“Well, Sir!” she then cried, in an abrupt tone, “where is thy marauding friend?”
“Most gracious liege, an’ thou mean’st Sir Walter Raleigh,” replied Cecil, fawningly, “I give thee my word, that, were he mine own brother, he should not hold my regard when he had lost thine. God forefend I should ever lack in duty to your Highness, who hath loaded me and mine, of thine own free and unsolicited will, with thy most precious bounty.”
“Nay, nay, I question not thee, gentle Cecil,” rejoined the Queen, with more kindness. “There be few I deem so loyal, or hold in equal respect.”
“Oh, thanks! thanks, most dread sovereign!” answered Cecil, with well-feigned emotion. “An’ I could tell how thou hast moved me, I would make thy most piteous and compassionate heart to run distract. But no tongue, unless it were thine own, whose eloquence passes man’s, and ravishes while it commands, could give utterance to my most hearty sentiments. Indeed, my Lord Essex, that was a right apt conceit of thine, which likened her Grace’s voice to the song of Philomel.”
“By my word, now, ’twas beggarly,” said the Earl of Essex, earnestly. “’Twas likening the meridian sun to a mere star.”
“Go to, thou flatterer!” exclaimed the Queen, laughing. “The conceit was a right good one. But what keeps this recreant knight, gentle Cecil?”
Cecil hesitated.
“Soh!” said the Queen, with revived displeasure. And rising from her seat, she stepped a pace or two forward (so that, if they spoke in a low tone, their conversation could not be heard by those around), and whispered Cecil apart.
“What holds him away?” she said.