It was her secret boast that she had not allowed a tear or a sigh to escape her in public since the King had gone. She dried her poor tired eyes hastily, and bit her lips to steady them, while she thrust her sorrows back into her heart with that placid courage that never failed her. She descended the stairs and faced the people who were, she knew, looking for her. She was not prepared to see Lord Nottingham, whom she had left at Whitehall; the sight of him among her attendants caused her to pause at the foot of the stairs. "You, my lord!" she cried faintly. His dark face showed obvious relief at her appearance. "I have been searching for Your Majesty," he said, with some reproach. "I have ridden hot after Your Majesty from London——" "There must be grave news," said Mary, knowing that otherwise he would not have come himself. "There is, Madam—the gravest." Mary raised her head; she was perfectly composed. "From—the King?" she asked. "No, Madam." Mary smiled superbly. "Then it is not the worst." She was colourless to the lips, but bore herself with majesty. "What is it, my lord?" Nottingham was always tragical in his discourse, and now his face and tone were gloomy in the extreme. "Madam, M. de Waldeck and the allies have been defeated at Fleurus, M. de Tourville and the French fleet have been spied under full sail for the coast of Devon. There is no relying on our sailors—there is a panic in the city." The Queen’s eyes flashed with something of her husband’s look when fronted with disaster. "We will to London," she said—"there to face these misfortunes." CHAPTER V A WOMAN’S STRENGTH The council of nine was sitting at Whitehall waiting for news from the English Fleet, which, under command of Lord Torrington, had sailed out from Plymouth to meet the French. The Queen sat at the head of the table, as usual silent and as usual watchful; at her right hand Lord Caermarthen, at her left Lord Devonshire, the others along the table, and at the foot Sir John Lowther. The room was very handsome: the walls of varied-coloured tapestry, the cornices of gilt wood, and the floor covered with rugs from Persia. Through the tall, majestic window might be seen a view of housetops and a little turret with a bell clear against a sky of flaming summer blue. Mary was seated in a heavy chair with crimson cushions; she wore a violet dress of stiff damask satin and a petticoat flounced with lace; her arms were covered to the wrist with ruffles of muslin, and she held a long chicken skin fan with ivory mounts and an emerald in the handle; her shortsighted and narrowed eyes dwelt anxiously and critically on the faces of these men in whose hands she, and England, lay.