This
grief, with which she long struggled in secret, at length broke forth
superior to control. The occasion was as follows:--

The Countess of Nottingham, a near relation, but no friend, of Essex,
being on her death-bed, entreated to see the queen, declaring that she
had something to confess to her before she could die in peace. On her
majesty's arrival, the countess produced a ring, which she said the
Earl of Essex had sent to her, after his condemnation, with an earnest
request that she would deliver it to the queen, as a token by which he
implored her mercy; but that, in obedience to her husband, she
withheld it. Elizabeth at once recognized the ring as one which she
had herself presented to her favorite, with the tender promise, that
of whatsoever crimes his enemies might have accused him, or whatever
offences he might actually have committed against her, on his
returning to her that pledge, she would either pardon him, or admit
him, at least, to justify himself in her presence. It was in a moment
of pique at his supposed pride and obstinacy in refusing to ask her
forgiveness, that she had signed the death-warrant. She now learned
that he had been the victim, and herself the dupe, of the most
barbarous treachery. Transported with grief and rage, she shook the
dying countess in her bed; and, vehemently exclaiming, "God may
forgive, but I never will," she flung herself out of the chamber.

Returning to the palace, she surrendered herself without resistance to
the despair which had seized her heart on this fatal disclosure. She
refused medicine, and almost the means of sustenance; days and nights
she sat upon the floor, sleepless, her eyes fixed, and her finger
pressed upon her mouth, the silence only broken by her sighs, groans,
and ejaculations of anguish. Her sufferings were at length relieved by
her death, on the 24th of March, 1603. Her last words were strongly
characteristic. During her whole life, she had shown a perverse dread
of naming her successor; but it was necessary that the question should
be put to her in her last moments. She replied, "My seat has been the
seat of kings, and I will have no rascal to succeed me." Cecil, whom
the weakness of the dying lioness rendered bold, inquired what she
meant by the words, "that _no rascal_ should succeed her;" to which
she answered, "I will have a king to succeed me, and who should that
be but the king of Scots?"

The personal character of Elizabeth presents li