room with silent watchers of the great Queen and the nobly-born but poor
and fugitive Huguenot. A splendid piece of sculpture--Eleanor, wife of
Edward--given Elizabeth by another royal suitor, who had sought to be her
consort through many years, caught the warm bath of gold and crimson from
the clerestory and seemed alive and breathing. Against the pedestal the
Queen had placed her visitor, the red cushions making vivid contrast to
her white gown and black hair. In the half-kneeling, half-sitting
posture, with her hands clasped before her, so to steady herself to
composure, Angele looked a suppliant--and a saint. Her pure,
straightforward gaze, her smooth, urbane forehead, the guilelessness
that spoke in every feature, were not made worldly by the intelligence
and humour reposing in the brown depths of her eyes. Not a line vexed
her face or forehead. Her countenance was of a singular and almost
polished smoothness, and though her gown was severely simple by
comparison with silks and velvets, furs and ruffles of a gorgeous Court
at its most gorgeous period, yet in it here and there were touches of
exquisite fineness. The black velvet ribbon slashing her sleeves, the
slight cloud-like gathering of lace at the back of her head, gave a
distinguished softness to her appearance.

She was in curious contrast to the Queen, who sat upon heaped-up
cushions, her rich buff and black gown a blaze of jewels, her yellow
hair, now streaked with grey, roped with pearls, her hands heavy with
rings, her face past its youth, past its hopefulness, however noble and
impressive, past its vivid beauty. Her eyes wore ever a determined look,
were persistent and vigilant, with a lurking trouble, yet flooded, too,
by a quiet melancholy, like a low, insistent note that floats through an
opera of passion, romance, and tragedy; like a tone of pathos giving deep
character to some splendid pageant, which praises whilst it commemorates,
proclaiming conquest while the grass has not yet grown on quiet houses