Burleigh here ventured to interpose.

“Madam,” he said, “remember that you are a Queen—­Queen of England—­mother of your people.  Give not way to this wild storm of passion.”

Elizabeth turned round to him, while a tear actually twinkled in her proud and angry eye.  “Burleigh,” she said, “thou art a statesman—­thou dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the scorn, half the misery, that man has poured on me!”

With the utmost caution—­with the deepest reverence—­Burleigh took her hand at the moment he saw her heart was at the fullest, and led her aside to an oriel window, apart from the others.

“Madam,” he said, “I am a statesman, but I am also a man—­a man already grown old in your councils—­who have not and cannot have a wish on earth but your glory and happiness; I pray you to be composed.”

“Ah!  Burleigh,” said Elizabeth, “thou little knowest—­” here her tears fell over her cheeks in despite of her.

“I do—­I do know, my honoured sovereign.  Oh, beware that you lead not others to guess that which they know not!”

“Ha!” said Elizabeth, pausing as if a new train of thought had suddenly shot across her brain.  “Burleigh, thou art right—­thou art right—­anything but disgrace—­anything but a confession of weakness—­anything rather than seem the cheated, slighted—­’sdeath! to think on it is distraction!”

“Be but yourself, my Queen,” said Burleigh; “and soar far above a weakness which no Englishman will ever believe his Elizabeth could have entertained, unless the violence of her disappointment carries a sad conviction to his bosom.”

“What weakness, my lord?” said Elizabeth haughtily; “would you too insinuate that the favour in which I held yonder proud traitor derived its source from aught—­” But here she could no longer sustain the proud tone which she had assumed, and again softened as she said, “But why should I strive to deceive even thee, my good and wise servant?”

Burleigh stooped to kiss her hand with affection, and—­rare in the annals of courts—­a tear of true sympathy dropped from the eye of the minister on the hand of his Sovereign.

It is probable that the consciousness of possessing this sympathy aided Elizabeth in supporting her mortification, and suppressing her extreme resentment; but she was still more moved by fear that her passion should betray to the public the affront and the disappointment, which, alike as a woman and a Queen, she was so anxious to conceal.  She turned from Burleigh, and sternly paced the hall till her features had recovered their usual dignity, and her mien its wonted stateliness of regular motion.

“Our Sovereign is her noble self once more,” whispered Burleigh to Walsingham; “mark what she does, and take heed you thwart her not.”

She then approached Leicester, and said with calmness, “My Lord Shrewsbury, we discharge you of your prisoner.—­My Lord of Leicester, rise and take up your sword; a quarter of an hour’s restraint under the custody of our Marshal, my lord, is, we think, no high penance for months of falsehood practised upon us.  We will now hear the progress of this affair.”  She then seated herself in her chair, and said, “You, Tressilian, step forward, and say what you know.”