t among the
ladies," he said quietly. Lempriere followed his glance, and saw the
Duke's Daughter and another in the trees near by.

He hastily put up his sword. "When, my lord?" he asked.

"You will hear from me to-night," was the answer, and Leicester went
forward hastily to meet the ladies--they had news no doubt.

Lempriere turned on his heel and walked quickly away among the trees
towards the quarters where Buonespoir was in durance, which was little
more severe than to keep him within the palace yard. There he found the
fool and the pirate in whimsical converse.

The fool had brought a letter of inquiry and warm greeting from
Angele to Buonespoir, who was laboriously inditing one in return. When
Lempriere entered the pirate greeted him jovially.

"In the very pinch of time you come," he said. "You have grammar and
syntax and etiquette."

"'Tis even so, Nuncio," said the fool. "Here is needed prosody
potential. Exhale!"

The three put their heads together above the paper.

CHAPTER XI

"I would know your story. How came you and yours to this pass? Where
were you born? Of what degree are you? And this Michel de la Foret, when
came he to your feet--or you to his arms? I would know all. Begin where
life began; end where you sit here at the feet of Elizabeth. This other
cushion to your knees. There--now speak. We are alone."

Elizabeth pushed a velvet cushion towards Angele, where she half-knelt,
half-sat on the rush-strewn floor of the great chamber. The warm light
of the afternoon sun glowed through the thick-tinted glass high up, and,
in the gleam, the heavy tapestries sent by an archduke, once suitor for
Elizabeth's hand, emerged with dramatic distinctness, and peopled the
room with silent watchers of the great Queen and the nobly-born but poor
and fugitive Huguenot. A splendid piece of sculpture--Eleanor, wife of
Edward--given Elizabeth by another royal suitor, who had sought to be
her consort through many years, caught the warm bath of gold and crimson
from the clerestory and seemed alive and breathing. Against the pedestal
the Queen had placed her visitor, the red cushions making vivid contrast
to her white gown and black hair. In the half-kneeling, half-sitting
posture, with her hands clasped before her, so to steady herself
to composure, Angele looked a suppliant--and a saint. Her pure,
straightforward gaze, her smooth, urbane forehead, the guilelessness
that spoke in every feature, were not ma