An instant later the room was full of dancers, and Elizabeth gave her hand to Leicester, who bent every faculty to pleasing her. His face had darkened as he had seen Angèle beside her, but the Queen’s graciousness, whether assumed or real, had returned, and her face carried a look of triumph and spirit and delight. Again and again she glanced towards Angèle, and what she saw evidently gave her pleasure, for she laughed and disported herself with grace and an agreeable temper, and Leicester lent himself to her spirit with adroit wit and humility. He had seen his mistake of the morning, and was now intent to restore himself to favor. He succeeded well, for the emotions roused in Elizabeth during the day, now heightened by vanity and emulation, found in him a centre upon which they could converge; and, in her mind, Angèle, for the nonce, was disassociated from any thought of De la Forêt. Leicester’s undoubted gifts were well and cautiously directed, and his gift of assumed passion--his heart was facile, and his gallantry knew no bounds--was put to dexterous use, convincing for the moment. The Queen seemed all complaisance again. Presently she had Angèle brought to her. “How doth her dance compare--she who hath wedded Darnley?” “She danceth not so high nor disposedly, with no such joyous lightness as your high Majesty, but yet she moveth with circumspection.” “Circumspection--circumspection--that is no gift in dancing, which should be wilful yet airily composed, thoughtless yet inducing. Circumspection!--in nothing else hath Mary shown it where she should. ’Tis like this Queen perversely to make a psalm of dancing, and then pirouette with sacred duty. But you have spoken the truth, and I am well content. So get you to your rest.” She tapped Angèle’s cheek. “You shall remain here to-night, ’tis too late for you to be sent abroad.” She was about to dismiss her, when there was a sudden stir. Cecil had entered and was making his way to the Queen, followed by two strangers. Elizabeth waited their approach. “Your gracious Majesty,” said Cecil, in a voice none heard save Elizabeth, for all had fallen back at a wave of her hand, “the Queen of Scots is the mother of a fair son.” Elizabeth’s face flushed, then became pale, and she struck her knee with her clinched hand. “Who bringeth the news?” she inquired, in a sharp voice. “Sir Andrew Melvill here.” “Who is with him yonder?” “One who hath been attached to the Queen of Scots.” “He hath the ill look of such an one,” she answered, and then said below her breath, bitterly: “She hath a son--and I am but a barren stock.” Rising, she added, hurriedly, “We will speak to the people at the May Day sports to-morrow. Let there be great feasting.” She motioned to Sir Andrew Melvill to come forward, and with a gesture of welcome and a promise of speech with him on the morrow she dismissed them.