BOURBON (aside.)

  Amazement! can it be, sweet Margaret—­
  That she has read our love?—­impossible!—­and yet—­
  That lip ne’er wore so sweet a smile!—­it is. 
  That look is pardon and acceptance! (aloud)—­
    speak. (He falls at the Queen’s feet.)
  Madam, in pity speak but one word more,—­
  Who is that woman?

QUEEN (throwing off her veil.)

  I am that woman!

BOURBON (starting up.)

  You, by the holy mass!  I scorn your proffers;
  Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
  And shrinking womanhood!  Oh shame! shame! shame!

(The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while De Bourbon_ walks hastily up and down; after a long pause the Queen speaks._)

(The Queen_ summons her Confessor._)

Enter GONZALES.

  Sir, we have business with this holy father;
  You may retire.

BOURBON.

  Confusion!

QUEEN.

  Are we obeyed?

BOURBON (aside.)

  Oh Margaret!—­for thee! for thy dear sake!
    [Rushes out.  The Queen_ sinks into a chair._]

QUEEN.

  Refus’d and scorn’d!  Infamy!—­the word chokes me! 
  How now! why stand’st thou gazing at me thus?

GONZALES.

  I wait your highness’ pleasure.—­(Aside) So all is well—­
  A crown hath fail’d to tempt him—­as I see
  In yonder lady’s eyes.

QUEEN.

  Oh sweet revenge! 
  Thou art my only hope, my only dower,
  And I will make thee worthy of a Queen. 
  Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web,—­
  I will so spoil and trample on thy pride,
  That thou shalt wish the woman’s distaff were
  Ten thousand lances rather than itself. 
  Ha! waiting still, sir Priest!  Well as them seest
  Our venture hath been somewhat baulk’d,—­’tis not
  Each arrow readies swift and true the aim,—­
  Love having failed, we’ll try the best expedient,
  That offers next,—­what sayst thou to revenge? 
  ’Tis not so soft, but then ’tis very sure;
  Say, shall we wring this haughty soul a little? 
  Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain’d charger? 
  We will not weigh too heavily, nor grind
  Too hard, but, having bow’d him to the earth,
  Leave the pursuit to others—­carrion birds,
  Who stoop, but not until the falcon’s gorg’d
  Upon the prey he leaves to their base talons.

GONZALES.

  It rests but with your grace to point the means.

QUEEN.

  Where be the plans of those possessions
  Of Bourbon’s house?—­see that thou find them straight: 
  His mother was my kinswoman, and I
  Could aptly once trace characters like those
  She used to write—­enough—­Guienne—­Auvergne
  And all Provence that lies beneath his