“Not truth, your Grace, but jealousy,” ventured the trembling lady. “Jealousy!” exclaimed the Queen, stopping suddenly. She stared at the speaker, her breath falling from hard to soft. “Was he jealous, think you?” “O! madam,” said the other, “is it not thy player, Master Shakespeare, that calleth jealousy ‘green-eyed,’ like as with sour bile that clouds the vision. The distempered speak distempered thoughts, and often turn the most against their most-beloved. I count it green-eyed jealousy with him because he saw your Highness so distorted--not to extenuate the grievous crimes upon which his passions launched him. O, pardon me, madam!” The Queen stood with her eyes still fixed upon the speaker, but it was evident that their vision took no heed of her, though her ears regarded the import of her speech. “Jealous!” she said, with a tremulous sigh. “Mayhap like a silly quean I gave him cause, sporting with my troth-ring till it rolled into the well. He was too sure and bold, forgetting who had lifted him, and who could cast him down. But, jealous? Does not his hair curl sweetly on his forehead, child?” “O, madam! Your Grace!” “And his eyes so frank and fearless. Fear! He knows it not, the rash and head-strong fool! To think to overbear us!--teach our displeasure a lesson! O, a venture once too often! Because he can boast a strain of royal blood in his veins to dare to lift his head at us! to stamp, and cry: ‘Now, madam, do you hear me?’ or ‘I would have it thus, or thus and thus.’ Such presumption! And yet to see the pretty lord--his lip thrust out in scorn of sycophancy--a man of men, brave, honest, generous, and a fool.” “Rash and foolish indeed, your Highness.” “Those are but virtues in reverse. Had he no cause to doubt the love that made him but to ruin?” “I cry your Grace’s mercy.” “What for?” “The ruin followed on the treachery.” “Was he a traitor?” “O, madam! did he not curry favour with the King of Scotland, and plot and league to win him the succession?” “Yes, he’s a traitor.” “Your Grace forgive me.” “And I’m a woman.” “Madam!” “At the last I yield him all my pride and self-will. He hath so much of me, ’twere idle to reserve that little. Who is that coming?” “’Twas but the wind in the corridor, madam.” “I swear I heard him.” “No, madam.” “Pride! Will he not meet us so far--but to crave our clemency? He knows the way, and, not taking it, must die! What o’clock is it? O God, he shall not die! Send for my lord Keeper; have horses ready. Hush! he’s coming! Should I not know his footfall?” She drew herself erect and away; a flush came to her withered cheek; she was the Queen again, aloof, haughty, self-contained. The two terrified women, shrunk together into the shadows by the hearth, saw her eyes gaze into vacancy, heard her lips address some apparition beyond their ken: