“I am not sure of the compliment,” said the Queen; “hawks are fierce creatures.”
“It was not for her fierceness,” put in Anthony, “that I named her after your Grace.”
“Why, then, Mr. Norris?”
“For that she soars so high above all other creatures,” said the lad, “and—and that she never stoops but to conquer.”
Mary gave a sudden triumphant laugh, and glanced up, and Elizabeth tapped her on the cheek sharply.
“Be still, bad girl,” she said. “You must not prompt during the lesson.”
And so the talk went on. Anthony really acquitted himself with great credit, considering the extreme strangeness of his position; but such an intense weight had been lifted off his mind by the Queen’s pardon of James Maxwell, that his nature was alight with a kind of intoxication.
All his sharpness, such as it was, rose to the surface; and Mary too was amazed at some of his replies. Elizabeth took it as a matter of course; she was accustomed to this kind of word-fencing; she did not do it very well herself: her royalty gave her many advantages which she often availed herself of; and her address was not to be compared for a moment with that of some of her courtiers and ladies. But still she was amused by this slender honest lad who stood there before her in his graceful splashed dress, and blushed and laughed and parried, and delivered his point with force, even if not with any extraordinary skill.
But at last she began to show signs of weariness; and Mary managed to convey to Anthony that it was time to be off. So he began to make his adieux.
“Well,” said Elizabeth, “let us see you at supper to-night; and in the parlours afterwards.—Ah!” she cried, suddenly, “neither of you must say a word as to how your friend was released. It must remain the act of the Council. My name must not appear; Walsingham will see to that, and you must see to it too.”