“And wherefore was I not told of all this?” said Leicester sternly.  “Why did all of ye—­and in particular thou, Varney—­keep back from me such material information?”

“Because, my lord,” replied Varney, “the Countess pretended to Foster and to me that Tressilian had intruded himself upon her; and I concluded their interview had been in all honour, and that she would at her own time tell it to your lordship.  Your lordship knows with what unwilling ears we listen to evil surmises against those whom we love; and I thank Heaven I am no makebate or informer, to be the first to sow them.”

“You are but too ready to receive them, however, Sir Richard,” replied his patron.  “How knowest thou that this interview was not in all honour, as thou hast said?  Methinks the wife of the Earl of Leicester might speak for a short time with such a person as Tressilian without injury to me or suspicion to herself.”

“Questionless, my lord,” answered Varney, “Had I thought otherwise, I had been no keeper of the secret.  But here lies the rub—­Tressilian leaves not the place without establishing a correspondence with a poor man, the landlord of an inn in Cumnor, for the purpose of carrying off the lady.  He sent down an emissary of his, whom I trust soon to have in right sure keeping under Mervyn’s Tower—­Killigrew and Lambsbey are scouring the country in quest of him.  The host is rewarded with a ring for keeping counsel—­your lordship may have noted it on Tressilian’s hand—­here it is.  This fellow, this agent, makes his way to the place as a pedlar; holds conferences with the lady, and they make their escape together by night; rob a poor fellow of a horse by the way, such was their guilty haste, and at length reach this Castle, where the Countess of Leicester finds refuge—­I dare not say in what place.”

“Speak, I command thee,” said Leicester—­“speak, while I retain sense enough to hear thee.”

“Since it must be so,” answered Varney, “the lady resorted immediately to the apartment of Tressilian, where she remained many hours, partly in company with him, and partly alone.  I told you Tressilian had a paramour in his chamber; I little dreamed that paramour was—­”

“Amy, thou wouldst say,” answered Leicester; “but it is false, false as the smoke of hell!  Ambitious she may be—­fickle and impatient—­’tis a woman’s fault; but false to me!—­never, never.  The proof—­the proof of this!” he exclaimed hastily.

“Carrol, the Deputy Marshal, ushered her thither by her own desire, on yesterday afternoon; Lambourne and the Warder both found her there at an early hour this morning.”

“Was Tressilian there with her?” said Leicester, in the same hurried tone.

“No, my lord.  You may remember,” answered Varney, “that he was that night placed with Sir Nicholas Blount, under a species of arrest.”

“Did Carrol, or the other fellows, know who she was?” demanded Leicester.