On another, and a memorable, day, they took boat at Westminster and were rowed down the river, passing by the way between the royal gardens of Whitehall and the Queen’s vineyards on the opposite shore, and thence dropping leisurely, by a succession of stately residences--themselves palaces in their degree, as the great lords who inhabited them were only lesser Kings--to the _Three Cranes_ Stairs in Southwark, where they went ashore, and saw a bear-baiting at the Ring in Bankside, and afterwards dined nobly at the Falcon Inn, beloved of wits and playwrights. Thence, returning by way of Blackfriars, they made for the theatre, and saw the Earl of Leicester’s servants play in a very tragic tragedy, called _Arden of Feversham_, by one Thomas Kyd--a performance which affected Brion’s imagination as vividly as the name of the company over-clouded it. But it was not the only occasion on which a dark memory was to be recalled to him. For so it happened that, walking one morning with Clerivault in the precincts of Whitehall, they saw the Queen ride forth, with a company of gentlemen, to go a’hawking in the great guarded Chase which stretched away westwards from opposite the palace front, and which came afterwards to be called the Park of St James’s. Her Grace was all in green, very handsomely bedecked, and rode a white barb, which stepped and arched its neck as proudly as though it were conscious of the nature of its burden; but Brion had hardly eyes for that pleasant vision, before he was struck aback by the sight of a foremost member of the party who rode close at her Majesty’s left hand. Seventeen transforming years had passed since that face had last appeared to him, yet he was as certain of it as though he again stood, a wondering child, on the Richmond road, and saw the servant ride up, and heard the vicious thwack across the blinded eyes. And, as then, hate and indignation surged up in his heart, and cried it alien from one so arrogant and so malignant. Splendour and daring were this man’s, but gained at every sacrifice of truth and humanity. He had grown in these years somewhat bald and portly, but the cold furtive eye was unchanged, as were the impassive vindictiveness and the measuring cruelty which underlay his whole expression. And yet women could be found to sacrifice to such an idol, and to yield their all to the wicked hypocrisy which, to the masculine observer, simply flaunted itself on that countenance. Truly there must be a blind spot in their psychology, which Love, for the benefit of his own villain sex, had once set there with a kiss. Else how could they so often overlook the obvious.