“None,” rejoined the queen, withdrawing her hand; “none whatever. Arise, my lord, and do not further degrade yourself. You may love the queen, but you do not love the woman.—You may prize my throne, but you do not prize me.” “You wrong me, gracious madam. On my soul you do,” rejoined Courtenay. “I may have trifled with others, but I have given my heart wholly to you.” “It is false!” cried Mary, furiously. “You love the princess, my sister.” Courtenay turned very pale. But he instantly recovered himself. “Your highness is mistaken,” he answered. “What!” cried the queen, her anger increasing each moment. “Dare you persist in the denial of your falsehood? Dare you tell me to my face that you have not breathed words of passion to her? Dare you assert that you have not lamented your engagement to me? Dare you say this?” “I dare, madam.” “Then your own words shall give you the he, traitor,” replied the queen. “Here is your letter to her,” she added, producing a paper, “wherein you tell her so.” “Confusion!” uttered Courtenay, “Renard has betrayed me.” “Is this letter your writing?” demanded the queen. “I will not prevaricate, madam,” replied Courtenay; “it is.” “And in the face of this you declare you have not deceived me?” “I have deceived you, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay. “But I have never ceased to love you.” “My lord!—my lord!” exclaimed Mary, in a menacing tone. “Beware how you attempt to deceive me further, or as God shall judge me, you shall find that the daughter of Henry the Eighth is not to be offended with impunity.” “I know you are terrible in anger, gracious madam,” replied Courtenay; “but you are also just. Judge me—condemn me, if you please, but hear me: he who gave you that letter,—Simon Renard,—counselled me to write it.” “Ha!” exclaimed the queen. “I have been guilty of folly—madness—” rejoined Courtenay—“but not the black perfidy your highness imagines. Dismiss me from your presence—send me into exile—I deserve any punishment—but do not believe that I have ceased to love you.” “I know not what you term love, my lord,” replied Mary; “but I have no idea of sharing the affection of any man with another. Grant, however, that you speak the truth, why have you addressed this passionate epistle to the Princess Elizabeth?” “I have already said I was deceived,” replied Courtenay. “I cannot excuse my conduct—though I lament it.” “Are you sincere?” said Mary, who began to be softened by her lover’s apparent penitence. “By what oath shall I confirm my truth?” he replied, fervently. “I will test it more surely,” rejoined the queen, as if struck by a sudden idea. “In any way your highness thinks proper,” returned Courtenay. “Summon the Princess Elizabeth to our presence instantly,” said Mary, striking a small bell, the sound of which brought an usher before her. “The Princess Elizabeth!” exclaimed Courtenay.