“The wife of Varney!” she replied, with all the emphasis of scorn.  “With what base name, sir, does your boldness stigmatize the—­the—­the—­” She hesitated, dropped her tone of scorn, looked down, and was confused and silent; for she recollected what fatal consequences might attend her completing the sentence with “the Countess of Leicester,” which were the words that had naturally suggested themselves.  It would have been a betrayal of the secret, on which her husband had assured her that his fortunes depended, to Tressilian, to Sussex, to the Queen, and to the whole assembled court.  “Never,” she thought, “will I break my promised silence.  I will submit to every suspicion rather than that.”

The tears rose to her eyes, as she stood silent before Tressilian; while, looking on her with mingled grief and pity, he said, “Alas!  Amy, your eyes contradict your tongue.  That speaks of a protector, willing and able to watch over you; but these tell me you are ruined, and deserted by the wretch to whom you have attached yourself.”

She looked on him with eyes in which anger sparkled through her tears, but only repeated the word “wretch!” with a scornful emphasis.

“Yes, wretch!” said Tressilian; “for were he aught better, why are you here, and alone, in my apartment? why was not fitting provision made for your honourable reception?”

“In your apartment?” repeated Amy—­“in your apartment?  It shall instantly be relieved of my presence.”  She hastened towards the door; but the sad recollection of her deserted state at once pressed on her mind, and pausing on the threshold, she added, in a tone unutterably pathetic, “Alas!  I had forgot—­I know not where to go—­”

“I see—­I see it all,” said Tressilian, springing to her side, and leading her back to the seat, on which she sunk down.  “You do need aid—­you do need protection, though you will not own it; and you shall not need it long.  Leaning on my arm, as the representative of your excellent and broken-hearted father, on the very threshold of the Castle gate, you shall meet Elizabeth; and the first deed she shall do in the halls of Kenilworth shall be an act of justice to her sex and her subjects.  Strong in my good cause, and in the Queen’s justice, the power of her minion shall not shake my resolution.  I will instantly seek Sussex.”

“Not for all that is under heaven!” said the Countess, much alarmed, and feeling the absolute necessity of obtaining time, at least, for consideration.  “Tressilian, you were wont to be generous.  Grant me one request, and believe, if it be your wish to save me from misery and from madness, you will do more by making me the promise I ask of you, than Elizabeth can do for me with all her power.”

“Ask me anything for which you can allege reason,” said Tressilian; “but demand not of me—­”

“Oh, limit not your boon, dear Edmund!” exclaimed the Countess—­“you once loved that I should call you so—­limit not your boon to reason; for my case is all madness, and frenzy must guide the counsels which alone can aid me.”