ck his nerves with a needle of suggestion where all his passions,
ambitions and sentiments are at white heat, will readily throw away the
whole game of life in some mad act out of harmony with all he ever did.
It matters little whether the needle prick him by accident or blunder or
design, he will burst all bounds, and establish again the old truth that
each of us will prove himself a fool given perfect opportunity. Nor need
the occasion of this revolution be a great one; the most trivial event
may produce the great fire which burns up wisdom, prudence and habit.

The Earl of Leicester, so long counted astute, clearheaded, and
well-governed, had been suddenly foisted out of balance, shaken from his
imperious composure, tortured out of an assumed and persistent urbanity,
by the presence in Greenwich Palace of a Huguenot exile of no seeming
importance, save what the Medici grimly gave him by desiring his head.
It appeared absurd that the great Leicester, whose nearness to the
throne had made him the most feared, most notable, and, by virtue of
his opportunities, the most dramatic figure in England, should have
sleepless nights by reason of a fugitive like Michel de la Foret. On the
surface it was preposterous that he should see in the Queen's offer of
service to the refugee evidence that she was set to grant him special
favours; it was equally absurd that her offer of safety to him on pledge
of his turning preacher should seem proof that she meant to have him
near her. Elizabeth had left the presence-chamber without so much as
a glance at him, though she had turned and looked graciously at the
stranger. He had hastily followed her, and thereafter impatiently
awaited a summons which never came, though he had sent a message that
his hours were at her Majesty's disposal. Waiting, he saw Angele's
father escorted from the palace by a Gentleman Pensioner to a lodge in
the park; he saw Michel de la Foret taken to his apartments; he saw the
Seigneur of Rozel walking in the palace grounds with such possession as
though they were his own, self-content in every motion of his body.

Upon the instant the great Earl was incensed out of all proportion to
the affront of the Seigneur's existence. He suddenly hated Lempriere
only less than he hated Michel de la Foret. As he still waited irritably
for a summons from Elizabeth, he brooded on every word and every
look she had given him of late; he recalled her manner to him in the
ante-chapel