“It is your speech, my lord, not mine,” answered Varney; “but whosesoever be the speech, it is the thought of ninety-nine out of an hundred men throughout broad England.”

“Ay, but,” said Leicester, turning himself in his bed, “the hundredth man knows better.  Thou, for example, knowest the obstacle that cannot be overleaped.”

“It must, my lord, if the stars speak true,” said Varney composedly.

“What, talkest thou of them,” said Leicester, “that believest not in them or in aught else?”

“You mistake, my lord, under your gracious pardon,” said Varney; “I believe in many things that predict the future.  I believe, if showers fall in April, that we shall have flowers in May; that if the sun shines, grain will ripen; and I believe in much natural philosophy to the same effect, which, if the stars swear to me, I will say the stars speak the truth.  And in like manner, I will not disbelieve that which I see wished for and expected on earth, solely because the astrologers have read it in the heavens.”

“Thou art right,” said Leicester, again tossing himself on his couch “Earth does wish for it.  I have had advices from the reformed churches of Germany—­from the Low Countries—­from Switzerland—­urging this as a point on which Europe’s safety depends.  France will not oppose it.  The ruling party in Scotland look to it as their best security.  Spain fears it, but cannot prevent it.  And yet thou knowest it is impossible.”

“I know not that, my lord,” said Varney; “the Countess is indisposed.”

“Villain!” said Leicester, starting up on his couch, and seizing the sword which lay on the table beside him, “go thy thoughts that way?—­thou wouldst not do murder?”

“For whom, or what, do you hold me, my lord?” said Varney, assuming the superiority of an innocent man subjected to unjust suspicion.  “I said nothing to deserve such a horrid imputation as your violence infers.  I said but that the Countess was ill.  And Countess though she be—­lovely and beloved as she is—­surely your lordship must hold her to be mortal?  She may die, and your lordship’s hand become once more your own.”

“Away! away!” said Leicester; “let me have no more of this.”

“Good night, my lord,” said Varney, seeming to understand this as a command to depart; but Leicester’s voice interrupted his purpose.

“Thou ’scapest me not thus, Sir Fool,” said he; “I think thy knighthood has addled thy brains.  Confess thou hast talked of impossibilities as of things which may come to pass.”

“My lord, long live your fair Countess,” said Varney; “but neither your love nor my good wishes can make her immortal.  But God grant she live long to be happy herself, and to render you so!  I see not but you may be King of England notwithstanding.”

“Nay, now, Varney, thou art stark mad,” said Leicester.

“I would I were myself within the same nearness to a good estate of freehold,” said Varney.  “Have we not known in other countries how a left-handed marriage might subsist betwixt persons of differing degree?—­ay, and be no hindrance to prevent the husband from conjoining himself afterwards with a more suitable partner?”