“Enough,” interrupted the princess, hastily. “Farewell, good friends,” she continued, extending her hand to them, which they eagerly pressed to their lips, “farewell! be of good cheer. No man shall have cause to weep for me.”
“This is a proud, though a sad day,” observed Og, who was the last honoured by the princess’s condescension, “and will never be obliterated from my memory. By my father’s beard!” he added, gazing rapturously at the long, taper fingers he was permitted to touch, “it is the most beautiful hand I ever beheld, and whiter than the driven snow.”
Pleased by the compliment—for she was by no means insensible to admiration,—Elizabeth forgave its unseasonableness for its evident sincerity, and smilingly departed. But she had scarcely ascended the steps leading to the Green, when she was chilled by the sight of Renard, who was standing at the northern entrance of the Bloody Tower, wrapped in his cloak, and apparently waiting to see her pass.
As she drew near, he stepped forward, and made her a profound, but sarcastic salutation. His insolence, however, failed in its effect upon Elizabeth. Eyeing him with the utmost disdain, she observed to Bedingfeld, “Put that Spanish knave out of my path. And he who will remove him from the queen’s councils will do both her and me a good turn.”
“Your grace has sufficient room to pass,” returned Renard, with bitter irony, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if determined to resist any attempt to remove him. “Your prison within the Bell Tower is prepared, and if my counsels have any weight with her majesty, you will quit it only to take the same path, and ascend the same scaffold as your mother, Anne Boleyn.”
“Another such taunt,” cried Sussex, fiercely, “and neither the sacred character of your office, nor the protection of the queen, shall save you from my sword.”
And he thrust him forcibly backwards.
Elizabeth moved on at a slow and stately pace, while the guard closing round her and Sussex, opposed the points of their halberds to the infuriated ambassador.
“Your highness has increased Renard’s enmity,” observed Bedingfeld, with a troubled look.
“I fear him not,” replied Elizabeth, dauntlessly. “Let him do his worst. English honesty will ever prove more than a match for Spanish guile.”