“During my captivity in this fortress,” began Courtenay, “when I scarcely hoped for release, and when I was an utter stranger, except from description, to the beauties of your sex, I had certain vague and visionary notions of female loveliness, which I have never since found realized except in yourself.” Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of impatience. “Do not interrupt me,” proceeded Courtenay. “All I wish to show is, that long before I had seen you, my heart was predisposed to love you. On my release from imprisonment, it was made evident in many ways, that the Queen, your sister, regarded me with favourable eyes. Dazzled by the distinction—as who would not be?—I fancied I returned her passion. But I knew not then what love was—nor was it till I was bound in this thraldom that I became acquainted with its pangs.” “This you have said before, my lord,” rejoined Elizabeth, struggling against her emotion. “And if you had not, it is too late to say it now.” “Your pardon, dearest Elizabeth,” rejoined Courtenay, “for such you will ever be to me. I know I do not deserve your forgiveness. But I know, also, that I shall not the less on that account obtain it. Hear the truth from me, and judge me as you think proper. Since I knew that I had gained an interest in your eyes, I never could love your sister. Her throne had no longer any temptation for me—her attachment inspired me with disgust. You were, and still are, the sole possessor of my heart.” “Still are! my lord,” exclaimed Elizabeth, indignantly. “And you are about to wed the Queen. Say no more, or my pity for you will be changed into contempt.” “It is my fate,” replied the earl. “Oh! if you knew what the struggle has cost me, to sacrifice love at the shrine of ambition, you would indeed pity me.” “My lord,” said Elizabeth, proudly, “if you have no respect for me, at least have some for yourself, and cease these unworthy lamentations.” “Tell me you no longer love me—tell me you despise—hate me—anything to reconcile myself to my present lot,” cried Courtenay. “Were I to say I no longer loved you, I should belie my heart,” rejoined Elizabeth; “for, unfortunately for my peace of mind, I have formed a passion which I cannot conquer. But were I also to say that your abject conduct does not inspire me with contempt—with scorn for you, I should speak falsely. Hear me, in my turn, my lord. To-morrow, I shall solicit permission from the Queen to retire from the court altogether, and I shall not return till my feelings towards yourself are wholly changed.” “Say not so,” cried Courtenay. “I will forego all the brilliant expectations held out to me by Mary. I cannot endure to part with you.” “You have gone too far to retreat, my lord,” said Elizabeth. “You are affianced to my sister.”