“I must quit your majesty for a moment,” observed Courtenay, “to see to the masquers. Besides, my presence might be a restraint to your councillor. He shall not want an opportunity to utter his calumnies behind my back.” Renard smiled bitterly. “Farewell, my lord,” said the queen, giving him her hand to kiss. “When you return, you shall have your answer.” “It is the last time his lips shall touch that hand,” muttered Renard, as the earl departed. On quitting the royal presence, Courtenay wandered in a state of the utmost disquietude to the terrace. He gazed vacantly at the masquers, and tried to divert his thoughts with their sports; but in vain. He could not free himself from the idea of Elizabeth. He had now reached the utmost height of his ambition. He was all but affianced to the queen, and he doubted not that a few hours—perhaps moments—would decide his fate. His bosom was torn with conflicting emotions. On one side stood power, with all its temptations—on the other passion, fierce, irrepressible passion. The struggle was almost intolerable. After debating with himself for some time, he determined to seek one last interview with Elizabeth, before he finally committed himself to the queen, vainly imagining it would calm his agitation. But, like most men under the influence of desperate emotion, he acted from impulse, rather than reflection. The resolution was no sooner formed, than acted upon. Learning that the Princess was in her chamber, he proceeded thither, and found her alone. Elizabeth was seated in a small room, partially hung with arras, and over the chair she occupied, were placed the portraits of her sire, Henry the Eighth, and two of his wives, Anne Boleyn and Catharine of Arragon. Greatly surprised by the earl’s visit, she immediately arose, and in an authoritative tone commanded him to withdraw. “How is this?” she cried. “Are you not content with what you have already done, but must add insult to perfidy!” “Hear me, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, advancing towards her, and throwing himself on his knee. “I am come to implore your forgiveness.” “You have my compassion, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth; “but you shall not have my forgiveness. You have deeply deceived me.” “I have deceived myself,” replied Courtenay. “A paltry prevarication, and unworthy of you,” observed the Princess, scornfully. “But I have endured this long enough. Arise, and leave me.” “I will not leave you, Elizabeth,” said Courtenay, “till I have explained the real motives of my conduct, and the real state of my feelings, which, when I have done, I am persuaded you will not judge me as harshly, as you do now.” “I do not desire to hear them,” replied tho Princess. “But since you are determined to speak, be brief.”