“I would know your story.  How came you and yours to this pass?  Where were you born?  Of what degree are you?  And this Michel de la Foret, when came he to your feet ­or you to his arms?  I would know all.  Begin where life began; end where you sit here at the feet of Elizabeth.  This other cushion to your knees.  There ­now speak.  We are alone.”

Elizabeth pushed a velvet cushion towards Angele, where she half-knelt, half-sat on the rush-strewn floor of the great chamber.  The warm light of the afternoon sun glowed through the thick-tinted glass high up, and, in the gleam, the heavy tapestries sent by an archduke, once suitor for Elizabeth’s hand, emerged with dramatic distinctness, and peopled the room with silent watchers of the great Queen and the nobly-born but poor and fugitive Huguenot.  A splendid piece of sculpture ­Eleanor, wife of Edward ­given Elizabeth by another royal suitor, who had sought to be her consort through many years, caught the warm bath of gold and crimson from the clerestory and seemed alive and breathing.  Against the pedestal the Queen had placed her visitor, the red cushions making vivid contrast to her white gown and black hair.  In the half-kneeling, half-sitting posture, with her hands clasped before her, so to steady herself to composure, Angele looked a suppliant ­and a saint.  Her pure, straightforward gaze, her smooth, urbane forehead, the guilelessness that spoke in every feature, were not made worldly by the intelligence and humour reposing in the brown depths of her eyes.  Not a line vexed her face or forehead.  Her countenance was of a singular and almost polished smoothness, and though her gown was severely simple by comparison with silks and velvets, furs and ruffles of a gorgeous Court at its most gorgeous period, yet in it here and there were touches of exquisite fineness.  The black velvet ribbon slashing her sleeves, the slight cloud-like gathering of lace at the back of her head, gave a distinguished softness to her appearance.

She was in curious contrast to the Queen, who sat upon heaped-up cushions, her rich buff and black gown a blaze of jewels, her yellow hair, now streaked with grey, roped with pearls, her hands heavy with rings, her face past its youth, past its hopefulness, however noble and impressive, past its vivid beauty.  Her eyes wore ever a determined look, were persistent and vigilant, with a lurking trouble, yet flooded, too, by a quiet melancholy, like a low, insistent note that floats through an opera of passion, romance, and tragedy; like a tone of pathos giving deep character to some splendid pageant, which praises whilst it commemorates, proclaiming conquest while the grass has not yet grown on quiet houses of the children of the sword who no more wield the sword.  Evasive, cautious, secretive, creator of her own policy, she had sacrificed her womanhood to the power she held and the State she served.  Vain, passionate, and faithful, her heart all England and Elizabeth, the hunger for glimpses of what she had never known, and was never to know, thrust itself into her famished life; and she was wont to indulge, as now, in fancies and follow some emotional whim with a determination very like to eccentricity.

That, at this time, when great national events were forward, when conspiracies abounded, when Parliament was grimly gathering strength to compel her to marry; and her Council were as sternly pursuing their policy for the destruction of Leicester; while that very day had come news of a rising in the North and of fresh Popish plots hatched in France ­that in such case, this day she should set aside all business, refuse ambassadors and envoys admission, and occupy herself with two Huguenot refugees seemed incredible to the younger courtiers.  To such as Cecil, however, there was clear understanding.  He knew that when she seemed most inert, most impassive to turbulent occurrences, most careless of consequences, she was but waiting till, in her own mind, her plans were grown; so that she should see her end clearly ere she spoke or moved.  Now, as the great minister showed himself at the door of the chamber and saw Elizabeth seated with Angele, he drew back instinctively, expectant of the upraised hand which told him he must wait.  And, in truth, he was nothing loth to do so, for his news he cared little to deliver, important though it was that she should have it promptly and act upon it soon.  He turned away with a feeling of relief, however, for this gossip with the Huguenot maid would no doubt interest her, give new direction to her warm sympathies, which if roused in one thing were ever more easily roused in others.  He knew that a crisis was nearing in the royal relations with Leicester.  In a life of devotion to her service he had seen her before in this strange mood, and he could feel that she was ready for an outburst.  As he thought of De la Foret and the favour with which she had looked at him he smiled grimly, for if it meant aught it meant that it would drive Leicester to some act which would hasten his own doom; though, indeed, it might also make another path more difficult for himself, for the Parliament, for the people.

Little as Elizabeth could endure tales of love and news of marriage; little as she believed in any vows, save those made to herself; little as she was inclined to adjust the rough courses of true love, she was the surgeon to this particular business, and she had the surgeon’s love of laying bare even to her own cynicism the hurt of the poor patient under her knife.  Indeed, so had Angele impressed her that for once she thought she might hear the truth.  Because she saw the awe in the other’s face and a worshipping admiration of the great protectress of Protestantism, who had by large gifts of men and money in times past helped the Cause, she looked upon her here with kindness.

“Speak now, mistress fugitive, and I will listen,” she added, as Cecil withdrew; and she made a motion to musicians in a distant gallery.

Angele’s heart fluttered to her mouth, but the soft, simple music helped her, and she began with eyes bent upon the ground, her linked fingers clasping and unclasping slowly.

“I was born at Rouen, your high Majesty,” she said.  “My mother was a cousin of the Prince of Passy, the great Protestant ­”

“Of Passy ­ah!” said Elizabeth amazed.  “Then you are Protestants indeed; and your face is no invention, but cometh honestly.  No, no, ’tis no accident ­God rest his soul, great Passy!”

“She died ­my mother ­when I was a little child.  I can but just remember her ­so brightly quiet, so quick, so beautiful.  In Rouen life had little motion; but now and then came stir and turmoil, for war sent its message into the old streets, and our captains and our peasants poured forth to fight for the King.  Once came the King and Queen ­Francis and Mary ­”

Elizabeth drew herself upright with an exclamation.  “Ah, you have seen her ­Mary of Scots,” she said sharply.  “You have seen her?”

“As near as I might touch her with my hand, as near as is your high Majesty.  She spoke to me ­my mother’s father was in her train; ­as yet we had not become Huguenots, nor did we know her Majesty as now the world knows.  They came, the King and Queen ­and that was the beginning.”

She paused, and looked shyly at Elizabeth, as though she found it hard to tell her story.

“And the beginning, it was ?” said Elizabeth, impatient and intent.

“We went to Court.  The Queen called my mother into her train.  But it was in no wise for our good.  At Court my mother pined away ­and so she died in durance.”

“Wherefore in durance?”

“To what she saw she would not shut her eyes; to what she heard she would not close her soul; what was required of her she would not do.”

“She would not obey the Queen?”

“She could not obey those whom the Queen favoured.  Then the tyranny that broke her heart ­”

The Queen interrupted her.

“In very truth, but ’tis not in France alone that Queen’s favourites grasp the sceptre and speak the word.  Hath a Queen a thousand eyes ­can she know truth where most dissemble?”

“There was a man ­he could not know there was one true woman there, who for her daughter’s sake, for her desired advancement, and because she was cousin of Passy, who urged it, lived that starved life; this man, this prince, drew round her feet snares, set pit-falls for her while my father was sent upon a mission.  Steadfast she kept her soul unspotted; but it wore away her life.  The Queen would not permit return to Rouen ­who can tell what tale was told her by one whom she foiled?  And so she stayed.  In this slow, savage persecution, when she was like a bird that, thinking it is free, flieth against the window-pane and falleth back beaten, so did she stay, and none could save her.  To cry out, to throw herself upon the spears, would have been ruin of herself, her husband and her child; and for these she lived.”

Elizabeth’s eyes had kindled.  Perhaps never in her life had the life at Court been so exposed to her.  The simple words, meant but to convey the story, and with no thought behind, had thrown a light on her own Court, on her own position.  Adept in weaving a sinuous course in her policy, in making mazes for others to tread, the mazes which they in turn prepared had never before been traced beneath her eyes to the same vivid and ultimate effect.

“Help me, ye saints, but things are not at such a pass in this place!” she said abruptly, but with weariness in her voice.  “Yet sometimes I know not.  The Court is a city by itself, walled and moated, and hath a life all its own.  ’If there be found ten honest men within the city yet will I save it,’ saith the Lord.  By my father’s head, I would not risk a finger on the hazard if this city, this Court of Elizabeth were set ’twixt the fire from Heaven and eternal peace.  In truth, child, I would lay me down and die in black disgust were it not that one might come hereafter would make a very Sodom or Gomorrah of this land:  and out yonder ­out in all my counties, where the truth of England is among my poor burgesses, who die for the great causes which my nobles profess but risk not their lives ­out yonder all that they have won, and for which I have striven, would be lost....  Speak on.  I have not heard so plain a tongue and so little guile these twenty years.”

Angele continued, more courage in her voice.  “In the midst of it all came the wave of the new faith upon my mother.  And before ill could fall upon her from her foes, she died and was at rest.  Then we returned to Rouen, my father and I, and there we lived in peril, but in great happiness of soul until the day of massacre.  That night in Paris we were given greatly of the mercy of God.”

“You were there ­you were in the massacre at Paris?”

“In the house of the Duke of Langon, with whom was resting after a hazardous enterprise, Michel de la Foret.”

“And here beginneth the second lesson,” said the Queen with a smile on her lips; but there was a look of scrutiny in her eyes, and something like irony in her tone.  “And I will swear by all the stars of Heaven that this Michel saved ye both.  Is it not so?”

“It is even so.  By his skill and bravery we found our way to safety, and in a hiding-place near to our loved Rouen watched him return from the gates of death.”

“He was wounded then?”

“Seven times wounded, and with as little blood left in him as would fill a cup.  But it was summer, and we were in the hills, and they brought us, our friends of Rouen, all that we had need of; and so God was with us.

“But did he save thy life, except by skill, by indirect and fortunate wisdom?  Was there deadly danger upon thee?  Did he beat down the sword of death?”

“He saved my life thrice directly.  The wounds he carried were got by interposing his own sword ’twixt death and me.”

“And that hath need of recompense?”

“My life was little worth the wounds he suffered; but I waited not until he saved it to owe it unto him.  All that it is was his before he drew the sword.”

“And ’tis this ye would call love betwixt ye ­sweet givings and takings of looks, and soft sayings, and unchangeable and devouring faith.  Is’t this ­and is this all?”

The girl had spoken out of an innocent heart, but the challenge in the Queen’s voice worked upon her, and though she shrank a little, the fulness of her soul welled up and strengthened her.  She spoke again, and now in her need and in her will to save the man she loved, by making this majesty of England his protector, her words had eloquence.

“It is not all, noble Queen.  Love is more than that.  It is the waking in the poorest minds, in the most barren souls, of something greater than themselves ­as a chemist should find a substance that would give all other things by touching of them a new and higher value; as light and sun draw from the earth the tendrils of the seed that else had lain unproducing.  ’Tis not alone soft words and touch of hand or lip.  This caring wholly for one outside one’s self kills that self which else would make the world blind and deaf and dumb.  None hath loved greatly but hath helped to love in others.  Ah, most sweet Majesty, for great souls like thine, souls born great, this medicine is not needful, for already hath the love of a nation inspired and enlarged it; but for souls like mine and of so many, none better and none worse than me, to love one other soul deeply and abidingly lifts us higher than ourselves.  Your Majesty hath been loved by a whole people, by princes and great men in a different sort ­is it not the world’s talk that none that ever reigned hath drawn such slavery of princes, and of great nobles who have courted death for hopeless love of one beyond their star?  And is it not written in the world’s book also that the Queen of England hath loved no man, but hath poured out her heart to a people; and hath served great causes in all the earth because of that love which hath still enlarged her soul, dowered at birth beyond reckoning?” Tears filled her eyes.  “Ah, your supreme Majesty, to you whose heart is universal, the love of one poor mortal seemeth a small thing, but to those of little consequence it is the cable by which they unsteadily hold over the chasm ’twixt life and immortality.  To thee, oh greatest monarch of the world, it is a staff on which thou need’st not lean, which thou hast never grasped; to me it is my all; without it I fail and fall and die.”

She had spoken as she felt, yet, because she was a woman and guessed the mind of another woman, she had touched Elizabeth where her armour was weakest.  She had suggested that the Queen had been the object of adoration, but had never given her heart to any man; that hers was the virgin heart and life; and that she had never stooped to conquer.  Without realising it, and only dimly moving with that end in view, she had whetted Elizabeth’s vanity.  She had indeed soothed a pride wounded of late beyond endurance, suspecting, as she did, that Leicester had played his long part for his own sordid purposes, that his devotion was more alloy than precious metal.  No note of praise could be pitched too high for Elizabeth, and if only policy did not intervene, if but no political advantage was lost by saving De la Foret, that safety seemed now secure.

“You tell a tale and adorn it with good grace,” she said, and held out her hand.  Angele kissed it.  “And you have said to Elizabeth what none else dared to say since I was Queen here.  He who hath never seen the lightning hath no dread of it.  I had not thought there was in the world so much artlessness, with all the power of perfect art.  But we live to be wiser.  Thou shalt continue in thy tale.  Thou hast seen Mary, once Queen of France, now Queen of Scots ­answer me fairly; without if, or though, or any sort of doubt, the questions I shall put.  Which of us twain, this ruin-starred queen or I, is of higher stature?”

“She hath advantage in little of your Majesty,” bravely answered Angele.

“Then,” answered Elizabeth sourly, “she is too high, for I myself am neither too high nor too low....  And of complexion, which is the fairer?”

“Her complexion is the fairer, but your Majesty’s countenance hath truer beauty, and sweeter majesty.”  Elizabeth frowned slightly, then said: 

“What exercises did she take when you were at the Court?”

“Sometimes she hunted, your Majesty, and sometimes she played upon the virginals.”

“Did she play to effect?”

“Reasonably, your noble Majesty.”

“You shall hear me play, and then speak truth upon us, for I have known none with so true a tongue since my father died.”

Thereon she called to a lady who waited near in a little room to bring an instrument; but at that moment Cecil appeared again at the door, and his face seeming to show anxiety, Elizabeth, with a sigh, beckoned him to enter.

“Your face, Cecil, is as long as a Lenten collect.  What raven croaks in England on May Day eve?” Cecil knelt before her, and gave into her hand a paper.

“What record runs here?” she asked querulously.  “A prayer of your faithful Lords and Commons that your Majesty will grant speech with their chosen deputies to lay before your Majesty a cause they have at heart.”

“Touching of ?” darkly asked the Queen.

“The deputies wait even now ­will not your Majesty receive them?  They have come humbly, and will go hence as humbly on the instant, if the hour is ill chosen.”

Immediately Elizabeth’s humour changed.  A look of passion swept across her face, but her eyes lighted, and her lips smiled proudly.  She avoided troubles by every means, fought off by subtleties the issues which she must meet; but when the inevitable hour came none knew so well to meet it as though it were a dearest friend, no matter what the danger, how great the stake.

“They are here at my door, these good servants of the State ­shall they be kept dangling?” she said loudly.  “Though it were time for prayers and God’s mercy yet should they speak with me, have my counsel, or my hand upon the sacred parchment of the State.  Bring them hither, Cecil.  Now we shall see ­Now you shall see, Angele of Rouen, now you shall see how queens shall have no hearts to call their own, but be head and heart and soul and body at the will of every churl who thinks he serves the State and knows the will of Heaven.  Stand here at my left hand.  Mark the players and the play.”

Kneeling, the deputies presented a resolution from the Lords and Commons that the Queen should, without more delay, in keeping with her oft-expressed resolve and the promise of her Council, appoint one who should succeed to the throne in case of her death “without posterity.”  Her faithful people pleaded with her gracious Majesty to forego unwillingness to marry and seek a consort worthy of her supreme consideration, to be raised to a place beside her near that throne which she had made the greatest in the world.

Gravely, solemnly, the chief members of the Lords and Commons spoke, and with as weighty pauses and devoted protestations as though this were the first time their plea had been urged, this obvious duty had been set out before her.  Long ago in the flush and pride of her extreme youth and the full assurance of the fruits of marriage, they had spoken with the same sober responsibility; and though her youth had gone and the old certainty had for ever disappeared, they spoke of her marriage and its consequences as though it were still that far-off yesterday.  Well for them that they did so, for though time had flown and royal suitors without number had become figures dim in the people’s mind, Elizabeth, fed upon adulation, invoked, admired, besieged by young courtiers, flattered by maids who praised her beauty, had never seen the hands of the clock pass high noon, and still remained under the dearest and saddest illusion which can rest in a woman’s mind.  Long after the hands of life’s clock had moved into afternoon, the ancient prayer was still gravely presented that she should marry and give an heir to England’s crown; and she as solemnly listened and dropped her eyes, and strove to hide her virgin modesty behind a high demeanour which must needs sink self in royal duty.

“These be the dear desires of your supreme Majesty’s faithful Lords and Commons and the people of the shires whose wills they represent.  Your Majesty’s life, God grant it last beyond that of the youngest of your people so greatly blessed in your rule!  But accidents of time be many; and while the world is full of guile, none can tell what peril may beset the crown, if your Majesty’s wisdom sets not apart, gives not to her country, one whom the nation can surround with its care, encompass lovingly by its duty.”

The talk with Angele had had a curious influence upon the Queen.  It was plain that now she was moved by real feeling, and that, though she deceived herself, or pretended so to do, shutting her eyes to sober facts, and dreaming old dreams ­as it were, in a world where never was a mirror nor a timepiece ­yet there was working in her a fresher spirit, urging her to a fairer course than she had shaped for many a day.

“My lords and gentlemen and my beloved subjects,” she answered presently, and for an instant set her eyes upon Angele, then turned to them again, “I pray you stand and hear me....  Ye have spoken fair words to my face, and of my face, and of the person of this daughter of great Henry, from whom I got whatever grace or manner or favour is to me; and by all your reasoning you do flatter the heart of the Queen of England, whose mind indeed sleeps not in deed or desire for this realm.  Ye have drawn a fair picture of this mortal me, and though from the grace of the picture the colours may fade by time, may give by weather, may be spoiled by chance, yet my loyal mind, nor time with her swift wings shall overtake, nor the misty clouds may darken, nor chance with her slippery foot may overthrow.  It sets its course by the heart of England, and when it passeth there shall be found that one shall be left behind who shall be surety of all that hath been lying in the dim warehouse of fate for England’s high future.  Be sure that in this thing I have entered into the weigh-house, and I hold the balance, and ye shall be well satisfied.  Ye have been fruitful in counsel, ye have been long knitting a knot never tied, ye shall have comfort soon.  But know ye beyond peradventure that I have bided my time with good reason.  If our loom be framed with rotten hurdles, when our web is well-ny done, our work is yet to begin.  Against mischance and dark discoveries my mind, with knowledge hidden from you, hath been firmly arrayed.  If it be in your thought that I am set against a marriage which shall serve the nation, purge yourselves, friends, of that sort of heresy, for the belief is awry.  Though I think that to be one and always one, neither mated nor mothering, be good for a private woman, for a prince it is not meet.  Therefore, say to my Lords and Commons that I am more concerned for what shall chance to England when I am gone than to linger out my living thread.  I hope, my lords and gentlemen, to die with a good Nunc Dimittis, which could not be if I did not give surety for the nation after my graved bones.  Ye shall hear soon ­ye shall hear and be satisfied, and so I give you to the care of Almighty God.”

Once more they knelt, and then slowly withdrew, with faces downcast and troubled.  They had secret knowledge which she did not yet possess, but which at any moment she must know, and her ambiguous speech carried no conviction to their minds.  Yet their conference with her was most opportune, for the news she must presently receive, brought by a messenger from Scotland who had outstripped all others, would no doubt move her to action which should set the minds of the people at rest, and go far to stem the tide of conspiracy flowing through the kingdom.

Elizabeth stood watching them, and remained gazing after they had disappeared; then rousing herself, she turned to leave the room, and beckoned to Angele to follow.