high office, had been near to her Majesty, and he could speak with more
knowledge than he might use--it grieved him that Mademoiselle Aubert
should be placed in so painful a position.

Sometimes as the two talked Angele would join them; and then there was
a sudden silence, which made her flush with embarrassment, anxiety or
anger. In vain did she assume a cold composure, in vain school herself
to treat Leicester with a precise courtesy; in vain her heart protested
the goodness of De la Foret and high uprightness of the Queen; the
persistent suggestions of the dark Earl worked upon her mind in spite
of all. Why had the Queen forbidden her to meet Michel, or write to him,
or to receive letters from him? Why had the Queen, who had spoken such
gratitude, deserted her? And now even the Duke's Daughter wrote to her
no more, sent her no further messages. She felt herself a prisoner, and
that the Queen had forgotten her debt. She took to wandering to that
part of the palace-grounds where she could see the windows of the tower
her lover inhabited. Her old habit of cheerful talk deserted her, and
she brooded. It was long before she heard of the duel between the
Seigneur and Lord Leicester--the Duke's Daughter had kept this from her,
lest she should be unduly troubled--and when, in anxiety, she went to the
house where Lempriere had been quartered, he had gone, none could tell
her whither. Buonespoir was now in close confinement, by secret orders
of Leicester, and not allowed to walk abroad; and thus with no friend
save her father, now so much under the influence of the Earl, she was
bitterly solitary. Bravely she fought the growing care and suspicion in
her heart; but she was being tried beyond her strength. Her father had
urged her to make personal appeal to the Queen; and at times, despite her
better judgment, she was on the verge of doing so. Yet what could she
say? She could not go to the Queen of England and cry out, like a silly
milk-maid: "You have taken my lover--give him back to me!" What proof