me? You talk nonsense. The moon has your wits; you're like the crazy singer out there. Mary Stuart can tell me nothing, I say. My God! What's that?
- (A dress rustles outside on the terrace)
Boyd: What's the matter?
- (He turns)
Hunter: There—look—Who is it?
- (Mary Stuart stands on the terrace at the window. She is the Queen of the portrait)
Mary: Boy, I can tell you everything.
- (Boyd and Hunter and the portrait and the moonlit terrace pass into nothingness, and we see Mary Stuart's room in Holyrood on the evening of March the ninth, 1566. Mary is lying asleep on a couch, Mary Beaton seated beside her, reading. After a few moments the queen moves uneasily, and in again a few moments she wakes.
Mary: Poor boy—poor boy. If he would but listen—but how strange. What a thing was that to dream! Out there—somewhere in
