“I will not prevaricate, madam,” replied Courtenay; “it is.”
“And in the face of this you declare you have not deceived me?”
“I have deceived you, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay. “But I have never ceased to love you.”
“My lord!—my lord!” exclaimed Mary, in a menacing tone. “Beware how you attempt to deceive me further, or as God shall judge me, you shall find that the daughter of Henry the Eighth is not to be offended with impunity.”
“I know you are terrible in anger, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay; “but you are also just. Judge me—condemn me, if you please, but hear me: he who gave you that letter,—Simon Renard,—counselled me to write it.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the queen.
“I have been guilty of folly—madness—” rejoined Courtenay—“but not the black perfidy your highness imagines. Dismiss me from your presence—send me into exile—I deserve any punishment—but do not believe that I have ceased to love you.”
“I know not what you term love, my lord,” replied Mary; “but I have no idea of sharing the affection of any man with another. Grant, however, that you speak the truth, why have you addressed this passionate epistle to the Princess Elizabeth?”
“I have already said I was deceived,” replied Courtenay. “I cannot excuse my conduct—though I lament it.”
“Are you sincere?” said Mary, who began to be softened by her lover’s apparent penitence.