As Dorothy grew unwilling, Leicester and Sir George grew eager, until at length the latter felt that it was almost time to exert his parental authority.  He told Aunt Dorothy his feeling on the subject, and she told her niece.  It was impossible to know from what source Dorothy might draw inspiration for mischief.  It came to her with her father’s half-command regarding Leicester.

Winter had again asserted itself.  The weather was bitter cold and snow covered the ground to the depth of a horse’s fetlock.

The eventful night of the grand ball arrived, and Dorothy’s heart throbbed till she thought surely it would burst.

At nightfall guests began to arrive, and Sir George, hospitable soul that he was, grew boisterous with good humor and delight.

The rare old battlements of Haddon were ablaze with flambeaux, and inside the rooms were alight with waxen tapers.  The long gallery was brilliant with the smiles of bejewelled beauty, and laughter, song, and merriment filled the grand old Hall from terrace to Entrance Tower.  Dorothy, of course, was brought down from her prison to grace the occasion with a beauty which none could rival.  Her garments were of soft, clinging, bright-colored silks and snowy laces, and all who saw her agreed that a creature more radiant never greeted the eye of man.

When the guests had all arrived, the pipers in the balcony burst forth in heart-swelling strains of music, and every foot in the room longed for the dance to begin.

I should like to tell you how Elizabeth most graciously opened the ball with his Majesty, the King of the Peak, amid the plaudits of worshipping subjects, and I should enjoy describing the riotous glory which followed,—­for although I was not there, I know intimately all that happened,—­but I will balk my desire and tell you only of those things which touched Dorothy.

Leicester, of course, danced with her, and during a pause in the figure, the girl in response to pleadings which she had adroitly incited, reluctantly promised to grant the earl the private interview he so much desired if he could suggest some means for bringing it about.  Leicester was in raptures over her complaisance and glowed with triumph and delightful anticipation.  But he could think of no satisfactory plan whereby his hopes might be brought to a happy fruition.  He proposed several, but all seemed impracticable to the coy girl, and she rejected them.  After many futile attempts he said:—­

“I can suggest no good plan, mistress.  I pray you, gracious lady, therefore, make full to overflowing the measure of your generosity, and tell me how it may be accomplished.”

Dorothy hung her head as if in great shame and said:  “I fear, my lord, we had better abandon the project for a time.  Upon another occasion perhaps—­”

“No, no,” interrupted the earl, pleadingly, “do not so grievously disappoint me.  My heart yearns to have you to myself for one little moment where spying eyes cannot see nor prying ears hear.  It is cruel in you to raise my hopes only to cast them down.  I beg you, tell me if you know in what manner I may meet you privately.”