ‘Did I not give orders to do no harm to my good friend Philip?’”

“Then must all ten of us give the final order,” said another. This was done. The warrant and the letter commanding the execution were sent.

About a week after the signing of the warrant, bonfires blazed and bells rang.

“The bells ring as merrily as if there were some good news,” said the queen. “Why is it?”

“It is because of the death of the Queen of Scots,” was the answer. Elizabeth said not a word. A day or two later she was told that Mary had been executed at Fotheringay Castle. She turned pale, she burst into tears, she stormed at her councilors. “Never shall your crime be pardoned,” she raged. “You well knew that I did not mean my kinswoman to be put to death. You have dared to usurp my authority, and you are worse traitors than my poor cousin. As for you, Burleigh, do you never dare show yourself in my presence again. I have made you and I can unmake you. That fellow Davison knew that I did not mean the warrant to be carried out. Take him to the Tower.”

“He is very ill, your Majesty,” said one.

“Then take his illness with him, for into the Tower he goes.”

“Your Majesty,” pleaded the councilors, “if your secretary Davison is imprisoned, the lords of your council will be regarded as plotters and murderers.”

“What is that to me?” cried Elizabeth. “They who murder must expect to be called murderers.”

Davison was imprisoned for some time and was fined so heavily that he was reduced to poverty. Elizabeth sent a copy of his sentence to King James and also a letter telling him that the execution of his mother was a “miserable accident.” James was easily comforted. He had been taught to look upon her as a shame and disgrace to himself. If she had not been the murderer of his father, she had, at least, married the murderer, and within three months after the commission of the crime. He was lawful heir to the throne of England, but he knew that she had done all that lay in her power to deprive him of his birthright. He wrote an earnest letter to Elizabeth in the attempt to save his mother’s life, but it was soon followed by a sort of apology and an intimation that all would be well if she would formally recognize him as her successor.

It is probable that there will always be two opinions in regard to the justice of Mary’s execution.

“She fled to England for refuge,” says one, “and should have been set free.”

“To set her free would have been to deliver her up to the foes who would have taken her life,” says the other, “or else to the friends who would have made war against England.”

“A prisoner cannot be blamed for seeking liberty.”

“But one may be justly punished for plotting treason.”

“Mary was not a subject of the queen of England.”

“He who commits treason is punished whether he is a subject or not.”

“The testimony against her was false.”

“It was sworn to by solemn oath. There was no other means of discovering the truth.”

As to Elizabeth’s real share in the execution of Mary there is quite as much difference of opinion.

“Because of her fear and jealousy she put to death the cousin to whom she had given every reason to expect protection,” say the partisans of Mary.

“It shows little of either fear or jealousy to let her live for fifteen years,” retort the supporters of Elizabeth.

“At least she signed the warrant with her own hand.”

“Even a Tudor queen was not free to follow her own will. The English council had urged the deed for many years.”

“Secretary Davison declared that she wished the warrant carried out.”

“Davison told four different stories, and no one of them agreed with Elizabeth’s version of the scene. Who shall tell where truth lies?”

“The warrant would have been worthless without her name.”

“Walsingham’s private secretary confessed many years afterwards that he forged the name at his master’s command.”