Brief as was the moment of their transit in front of that sad portal, Hunsdon had yet time to mark the terrible expression of misery, almost of despair, that gleamed across the features of the queen. She spoke not, but she wrung her hands with a sigh, that uttered volumes of repentance and regret, too late to be availing; and the stern old chamberlain, who felt his heart yearn at the sorrows of a mistress whom he loved no less than he revered, knew that the mute gesture and the painful sigh were extorted from that masculine bosom only by the extremity of anguish. She had not looked upon that “den of drunkards with the blood of princes” since it had been glutted with its last and noblest victim. Essex, the princely, the valiant, the generous, and the noble Essex--the favorite of the people, the admired of men, the idol, the cherished idol of Elizabeth--had gone, a few short moons before, through that abhorred gateway--had gone to die--had died by her unwilling mandate! Bitter and long had been the struggle between her wounded pride and her sincere affection; between her love for the man and her wrath against the rebel: thrice had she signed the fatal warrant, and as often consigned it to the flames; and when at length her indignation prevailed, and she affixed her name to the fell scroll--which, once executed, she never smiled again--that indignation was excited, not so much by the violence of his proceedings against her crown, as by his obstinate delay in claiming pity and pardon from an offended but indulgent mistress. Onward, onward they went, the light boat dancing over the waves that added to its speed, the canvass fluttering merrily, and the swell which their own velocity excited laughing in their wake. It was a time and a scene to enliven every bosom, to make every English heart bound happily and proudly. Vessels-of-war, and traders, galliot, and caravel, and bark, and ship, lay moored in the centre of the pool and along the wharves, the thousand dwellings of a floating city. All this Elizabeth herself had done: the commerce of England was the fruit of her fostering; the power of her courage and sagacity; the mighty navy of her creation. They passed below the dark broadsides and massive armaments of forty ships-of-war, some of the unwonted bulk of a thousand tons, with the victorious flags of Howard, Hawkins, Frobisher, and Drake, streaming from mast and yard; but not a smile chased the dull expression of fixed grief from the brow of her who had “marred the Armada’s pride;” nor did the slightest symptom on board her three most chosen vessels--the Speedwell, the Tryeright, or the Blak-Galley, the very models of the world for naval architecture--show that the queen and mistress of them all was gliding in such humble trim below their victorious batteries.