584. Mary, Queen of Scots: Birth of a Legend (Part 1)

She held the crucifix high, visible all down the long hall, as she flung defiance at her judges, and her voice rose with a kind of triumph above the voice of the Dean of Peterborough, always higher and clearer than his rising tones, Arching over the vehement English prayers, the mysterious dominating invocations of the ancient faith. The Queen's voice held on for a minute after the clergyman had finished. Her words were in English now. She was praying for the people of England and for the soul of her royal cousin Elizabeth.

She was forgiving all her enemies. Then for a moment her ladies were busy about her. The black velvet gown fell below her knees, revealing underbodice and petticoat of crimson silk, and she stepped forward suddenly, shockingly, in the colour of martyrdom, blurred red from top to toe against the sombre background. Quietly she knelt and bowed herself low over the little chopping block. In manus tuas domine,

And they heard twice the dull chunk of the axe. There was one more ceremony to accomplish. The executioner must exhibit the head and speak the customary words. The masked black figure stooped and rose, crying in a loud voice, Long live the Queen! But all he held in his hand that had belonged to the rival Queen of Hearts was a kerchief, and pinned to it an elaborate auburn wig.

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