The Scene the same as in the First Act

HANNAH KENNEDY in deep mourning, her eyes still red
from weeping, in great but quiet anguish, is employed
in sealing letters and parcels. Her sorrow often
interrupts her occupation, and she is seen at such
intervals to pray in silence. PAULET and DRURY,
also in mourning, enter, followed by many servants,
who bear golden and silver vessels, mirrors, paintings,
and other valuables, and fill the back part of the stage
with them. PAULET delivers to the NURSE a box of jewels
and a paper, and seems to inform her by signs that it
contains the inventory of the effects the QUEEN had brought
with her. At the sight of these riches, the anguish of
the NURSE is renewed; she sinks into a deep, glowing
melancholy, during which DRURY, PAULET, and the servants
silently retire.

MELVIL enters.

KENNEDY (screams aloud as soon as she observes him).
Melvil! Is it you? Behold I you again?

MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.
KENNEDY.
After this long, long, painful separation!

MELVIL.
A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!

KENNEDY.
You come——

MELVIL.
To take an everlasting leave
Of my dear queen—to bid a last farewell!

KENNEDY.
And now at length, now on the fatal morn
Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
I will not question you, how you have fared,
Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
Since you were torn away from us: alas!
There will be time enough for that hereafter.
O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
To see the dawn of this unhappy day?

MELVIL.
Let us not melt each other with our grief.
Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
Will lead her with heroic resolution,
And be her staff upon the road to death!
KENNEDY.
Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
The queen has need of our support to meet
Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
As best becomes a heroine and queen!

MELVIL.
Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
Of death?—'tis said that she was not prepared.

KENNEDY.
She was not; yet they were far other terrors
Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
Freedom was promised us; this very night
Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
And doubting still if she should trust her honor
And royal person to the adventurous youth,
Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
Our ears are startled by repeated blows
Of many hammers, and we think we hear
The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
And suddenly and unresisted wakes
The sweet desire of life. And now at once
The portals are thrown open—it is Paulet,
Who comes to tell us—that—the carpenters
Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!
[She turns aside, overpowered by excessive anguish.

MELVIL.
O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
The queen this terrible vicissitude?

KENNEDY
(after a pause, in which she has somewhat collected herself).
Not by degrees can we relinquish life;
Quick, sudden, in the twinkling of an eye,
The separation must be made, the change
From temporal to eternal life; and God
Imparted to our mistress at this moment
His grace, to cast away each earthly hope,
And firm and full of faith to mount the skies.
No sign of pallid fear dishonored her;
No word of mourning, 'till she heard the tidings
Of Leicester's shameful treachery, the sad fate
Of the deserving youth, who sacrificed
Himself for her; the deep, the bitter anguish
Of that old knight, who lost, through her, his last,
His only hope; till then she shed no tear—
'Twas then her tears began to flow, 'twas not
Her own, but others' woe which wrung them from her.

MELVIL.
Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?

KENNEDY.
She spent the last remainder of the night
In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
Her will 2 with her own hand. She now enjoys
A moment of repose, the latest slumber
Refreshes her weak spirits.

MELVIL.
Who attends her?

KENNEDY.
None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
You seem to look around you with surprise;
Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
This show of splendor in the house of death.
Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
But at our death plenty returns to us.