“I am glad thou art gone,” thought Varney, “or, practised as I am in the follies of mankind, I had laughed in the very face of thee!  Thou mayest tire as thou wilt of thy new bauble, thy pretty piece of painted Eve’s flesh there, I will not be thy hindrance.  But of thine old bauble, ambition, thou shalt not tire; for as you climb the hill, my lord, you must drag Richard Varney up with you, and if he can urge you to the ascent he means to profit by, believe me he will spare neither whip nor spur, and for you, my pretty lady, that would be Countess outright, you were best not thwart my courses, lest you are called to an old reckoning on a new score.  ‘Thou shalt be master,’ did he say?  By my faith, he may find that he spoke truer than he is aware of; and thus he who, in the estimation of so many wise-judging men, can match Burleigh and Walsingham in policy, and Sussex in war, becomes pupil to his own menial—­and all for a hazel eye and a little cunning red and white, and so falls ambition.  And yet if the charms of mortal woman could excuse a man’s politic pate for becoming bewildered, my lord had the excuse at his right hand on this blessed evening that has last passed over us.  Well—­let things roll as they may, he shall make me great, or I will make myself happy; and for that softer piece of creation, if she speak not out her interview with Tressilian, as well I think she dare not, she also must traffic with me for concealment and mutual support, in spite of all this scorn.  I must to the stables.  Well, my lord, I order your retinue now; the time may soon come that my master of the horse shall order mine own.  What was Thomas Cromwell but a smith’s son? and he died my lord—­on a scaffold, doubtless, but that, too, was in character.  And what was Ralph Sadler but the clerk of Cromwell? and he has gazed eighteen fair lordships—­via!  I know my steerage as well as they.”

So saying, he left the apartment.

In the meanwhile the Earl had re-entered the bedchamber, bent on taking a hasty farewell of the lovely Countess, and scarce daring to trust himself in private with her, to hear requests again urged which he found it difficult to parry, yet which his recent conversation with his master of horse had determined him not to grant.

He found her in a white cymar of silk lined with furs, her little feet unstockinged and hastily thrust into slippers; her unbraided hair escaping from under her midnight coif, with little array but her own loveliness, rather augmented than diminished by the grief which she felt at the approaching moment of separation.

“Now, God be with thee, my dearest and loveliest!” said the Earl, scarce tearing himself from her embrace, yet again returning to fold her again and again in his arms, and again bidding farewell, and again returning to kiss and bid adieu once more.  “The sun is on the verge of the blue horizon—­I dare not stay.  Ere this I should have been ten miles from hence.”