“May the blessing of God wend with you, madam,” said Janet, kissing her mistress’s hand.

III.—­At Kenilworth

With pomp and magnificence, Leicester entertained the Queen at the Castle of Kenilworth.  Of the Countess he saw nothing for some days, and Varney let it be thought that the unhappy lady who had made her way into the castle was his wife, while Amy, mindful of the alarm which Leicester had expressed at the Queen’s knowing aught of their union, kept out of the way of her sovereign.

Then, on one memorable morning, when a hunt had been arranged, Leicester escorted the Queen to the castle garden, with another chase in view.  Without premeditation, but urged on by vanity and ambition, his importunity became the language of love itself.

“No, Dudley,” said Elizabeth, yet with broken accents.  “No, I must be the mother of my people.  Urge it no more, Leicester.  Were I, as others, free to seek my own happiness, then indeed—­but it cannot be.  It is madness, and must not be repeated.  Leave me.  Go, but go not far from hence; and meantime let no one intrude on my privacy.”

The Queen turned into a grotto in which her hapless, and yet but too successful, rival lay concealed, and presently became aware of a female figure beside an alabaster column.

The unfortunate countess dropped on her knee before the queen, and looked up in the queen’s face with such a mixed agony of fear and supplication, that Elizabeth was considerably affected.

“What may this mean?” she said.  “Stand up, damsel, what wouldst thou have with us?”

“Your protection, madam,” faltered the unfortunate countess.  “I request—­I implore—­your gracious protection—­against—­against one Varney!”

“What, Varney—­Sir Richard Varney—­the servant of Lord Leicester?  What are you to him, or he to you?”

“I was his prisoner, and I broke forth to—­to—­”

Amy hastily endeavoured to recall what were best to say which might save her from Varney without endangering her husband.

“To throw thyself on my protection, doubtless,” said Elizabeth.  “Thou art Amy, daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart.  I must wring the story from thee by inches.  Thou didst leave thine old and honoured father, cheat Master Tressilian of thy love, and marry this same Varney.”

Amy sprung on her feet, and interrupted the queen eagerly with:  “No, madam, no!  As there is a God above us, I am not the wife of that contemptible slave—­of that most deliberate villain!  I am not the wife of Varney!  I would rather be the bride of Destruction!”

The queen, startled by Amy’s vehemence, replied:  “Why, God, ha’ mercy, woman!  Tell me, for I will know, whose wife, or whose paramour, art thou?  Speak out, and be speedy.  Thou wert better dally with a lioness than with Elizabeth!”

Urged to this extremity, Amy at length uttered in despair:  “The Earl of Leicester knows it all!”