How was it that this middle-aged, olive-complexioned Portuguese lady, whose mouth would have been prettier had not her teeth projected somewhat too far, and whose chief beauty lay in her magnificent dark eyes, though indeed her small figure was slender and graceful enough--brought comely English Ruth Rumbold to his mind? Only so it did. Could it be some association which similarity of dress brings? True enough, Ruth's holiday gown and petticoat were but of tiffany, and her cobweb cambric neckerchief only hem-stitched neat as needle could do it; whereas the queen's petticoat was of finest silver gray taffety, bordered like its tawny brown brocade overskirt, with pinkish silken embroidery, and the broad fine linen collar covering her shoulders, and reaching close round her slender neck, was edged with magnificent Spanish lace. For the rest, Lawrence with his masculine ignorance of women's fallals could not have enlightened you at all; but had he presumed to ask the surrounding court ladies, they would have uttered little scornful shrieks, screwed up their red lips--rosy as salve could make them--tossed back their glossy straying ringlets, and told him that the queen was a starched old frump, who stuck to the odiously dowdy fashions of thirty years ago and more, when melancholy Charles the First was king. Yet perhaps after all, it was not the modest style of her dress, but something in the womanly sweet composure of her speech and bearing, that crowns all women, old and young, plain and beautiful, with a grace of its own; that reminded Lawrence Lee of his little love, won his allegiance to the king's wife, and sealed his determination to save the king, or die in the attempt; let this butterfly swarm sneer and simper as they pleased, and half draw their rapiers, as they were beginning to do, muttering: "Insolence," and "Upstart," and the rest of it; while the ladies giggled hysterically, and cried, "Malapert," and the usher continued to stammer on in dire confusion:--"You see--that is, your Majesty will compre--that is, of course apprehend--that is to say--ahem--understand that here is some plot--" [Sidenote: "A plot! A plot!"] "Ay, ay. Quite so," eagerly interrupted Lawrence, and casting grateful looks at the usher. "That is it--a plot. A vile, infamous plot--" "Sirrah!" frowned the usher. "A plot between this fellow Flippet here," he went on, again addressing the queen. "Your Majesty knows him well,"--and he pointed his wand at the now trembling nurse of Azor and Médor, "and this stranger here, to thrust themselves into the presence of his Majesty." "Wherefore?" demanded the queen; and the inquiry was caught up and echoed on every side. "Heaven knows," groaned the usher, turning up his eyes.