d in obscurity, like a subterranean river; the time shall come that I
will burst forth in my strength, and bear all opposition before me."

While Leicester was thus stupefying the remonstrances of his own
conscience, by appealing to political necessity for his apology, or
losing himself amidst the wild dreams of ambition, his agent left
town and tower behind him on his hasty journey to Berkshire. HE also
nourished high hope. He had brought Lord Leicester to the point which
he had desired, of committing to him the most intimate recesses of
his breast, and of using him as the channel of his most confidential
intercourse with his lady. Henceforward it would, he foresaw, be
difficult for his patron either to dispense with his services, or refuse
his requests, however unreasonable. And if this disdainful dame, as
he termed the Countess, should comply with the request of her husband,
Varney, her pretended husband, must needs become so situated with
respect to her, that there was no knowing where his audacity might be
bounded perhaps not till circumstances enabled him to obtain a triumph,
which he thought of with a mixture of fiendish feelings, in which
revenge for her previous scorn was foremost and predominant. Again
he contemplated the possibility of her being totally intractable, and
refusing obstinately to play the part assigned to her in the drama at
Kenilworth.

"Alasco must then do his part," he said. "Sickness must serve her
Majesty as an excuse for not receiving the homage of Mrs. Varney--ay,
and a sore and wasting sickness it may prove, should Elizabeth continue
to cast so favourable an eye on my Lord of Leicester. I will not forego
the chance of being favourite of a monarch for want of determined
measures, should these be necessary. Forward, good horse,
forward--ambition and haughty hope of power, pleasure, and revenge
strike their stings as deep through my bosom as I plunge the rowels in
thy flanks. On, good horse, on--the devil urges us both forward!"

CHAPTER XXII.

Say that my beauty was but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall
Where, scornful Earl, 'twas dearly prized?

No more thou com'st with wonted speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
CUMNOR HALL, by WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

The ladies of fashion of the present, or of any other pe