“Surely, any man would love you for your own sake,” said Dorothy, tenderly.

“It may be that you speak truly, child; but I cannot know when men’s vows are true nor when they are false.  The real trouble is within myself.  If I could but feel truly, I could interpret truthfully.”

“Ah, your Majesty,” interrupted Dorothy, “you do not know the thing for which you are wishing; it is a torture worse than death; it is an ecstasy sweeter than heaven.  It is killing me.  I pity you, though you are a queen, if you have never felt it.”

“Would you do anything I might ask of you, if you could thereby save Sir John’s life?” asked the queen.

“Ah, I would gladly give my soul to save him,” responded Dorothy, with tears in her eyes and eagerness in her voice.  “Oh, my queen, do not lead me to hope, and then plunge me again into despair.  Give me no encouragement unless you mean to free him.  As for my part, take my life and spare John’s.  Kill me by torture, burn me at the stake, stretch me upon the rack till my joints are severed and my flesh is torn asunder.  Let me die by inches, my queen; but spare him, oh, spare him, and do with me as you will.  Ask from me what you wish.  Gladly will I do all that you may demand; gladly will I welcome death and call it sweet, if I can thereby save him.  The faint hope your Majesty’s words hold out makes me strong again.  Come, come, take my life; take all that I can give.  Give me him.”

“Do you believe that I am an ogress thirsting for blood, Dorothy, that you offer me your life for his?  You can purchase Sir John’s life at a much smaller cost.”  Dorothy rose to the queen with a cry, and put her arms about her neck.  “You may purchase his freedom,” continued the queen, “and you may serve your loving queen at one and the same time, if you wish to do so.”

Dorothy had sunk back into the bed, and Elizabeth was sitting close by her side; but when the queen spoke she turned her head on the pillow and kissed the royal hand which was resting upon the coverlid.

“Ah, you are so good, so true, and so beautiful,” said Dorothy.

Her familiarity toward the queen was sweet to the woman, to whom it was new.

Dorothy did not thank the queen for her graciousness.  She did not reply directly to her offer.  She simply said:—­

“John has told me many times that he was first attracted to me because I resembled you.”

The girl had ample faith in her own beauty, and knew full well the subtle flattery which lay in her words.  “He said,” she continued, “that my hair in some faint degree resembled yours, but he said it was not of so beautiful a hue.  I have loved my hair ever since the day he told me that it resembled your Majesty’s.”  The girl leaned forward toward the queen and gently kissed the royal locks.  They no more resembled Dorothy’s hair than brick dust resembles the sheen of gold.

The queen glanced at the reflection of her hair in the mirror and it flatly contradicted Dorothy.  But the girl’s words were backed by Elizabeth’s vanity, and the adroit flattery went home.