was a man of extremely bad character,--a fact patent
to all the world: yet Elizabeth kept him at her side, and admitted him
to her closest friendship,--though she knew well that the rumours which
blackened his name did not spare her own. He never cleared himself of
the suspected murder of his first wife; he never tried to clear himself
of the attempted murder of the second, whom he alternately asserted and
denied to be his lawful wife, until no one knew which story to believe.
But the third proved his match. There was strong cause for suspicion
that twelve years before, Robert Earl of Leicester had given a lesson in
poisoning to Lettice Countess of Essex: and now the same Lettice,
Countess of Leicester, had not forgotten her lesson. Leicester was
tired of her; perhaps, too, he was a little afraid of what she knew.
The deft and practised poisoner administered a dose to his wife. But
Lettice survived, and poisoned him in return. And so the last of the
Dudleys passed to his awful account.

His death made no difference in the public rejoicing for the defeat of
the Armada. Two days afterwards, the Spanish banners were exhibited
from Paul's Cross, and the next morning were hung on London Bridge. The
nineteenth of November was a holiday throughout the kingdom. On Sunday
the 24th, the Queen made her famous thanksgiving progress to Saint
Paul's, seated in a chariot built in the form of a throne, with four
pillars, and a crowned canopy overhead. The Privy Council and the House
of Lords attended her. Bishop Pierce of Salisbury preached the sermon,
from the very appropriate text, afterwards engraved on the memorial
medals,--"He blew with His wind, and they were scattered."

All this time no word came to decide the fate of Don Juan. It was not
expected now before spring. A winter journey from Lancashire to London
was then a very serious matter.

"So you count it not ill to attend our Protestant churches, Master?"
asked Blanche of Don Juan, as she sat in the window-seat, needlework in
hand. It was a silk purse, not a kettle-holder, this time.

"How could I think aught ill, Dona Blanca, which I see your Grace do?"
was the courtly reply of Don Juan.

"But what should your confessor say, did he hear thereof?" asked
Blanche, provokingly.

"Is a confessor a monster in your eyes, fair lady?" said Don Juan, with
that smile which Blanche held in deep though secret admiration.

"I thought they were rarely severe," she sai