There nearly half the sad years of her young life and beauty were prisoned.

There she pined in the sickness of hope deferred, in the corroding anguish of dread uncertainty, for a space as wide as that between the baptismal font and presentation at Elizabeth's court.

There she laid her white neck upon the block.

There fell the broad axe of Elizabeth's envy, fear and hate.

There fell the fair-haired head that once gilded a crown and wore all the glory of regal courts--still beautiful in the setting light of farewell thoughts.
It may be truly said of Fotheringay Castle, that not one stone is left upon another to mark its foundations.