Next day, to their sorrow, the two councillors found that the Queen had again changed her mind—­“as one that had been by some adverse counsel seduced.”  She expressed the opinion that affairs would do well enough in the Netherlands, even though Leicester were displaced.  A conference followed between Walsingham, Hatton, and Burghley, and then the three went again to her Majesty.  They assured her that if she did not take immediate steps to satisfy the States and the people of the Provinces, she would lose those countries and her own honour at the same time; and that then they would prove a source of danger to her instead of protection and glory.  At this she was greatly troubled, and agreed to do anything they might advise consistently with her honour.  It was then agreed that Leicester should be continued in the government which he had accepted until the matter should be further considered, and letters to that effect were at once written.  Then came messenger from Sir Thomas Heneage, bringing despatches from that envoy, and a second and most secret one from the Earl himself.  Burghley took the precious letter which the favourite had addressed to his royal mistress, and had occasion to observe its magical effect.  Walsingham and the Lord Treasurer had been right in so earnestly remonstrating with him on his previous silence.

“She read your letter,” said Burghley, “and, in very truth, I found her princely heart touched with favourable interpretation of your actions; affirming them to be only offensive to her, in that she was not made privy to them; not now misliking that you had the authority.”

Such, at fifty-three, was Elizabeth Tudor.  A gentle whisper of idolatry from the lips of the man she loved, and she was wax in his hands.  Where now were the vehement protestations of horror that her public declaration of principles and motives had been set at nought?  Where now were her vociferous denunciations of the States, her shrill invectives against Leicester, her big oaths, and all the ‘hysterica passio,’ which had sent poor Lord Burghley to bed with the gout, and inspired the soul of Walsingham with dismal forebodings?  Her anger had dissolved into a shower of tenderness, and if her parsimony still remained it was because that could only vanish when she too should cease to be.

And thus, for a moment, the grave diplomatic difference between the crown of England and their high mightinesses the United States—­upon the solution of which the fate of Christendom was hanging—­seemed to shrink to the dimensions of a lovers’ quarrel.  Was it not strange that the letter had been so long delayed?

Davison had exhausted argument in defence of the acceptance by the Earl of the authority conferred by the States and had gained nothing by his eloquence, save abuse from the Queen, and acrimonious censure from the Earl.  He had deeply offended both by pleading the cause of the erring favourite, when the favourite should have spoken for himself.  “Poor Mr. Davison,” said Walsingham, “doth take it very grievously that your Lordship should conceive so hardly of him as you do.  I find the conceit of your Lordship’s disfavour hath greatly dejected him.  But at such time as he arrived her Majesty was so incensed, as all the arguments and orators in the world could not have wrought any satisfaction.”