Instead of answering her by speech, the unfortunate Countess dropped on her knee before the Queen, let her casket fall from her hand, and clasping her palms together, looked up in the Queen’s face with such a mixed agony of fear and supplication, that Elizabeth was considerably affected.

“What may this mean?” she said; “this is a stronger passion than befits the occasion.  Stand up, damsel—­what wouldst thou have with us?”

“Your protection, madam,” faltered forth the unhappy petitioner.

“Each daughter of England has it while she is worthy of it,” replied the Queen; “but your distress seems to have a deeper root than a forgotten task.  Why, and in what, do you crave our protection?”

Amy hastily endeavoured to recall what she were best to say, which might secure herself from the imminent dangers that surrounded her, without endangering her husband; and plunging from one thought to another, amidst the chaos which filled her mind, she could at length, in answer to the Queen’s repeated inquiries in what she sought protection, only falter out, “Alas!  I know not.”

“This is folly, maiden,” said Elizabeth impatiently; for there was something in the extreme confusion of the suppliant which irritated her curiosity, as well as interested her feelings.  “The sick man must tell his malady to the physician; nor are we accustomed to ask questions so oft without receiving an answer.”

“I request—­I implore,” stammered forth the unfortunate Countess—­“I beseech your gracious protection—­against—­against one Varney.”  She choked well-nigh as she uttered the fatal word, which was instantly caught up by the Queen.

“What, Varney—­Sir Richard Varney—­the servant of Lord Leicester! what, damsel, are you to him, or he to you?”

“I—­I—­was his prisoner—­and he practised on my life—­and I broke forth to—­to—­”

“To throw thyself on my protection, doubtless,” said Elizabeth.  “Thou shalt have it—­that is, if thou art worthy; for we will sift this matter to the uttermost.  Thou art,” she said, bending on the Countess an eye which seemed designed to pierce her very inmost soul—­“thou art Amy, daughter of Sir Hugh Robsart of Lidcote Hall?”

“Forgive me—­forgive me, most gracious Princess!” said Amy, dropping once more on her knee, from which she had arisen.

“For what should I forgive thee, silly wench?” said Elizabeth; “for being the daughter of thine own father?  Thou art brain-sick, surely.  Well I see I must wring the story from thee by inches.  Thou didst deceive thine old and honoured father—­thy look confesses it—­cheated Master Tressilian—­thy blush avouches it—­and married this same Varney.”

Amy sprung on her feet, and interrupted the Queen eagerly with, “No, madam, no! as there is a God above us, I am not the sordid wretch you would make me!  I am not the wife of that contemptible slave—­of that most deliberate villain!  I am not the wife of Varney!  I would rather be the bride of Destruction!”