“Well then, I will not put you to further shame,” replied the princess, rising.
“Will it please you to take my cloak as a protection against the rain?” said Bedingfeld, offering it to her. But she pushed it aside “with a good dash,” as old Fox relates; and springing on the steps, cried in a loud voice, “Here lands as true a subject, being prisoner, as ever set foot on these stairs. And before thee, O God, I speak it, having no other friend but thee.” *
“Your highness is unjust,” replied Bedingfeld, who stood bare-headed beside her; “you have many friends, and amongst them none more zealous than myself. And if I counsel you to place some restraint upon your conduct, it is because I am afraid it may be disadvantageous reported to the queen.”
“Say what you please of me, sir,” replied Elizabeth; “I will not be told how I am to act by you, or any one.”
“At least move forward, madam,” implored Bedingfeld; “you will be drenched to the skin if you tarry here longer, and will fearfully increase your fever.”
“What matters it if I do?” replied Elizabeth, seating herself on the damp step, while the shower descended in torrents upon her. “I will move forward at my own pleasure—not at your bidding. And let us see whether you will dare to use force towards me.”
“Nay, madam, if you forget yourself, I will not forget what is due to your father’s daughter,” replied Bedingfeld, “you shall have ample time for reflection.”
The deeply-commiserating and almost paternal tone in which this reproof was delivered touched the princess sensibly; and glancing round, she was further moved by the mournful looks of her attendants, many of whom were deeply affected, and wept audibly. As soon as her better feelings conquered, she immediately yielded to them; and, presenting her hand to the old knight, said, “You are right, and I am wrong, Bedingfeld. Take me to my dungeon.”
