"Now the heavens forfend!" said the Queen; "we have already suffered

from the misconstructions and broils which seem to follow this poor

brain-sick lady wherever she comes.--Think you not so, my lord?" she

added, appealing to Leicester with something in her look that indicated

regret, even tenderly expressed, for their disagreement of that morning.

Leicester compelled himself to bow low. The utmost force he could

exert was inadequate to the further effort of expressing in words his

acquiescence in the Queen's sentiment.

"You are vindictive," she said, "my lord; but we will find time and

place to punish you. But once more to this same trouble-mirth, this Lady

Varney. What of her health, Masters?"

"She is sullen, madam, as I already said," replied Masters, "and refuses

to answer interrogatories, or be amenable to the authority of the

mediciner. I conceive her to be possessed with a delirium, which I

incline to term rather HYPOCHONDRIA than PHRENESIS; and I think she were

best cared for by her husband in his own house, and removed from all

this bustle of pageants, which disturbs her weak brain with the most

fantastic phantoms. She drops hints as if she were some great person in

disguise--some Countess or Princess perchance. God help them, such are

often the hallucinations of these infirm persons!"

"Nay, then," said the Queen, "away with her with all speed. Let Varney

care for her with fitting humanity; but let them rid the Castle of her

forthwith she will think herself lady of all, I warrant you. It is pity

so fair a form, however, should have an infirm understanding.--What

think you, my lord?"

"It is pity indeed," said the Earl, repeating the words like a task

which was set him.

"But, perhaps," said Elizabeth, "you do not join with us in our opinion

of her beauty; and indeed we have known men prefer a statelier and more

Juno-like form to that drooping fragile one that hung its head like a

broken lily. Ay, men are tyrants, my lord, who esteem the animation

of the strife above the triumph of an unresisting conquest, and, like

sturdy champions, love best those women who can wage contest with

them.--I could think with you, Rutland, that give my Lord of Leicester

such a piece of painted wax for a bride, he would have wished her dead

ere the end of the honeymoon."

As she said this, she looked on Leicester so expressively that, while

his heart revolted against the egregious falsehood, he did himself so

much violence as to reply in a whisper that Leicester's love was more

lowly than her Majesty deemed, since it was settled where he could never

command, but must ever obey.




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