Nearly a minute elapsed before the Queen spoke; but, in the mean time, her eyes, which were remarkably penetrating, ran over the cavalier with a glance of displeasure. Sir Walter, however, kept his eyes on the floor, and never looked up once.
“By my father’s head,” cried the Queen, at length, “I have a right good mind to drive thee hence again! What can palliate thy gross perjury? Knowest thou aught, in the conception of mortal wit, that can afford thee a reasonable excuse?”
Sir Walter was silent.
“Ay, think it over and over,” resumed the Queen, angrily; “and mark if thy subtlety frame a sufficient plea! Yet do I not blame thee, after all, so much as the hussey by whom thou wast decoyed. By the Lord, ’twere better for her, in this instance, that she had never seen a man. Which of my women was it?”
“My gracious liege,” said Raleigh, in a soft voice, “I were a traitor to profess, as I might, that I know not whereof I am charged withal; for Sir Robert Cecil hath advised me on’t at full. Nevertheless, I do solemnly protest, by thy fair hand, and mine own honour, ’tis utterly without ground.”
“How?” cried the Queen, starting up. “Wilt thou dare to tell me a lie?”
“Now, God forefend, dread sovereign!” said Sir Walter, his cheeks mantling with a deep flush. “’Tis true, I met a lady in the park last even; but, by all I regard sacred, she was no mistress of mine, nor any lady of the court. She was simply a poor friend—a poor, defenceless maid, who sought me with a suit to your Highness.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Queen.
“’Twas even so, your Highness,” answered Raleigh: “a maid (let me speak in pure sooth) whom I would perish rather than wrong.”
“Rise, Sir!” said the Queen; “we pardon thee! Let us hear this maiden’s suit.”