letter, as I do.' She drew
a real letter from her pocket, and held it out almost at arm's length,
like the old post-mistress in the village when she reads telegrams.

'Hm! Hm! Hm! Philip writes as ever most lovingly. He says his Gloriana
is cold, for which reason he burns for her through a fair written page.'
She turned it with a snap. 'What's here? Philip complains that certain
of her gentlemen have fought against his generals in the Low Countries.
He prays her to hang 'em when they re-enter her realms. (Hm, that's as
may be.) Here's a list of burnt shipping slipped between two vows of
burning adoration. Oh, poor Philip! His admirals at sea--no less than
three of 'em--have been boarded, sacked, and scuttled on their lawful
voyages by certain English mariners (gentlemen, he will not call them),
who are now at large and working more piracies in his American ocean,
which the Pope gave him. (He and the Pope should guard it, then!) Philip
hears, but his devout ears will not credit it, that Gloriana in some
fashion countenances these villains' misdeeds, shares in their booty,
and--oh, shame!---has even lent them ships royal for their sinful
thefts. Therefore he requires (which is a word Gloriana loves not),
requires that she shall hang 'em when they return to England, and
afterwards shall account to him for all the goods and gold they have
plundered. A most loving request! If Gloriana will not be Philip's
bride, she shall be his broker and his butcher! Should she still
be stiff-necked, he writes--see where the pen digged the innocent
paper!---that he hath both the means and the intention to be revenged
on her. Aha! Now we come to the Spaniard in his shirt!' (She waved
the letter merrily.) 'Listen here! Philip will prepare for Gloriana a
destruction from the West--a destruction from the West--far exceeding
that which Pedro de Avila wrought upon the Huguenots. And he rests and
remains, kissing her feet and her hands, her slave, her enemy, or her
conqueror, as he shall find that she uses him.'

She thrust back the letter under her cloak, and went on acting, but in
a softer voice. 'All this while--hark to it--the wind blows through
Brickwall Oak, the music plays, and, with the company's eyes upon her,
the Queen of England must think what this means. She cannot remember the
name of Pedro de Avila, nor what he did to the Huguenots, nor when, nor
where. She can only see darkly some dark motion moving in Philip's dark
mind, for he