“But Tressilian?” said Leicester.

“He will not know of her departure for some time,” replied Varney; “it shall take place this very evening, and to-morrow he shall be cared for.”

“No, by my soul,” answered Leicester; “I will take vengeance on him with mine own hand!”

“You, my lord, and on so inconsiderable a man as Tressilian!  No, my lord, he hath long wished to visit foreign parts.  Trust him to me—­I will take care he returns not hither to tell tales.”

“Not so, by Heaven, Varney!” exclaimed Leicester.  “Inconsiderable do you call an enemy that hath had power to wound me so deeply that my whole after-life must be one scene of remorse and misery?—­No; rather than forego the right of doing myself justice with my own hand on that accursed villain, I will unfold the whole truth at Elizabeth’s footstool, and let her vengeance descend at once on them and on myself.”

Varney saw with great alarm that his lord was wrought up to such a pitch of agitation, that if he gave not way to him he was perfectly capable of adopting the desperate resolution which he had announced, and which was instant ruin to all the schemes of ambition which Varney had formed for his patron and for himself.  But the Earl’s rage seemed at once uncontrollable and deeply concentrated, and while he spoke his eyes shot fire, his voice trembled with excess of passion, and the light foam stood on his lip.

His confidant made a bold and successful effort to obtain the mastery of him even in this hour of emotion.  “My lord,” he said, leading him to a mirror, “behold your reflection in that glass, and think if these agitated features belong to one who, in a condition so extreme, is capable of forming a resolution for himself.”

“What, then, wouldst thou make me?” said Leicester, struck at the change in his own physiognomy, though offended at the freedom with which Varney made the appeal.  “Am I to be thy ward, thy vassal,—­the property and subject of my servant?”

“No, my lord,” said Varney firmly, “but be master of yourself, and of your own passion.  My lord, I, your born servant, am ashamed to see how poorly you bear yourself in the storm of fury.  Go to Elizabeth’s feet, confess your marriage—­impeach your wife and her paramour of adultery—­and avow yourself, amongst all your peers, the wittol who married a country girl, and was cozened by her and her book-learned gallant.  Go, my lord—­but first take farewell of Richard Varney, with all the benefits you ever conferred on him.  He served the noble, the lofty, the high-minded Leicester, and was more proud of depending on him than he would be of commanding thousands.  But the abject lord who stoops to every adverse circumstance, whose judicious resolves are scattered like chaff before every wind of passion, him Richard Varney serves not.  He is as much above him in constancy of mind as beneath him in rank and fortune.”

Varney spoke thus without hypocrisy, for though the firmness of mind which he boasted was hardness and impenetrability, yet he really felt the ascendency which he vaunted; while the interest which he actually felt in the fortunes of Leicester gave unusual emotion to his voice and manner.