"No," cried the Countess; "these are but my rights over mine own--these are the royalties of my estate; every rich metal beneath the surface is mine, as well as the soil above; and no one shall trespass on my right." In such conversation they walked on, idle enough, it is true, and vicious enough, considering the situation of the parties; but yet it seemed necessary to display before the reader's eyes this scene, which may save us farther details into which we would fain not enter; and doubtless it has suggested, as we desired, a question to the mind,--almost a charge against our veracity. "Can this be the Countess of Essex?" the reader may well ask;--"the same harsh, repulsive, fiery, passionate being, who has been already exhibited in scenes with her father and her husband, which make the pure and honest heart glow with indignation and contempt?--this soft, playful jesting creature, the same bold impetuous being whom we have seen casting from her the most sacred obligations?" Yes, reader, it is the same, only under another aspect; the same spoiled child--all remorseless fire when contradicted, now sporting, in her unwise hours of gratification, with the same carelessness of right which distinguished her in her darker moments. Have you not seen a tiger in its cage, unmoved by hunger or by rage, gambolling like a kitten, smoothing its glossy fur, and stretching out, in graceful sport, its limbs, both beautiful and strong? Who would suppose that it is the same fierce, devouring beast that rends the unhappy traveller in its fury, and gorges itself in blood and carnage?--Unrestrained passion is still the tiger--sportful when gratified, but terrible when thwarted. They had turned back towards the palace from which they had wandered forth, Rochester thinking that, during his long absence, the King might have required his presence, and the Countess knowing well that her ultimate objects could not be attained, unless her lover cultivated assiduously the favour of the Monarch. She could not refrain from saying, however, "Why do you not tell your dog,"--for so she henceforth called Overbury,--"to go and fawn in your place?"