Long before Courtenay had noticed it, the subtle ambassador, well skilled in woman’s feelings, ascertained the state of Elizabeth’s heart, and saw that she was not proof against the captivating manners and personal graces of the handsome young nobleman. It was not difficult for one possessed of so many opportunities as himself to heighten this feeling into a passion; and before long he had the satisfaction to find that the princess was deeply enamoured of her sister’s suitor. Nor was Courtenay less easily enthralled. Apprised of his conquest by Renard, instead of resisting it, he at once surrendered himself to the snare. Again De Noailles, who saw his dangerous position, came to his aid. Again Gardiner rebuked him more severely than before. He derided their remonstrances; and heedless of the changing manner of the Queen—heedless also of the peril to which he exposed the princess, he scarcely attempted to disguise his passion, or to maintain the semblance of love for his royal mistress. Consumed by jealousy, Mary meditated some blow which should satisfy her outraged feelings; while Renard only waited a favourable opportunity to bring matters to a crisis. Affairs being in this state, it chanced one day that Courtenay received a summons to the Queen’s presence, and instantly repairing thither, he found her alone. His reception was so cold, that he was at no loss to understand she was deeply offended; and he would have thrown himself at her feet, if she had not prevented him by impatiently waving her hand. “I have sent for you, my lord,” she said, “for the last time—.” “For the last time, my gracious mistress!” exclaimed Courtenay. “Do not interrupt me,” rejoined Mary, severely. “I have sent for you to tell you that whatever were the feelings I once entertained for you, they are now entirely changed. I will not remind you of the favours I have shown you—of the honours I have bestowed on you—or of the greater honours I intended you. I will simply tell you that your ingratitude equals your perfidy; and that I banish you henceforth from my presence.” “How have I offended your highness?” demanded Courtenay, panic-stricken. “How?” cried Mary, fiercely—her eyes kindling, and her countenance assuming the terrible expression she inherited from her father. “Do you affect ignorance of the cause? I have overlooked your indiscretions, though I have not been ignorant of them, imputing them to youth and inexperience. I have overlooked them, I say, because I thought I discovered amid all this vice and folly the elements of a noble nature—and because,” and her voice faltered—“I persuaded myself that you loved me.” “Have you no faith in my adjurations of attachment?” cried Courtenay, prostrating himself, and endeavouring to take her hand.