“None,” rejoined the queen, withdrawing her hand; “none whatever. Arise, my lord, and do not further degrade yourself. You may love the queen, but you do not love the woman.—You may prize my throne, but you do not prize me.”
“You wrong me, gracious madam. On my soul you do,” rejoined Courtenay. “I may have trifled with others, but I have given my heart wholly to you.”
“It is false!” cried Mary, furiously. “You love the princess, my sister.”
Courtenay turned very pale. But he instantly recovered himself.
“Your highness is mistaken,” he answered.
“What!” cried the queen, her anger increasing each moment. “Dare you persist in the denial of your falsehood? Dare you tell me to my face that you have not breathed words of passion to her? Dare you assert that you have not lamented your engagement to me? Dare you say this?”
“I dare, madam.”
“Then your own words shall give you the he, traitor,” replied the queen. “Here is your letter to her,” she added, producing a paper, “wherein you tell her so.”
“Confusion!” uttered Courtenay, “Renard has betrayed me.”
“Is this letter your writing?” demanded the queen.