Leicester was spurred to emulation by the success of the young courtier’s exhibition, as the veteran racer is roused when a high-mettled colt passes him on the way.  He turned the discourse on shows, banquets, pageants, and on the character of those by whom these gay scenes were then frequented.  He mixed acute observation with light satire, in that just proportion which was free alike from malignant slander and insipid praise.  He mimicked with ready accent the manners of the affected or the clownish, and made his own graceful tone and manner seem doubly such when he resumed it.  Foreign countries—­their customs, their manners, the rules of their courts—–­the fashions, and even the dress of their ladies-were equally his theme; and seldom did he conclude without conveying some compliment, always couched in delicacy, and expressed with propriety, to the Virgin Queen, her court, and her government.  Thus passed the conversation during this pleasure voyage, seconded by the rest of the attendants upon the royal person, in gay discourse, varied by remarks upon ancient classics and modern authors, and enriched by maxims of deep policy and sound morality, by the statesmen and sages who sat around and mixed wisdom with the lighter talk of a female court.

When they returned to the Palace, Elizabeth accepted, or rather selected, the arm of Leicester to support her from the stairs where they landed to the great gate.  It even seemed to him (though that might arise from the flattery of his own imagination) that during this short passage she leaned on him somewhat more than the slippiness of the way necessarily demanded.  Certainly her actions and words combined to express a degree of favour which, even in his proudest day he had not till then attained.  His rival, indeed, was repeatedly graced by the Queen’s notice; but it was in manner that seemed to flow less from spontaneous inclination than as extorted by a sense of his merit.  And in the opinion of many experienced courtiers, all the favour she showed him was overbalanced by her whispering in the ear of the Lady Derby that “now she saw sickness was a better alchemist than she before wotted of, seeing it had changed my Lord of Sussex’s copper nose into a golden one.”

The jest transpired, and the Earl of Leicester enjoyed his triumph, as one to whom court-favour had been both the primary and the ultimate motive of life, while he forgot, in the intoxication of the moment, the perplexities and dangers of his own situation.  Indeed, strange as it may appear, he thought less at that moment of the perils arising from his secret union, than of the marks of grace which Elizabeth from time to time showed to young Raleigh.  They were indeed transient, but they were conferred on one accomplished in mind and body, with grace, gallantry, literature, and valour.  An accident occurred in the course of the evening which riveted Leicester’s attention to this object.