Act IV opens in a place bur­dened by author­i­ty and shad­owed by emo­tion­al ten­sion, as Queen Mary of Scots nav­i­gates the ago­niz­ing weight of lead­er­ship. With St. Andrew’s echo­ing silence behind her and a rest­less court observ­ing every motion, she finds her­self pulled between pub­lic expec­ta­tion and pri­vate long­ing. The mem­o­ry of Chaste­lard lingers not only as a scan­dal but as a liv­ing wound she can­not con­ceal. Her desire to show mer­cy bat­tles with the polit­i­cal risks attached to com­pas­sion. The Queen’s roy­al duty, often praised from afar, now feels like a prison of appear­ances and con­se­quence. Sur­round­ed by loy­al ladies yet pro­found­ly alone, she speaks with veiled grief, her words torn between resolve and regret.

A con­ver­sa­tion with Mary Hamil­ton gen­tly peels back the Queen’s emo­tion­al guard, expos­ing her vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty. The court may per­ceive her as dis­tant, yet her heart stirs with a fierce sor­row that seeks a path to jus­tice with­out betray­al. Hamil­ton, steady and warm, becomes a mir­ror to Mary’s doubts—reminding her of strength, but also cau­tion­ing the lim­its of sen­ti­ment when thrones are involved. The Queen laments that mer­cy, even when sin­cere, can be weaponized by ene­mies eager to dis­tort inten­tion. Her voice trem­bles with the truth: to spare Chaste­lard could mean to sen­tence her­self. Still, the thought of let­ting love end in blood leaves her shak­en, sus­pend­ed between her crown and her con­science.

The entrance of her broth­er, Mur­ray, brings no com­fort. He is iron-clad in polit­i­cal log­ic, speak­ing in terms of hon­or, sta­bil­i­ty, and pub­lic per­cep­tion. Mary pleads not only for Chastelard’s life but for a world where emo­tion isn’t pun­ished with scorn. But Mur­ray sees only risk—a queen known to par­don lovers could invite chaos or worse, rebel­lion. His argu­ments, cloaked in roy­al con­cern, thin­ly veil per­son­al ambi­tion. Mary’s replies are marked by anguish, but also defi­ance. She asks not for per­mis­sion, but for under­stand­ing, and when it is not giv­en, her iso­la­tion deep­ens. Love, in this moment, feels like a lia­bil­i­ty only women are made to pay for.

Darnley’s arrival changes the rhythm, though not the tone. Where Mur­ray uses rea­son, Darn­ley leans into flat­tery and intrigue, attempt­ing to sway Mary with promis­es of con­trol masked in affec­tion. Yet even his charm can­not ease the Queen’s bur­den. She sees through the per­for­mance, rec­og­niz­ing the hunger for pow­er dis­guised as con­cern. Swin­burne uses this exchange to illus­trate how even those clos­est to Mary maneu­ver for advan­tage. Her lone­li­ness is sharp­ened by the very peo­ple who claim to pro­tect her. She is a queen, yes—but also a woman trapped by the expec­ta­tions of both his­to­ry and heart.

As dusk set­tles over St. Andrew’s, Mary finds her­self caught in a silence more pro­found than before. She sits by the win­dow, her hand rest­ing on a sealed reprieve she dares not deliv­er. To the world, she must remain strong. But in pri­vate, her soul is stretched to break­ing. She imag­ines Chaste­lard in his cell, per­haps still hop­ing, per­haps already resigned. His poet­ry had once thrilled her spirit—now, it haunts her with every remem­bered line. A sin­gle deci­sion will end it all, but no choice seems right. Mer­cy may end her reign. Jus­tice may end her love. And so she waits, nei­ther queen nor woman, but some­thing sus­pend­ed in sor­row.

Through this act, Swin­burne paints a trag­ic por­trait not only of romance but of rule. The Queen’s tor­ment lies not in inde­ci­sion but in the clar­i­ty of impos­si­ble choic­es. Duty calls her to sac­ri­fice love, and love demands the aban­don­ment of duty. Her sta­tion does not spare her grief; instead, it sharp­ens it, forces it to wear a mask. Those around her speak in coun­sel, but none tru­ly hear her cry. By the time this chap­ter draws to a close, it is not just Chaste­lard who awaits his fate, but Mary herself—caught between what she feels and what she must be seen to do. In this strug­gle, Swin­burne reveals the harsh truth behind pow­er: it com­mands author­i­ty, but demands a ter­ri­ble price.