The Lady of Lochleven sat alone in her chamber, endeavouring with
sincere but imperfect zeal, to fix her eyes and her attention on the
black-lettered Bible which lay before her, bound in velvet and
embroidery, and adorned with massive silver clasps and knosps. But she
found her utmost efforts unable to withdraw her mind from the
resentful recollection of what had last night passed betwixt her and
the Queen, in which the latter had with such bitter taunt reminded her
of her early and long-repented transgression.
"Why," she said, "should I resent so deeply that another reproaches me
with that which I have never ceased to make matter of blushing to
myself? and yet, why should this woman, who reaps--at least, has
reaped--the fruits of my folly, and has jostled my son aside from the
