The irresistible pathos of look and tone electrified that wide assemblage, and in the midst of such plaudits as only Paris bestows she allowed her eyes to wander almost dreamily over the surging sea of human heads, and as if she were in truth some hunted, hopeless, homeless waif appealing for sympathy, she shrouded her pallid face in the blue folds of her travelling cloak, and disappeared.

“She must certainly recognize her countrymen, for that splendid passage seemed almost thrown to us, as a tribute to our nationality.  What a wonderful voice!  And yet—­she is so tender, so fragile,” said the minister.

“Did you observe how pale she grew toward the last, and so hollow-eyed, as if utterly worn out in the passionate struggle?” asked Mrs. Laurance.

“The passion of the remaining parts belongs rather to Leicester and the Queen.  By the way, this is quite a handsome earl, and the whole cast is decidedly strong and successful.  Look, Laurance! were you an artist, would you desire a finer model for an Egeria?  If Madame had been reared in Canova’s studio she could not possibly have accomplished a more elegant felicitous pose.  I should like her photograph at this moment.”

In the grotto scene, Amy was attired in pale sea-green silk, and her streaming hair braided it with yellow light, as she shrank back from the haughty visage of the Queen.

Rapidly the end approached, courtiers and maids of honour crowded upon the stage, and thither Elizabeth dragged the unhappy wife, into the presence of the earl, crying in thunder tones:  “My Lord of Leicester! knowest thou this woman?”

The craven silence of the husband, the desperate rally of the suffering wife to shield him from the impending wrath, until at last she was borne away insensible in Hunsdon’s strong arms, all followed in quick succession, and Amy’s ill-starred career approached its close, in the last interview with her husband.

When Cuthbert Laurance was a grey-haired man, trembling upon the brink of eternity, there came a vision in the solemn hours of night, and the form of Amy, wan as some marble statue, breathed again in his ear the last words she uttered that night.

“Take your ill-fated wife by the hand, lead her to the footstool of Elizabeth’s throne; say that ’in a moment of infatuation moved by supposed beauty, of which none perhaps can now trace even the remains, I gave my hand to this poor Amy Robsart.’  You will then have done justice to me, and to your own honour; and should law or power require you to part from me, I will offer no opposition, since I may then with honour hide a grieved and broken heart in those shades, from which your love withdrew me.  Then—­have but a little patience—­and Amy’s life will not long darken your brighter prospects.”

The fatal hour arrived; the gorgeous pomp and ceremonial of the court-pageant had passed away, and in a dim light the treacherous balcony at Cumnor Place was visible.  In the hush that pervaded the theatre, the minister heard the ticking of his watch, and Mrs. Laurance the laboured breathing of her husband.