“Not, gracious madam, that this poor lady was Countess of Leicester.”
“Nor shall any one know her for such,” said Elizabeth. “Death of my life! Countess of Leicester!—I say Dame Amy Dudley; and well if she have not cause to write herself widow of the traitor Robert Dudley.”
“Madam,” said Leicester, “do with me what it may be your will to do, but work no injury on this gentleman; he hath in no way deserved it.”
“And will he be the better for thy intercession,” said the Queen, leaving Tressilian, who slowly arose, and rushing to Leicester, who continued kneeling—“the better for thy intercession, thou doubly false—thou doubly forsworn;—of thy intercession, whose villainy hath made me ridiculous to my subjects and odious to myself? I could tear out mine eyes for their blindness!”
Burleigh here ventured to interpose.
“Madam,” he said, “remember that you are a Queen—Queen of England—mother of your people. Give not way to this wild storm of passion.”
Elizabeth turned round to him, while a tear actually twinkled in her proud and angry eye. “Burleigh,” she said, “thou art a statesman—thou dost not, thou canst not, comprehend half the scorn, half the misery, that man has poured on me!”
With the utmost caution—with the deepest reverence—Burleigh took her hand at the moment he saw her heart was at the fullest, and led her aside to an oriel window, apart from the others.
“Madam,” he said, “I am a statesman, but I am also a man—a man already grown old in your councils—who have not and cannot have a wish on earth but your glory and happiness; I pray you to be composed.”
“Ah! Burleigh,” said Elizabeth, “thou little knowest—” here her tears fell over her cheeks in despite of her.