up rebellion in my own kingdom, addressing himself to the princes of my blood and my most notable officers, so that I have been obliged to cut off the head of one of the most beloved of them all.  By these unchristian proceedings he has obliged me to take sides with the Hollanders, whom I know to be devoted to me; nor have I done anything for them except to pay the debts I owed them.  I know perfectly well that the king your master is the head of this conspiracy, and that the troops of Naples were meditating an attack upon my kingdom.  I have two letters written by the hand of your master to Marshal Biron, telling him to trust Fuentes as if it were himself, and it is notorious that Fuentes has projected and managed all the attempts to assassinate me.  Do you, think you have a child to deal with?  The late King of Spain knew me pretty well.  If this one thinks himself wiser I shall let him see who I am.  Do you want peace or war?  I am ready for either.”

The ambassador, whose head had thus been so vigorously washed—­as Henry expressed it in recounting the interview afterwards to the Dutch envoy, Dr. Aerssens—­stammered some unintelligible excuses, and humbly begged his Majesty not to be offended.  He then retired quite crest-fallen, and took leave most politely of everybody as he went, down even to the very grooms of the chambers.

“You must show your teeth to the Spaniard,” said Henry to Aerssens, “if you wish for a quiet life.”

Here was unsophisticated diplomacy; for the politic Henry, who could forgive assassins and conspirators, crowned or otherwise, when it suited his purpose to be lenient, knew that it was on this occasion very prudent to use the gift of language, not in order to conceal, but to express his thoughts.

“I left the king as red as a turkey-cock,” said Tassis, as soon as he got home that morning, “and I was another turkey-cock.  We have been talking a little bit of truth to each other.”

In truth, it was impossible, as the world was then constituted, that France and Spain, in spite of many secret sympathies, should not be enemies; that France, England, and the Dutch commonwealth, although cordially disliking each other, should not be allies.

Even before the death of Elizabeth a very remarkable interview had taken place at Dover, in which the queen had secretly disclosed the great thoughts with which that most imperial brain was filled just before its boundless activity was to cease for ever.

She had wished for a personal interview with the French king, whose wit and valour she had always heartily admired, Henry, on his part, while unmercifully ridiculing that preterhuman vanity which he fed with fantastic adulation, never failed to do justice to her genius, and had been for a moment disposed to cross the channel, or even to hold council with her on board ship midway between the two countries.  It was however found impracticable to arrange any such meeting, and the gossips of the day hinted that the great Henry, whose delight was in battle, and who had never been known to shrink from danger on dry land, was appalled at the idea of sea-sickness, and even dreaded the chance of being kidnapped by the English pirates.