And as they watched, they saw a movement beneath the red velvet petticoat, and Mary little Skye terrier, who unnoticed had followed his mistress into the hall, ran to the head and crouched beside it, whimpering.

The silence was only broken by the sounds of sobbing.

The Queen of Scotland and the Isles had come to the end of her journey—from triumph and glory to captivity, from joy to sorrow, from the thrones of France and Scotland to the ax in the hall of Fotheringhay Castle—and to peace.