“And if, in spite of that, I am not hanged?” quoth Sir Richard, a sneer upon his white face.
“Come to me again when the affair is closed, and we will talk of it.”
Sir Richard went out, rage and disgust in his heart, leaving my lord with rage and fear in his.
Grown calmer now, my lord dressed himself with care and sought the Queen to tell her of the accident that had removed the obstacle to their marriage. And that same night her Majesty coldly informed de Quadra that Lady Robert Dudley had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken her neck.
The Spaniard received the information with a countenance that was inscrutable.
“Your Majesty’s gift of prophecy is not so widely known as it deserves to be,” was his cryptic comment.
She stared at him blankly a moment. Then a sudden uneasy memory awakened by his words, she drew him forward to a window embrasure apart from those who had stood about her, and for greater security addressed him, as he tells us, in Italian.
“I do not think I understand you, sir. Will you be plain with me?” She stood erect and stiff, and frowned upon him after the manner of her bullying father. But de Quadra held the trumps, and was not easily intimidated.
“About the prophecy?” said he. “Why, did not your Majesty foretell the poor lady’s death a full day before it came to pass? Did you not say that she was already dead, or nearly so?”
He saw her blench; saw fear stare from those dark eyes that could be so very bold. Then her ever-ready anger followed swiftly.