the moonlight—I listened. Dreams should be of the past, surely. That's the way of them, isn't it, Beaton?
Beaton: Of the past—yes—or timeless.
Mary: But this was of some far to-morrow. We are part of life for ever—we become what we are for ever. I heard the old man say it. I heard it in my dream.
Beaton: What was it, Madam?
Mary: How long have I slept?
Beaton: An hour, hardly.
Mary: I passed down the ages in an hour. It was in some life when I was an old and argued story. Generations and generations after us. A boy and his lover, and Mary Stuart breathing again in a new sorrow—the sorrow that is eternal.
Beaton: You are restless.
Mary: I was travelling far.
Beaton: Dreams are full of trickery for my part.
Mary: And sometimes they are the heart of us. How will it be told of me? I wonder. Not a man for ever, perhaps, to know the truth of it. But the old man knew. If it could be known
