She had spoken as she felt, yet, because she was a woman and guessed the mind of another woman, she had touched Elizabeth where her armor was weakest. She had suggested that the Queen had been the object of adoration, but had never given her heart to any man; that hers was the virgin heart and life; and that she had never stooped to conquer. Without realizing it, and only dimly moving with that end in view, she had whetted Elizabeth’s vanity. She had, indeed, soothed a pride wounded of late beyond endurance, suspecting, as she did, that Leicester had played his long part for his own sordid purposes, that his devotion was more alloy than precious metal. No note of praise could be pitched too high for Elizabeth, and if only policy did not intervene, if but no political advantage was lost by saving De la Forêt, that safety seemed now secure. “You tell a tale and adorn it with good grace,” she said, and held out her hand. Angèle kissed it. “And you have said to Elizabeth what none else dared to say since I was Queen here. He who hath never seen the lightning hath no dread of it. I had not thought there was in the world so much artlessness, with all the power of perfect art. But we live to be wiser. Thou shalt continue in thy tale. Thou hast seen Mary, once Queen of France, now Queen of Scots--answer me fairly, without if, or though, or any sort of doubt, the questions I shall put. Which of us twain, this ruin-starred Queen or I, is of higher stature?” “She hath advantage in little of your Majesty,” bravely answered Angèle. “Then,” answered Elizabeth, sourly, “she is too high, for I, myself, am neither too high nor too low.... And of complexion, which is the fairer?” “Her complexion is the fairer, but your Majesty’s countenance hath truer beauty and sweeter majesty.” Elizabeth frowned slightly, then said: “What exercises did she take when you were at the court?” “Sometimes she hunted, your Majesty, and sometimes she played upon the virginals.” “Did she play to effect?” “Reasonably, your noble Majesty.” “You shall hear me play, and then speak truth upon us, for I have known none with so true a tongue since my father died.” Thereon she called to a lady who waited near in a little room to bring an instrument; but at that moment Cecil appeared again at the door, and, his face seeming to show anxiety, Elizabeth, with a sign, beckoned him to enter. “Your face, Cecil, is as long as a Lenten collect. What raven croaks in England on May Day eve?” Cecil knelt before her, and gave into her hand a paper. “What record runs here?” she asked, querulously. “A prayer of your faithful Lords and Commons that your Majesty will grant speech with their chosen deputies to lay before your Majesty a cause they have at heart.” “Touching of--?” darkly asked the Queen. “The deputies wait even now--will not your Majesty receive them? They have come humbly, and will go hence as humbly on the instant, if the hour is ill chosen.”