It was not till after a long and successful morning’s sport, and a prolonged repast which followed the return of the Queen to the Castle, that Leicester at length found himself alone with Varney, from whom he now learned the whole particulars of the Countess’s escape, as they had been brought to Kenilworth by Foster, who, in his terror for the consequences, had himself posted thither with the tidings.  As Varney, in his narrative, took especial care to be silent concerning those practices on the Countess’s health which had driven her to so desperate a resolution, Leicester, who could only suppose that she had adopted it out of jealous impatience to attain the avowed state and appearance belonging to her rank, was not a little offended at the levity with which his wife had broken his strict commands, and exposed him to the resentment of Elizabeth.

“I have given,” he said, “to this daughter of an obscure Devonshire gentleman the proudest name in England.  I have made her sharer of my bed and of my fortunes.  I ask but of her a little patience, ere she launches forth upon the full current of her grandeur; and the infatuated woman will rather hazard her own shipwreck and mine—­will rather involve me in a thousand whirlpools, shoals, and quicksands, and compel me to a thousand devices which shame me in mine own eyes—­than tarry for a little space longer in the obscurity to which she was born.  So lovely, so delicate, so fond, so faithful, yet to lack in so grave a matter the prudence which one might hope from the veriest fool—­it puts me beyond my patience.”

“We may post it over yet well enough,” said Varney, “if my lady will be but ruled, and take on her the character which the time commands.”

“It is but too true, Sir Richard,” said Leicester; “there is indeed no other remedy.  I have heard her termed thy wife in my presence, without contradiction.  She must bear the title until she is far from Kenilworth.”

“And long afterwards, I trust,” said Varney; then instantly added, “For I cannot but hope it will be long after ere she bear the title of Lady Leicester—­I fear me it may scarce be with safety during the life of this Queen.  But your lordship is best judge, you alone knowing what passages have taken place betwixt Elizabeth and you.”

“You are right, Varney,” said Leicester.  “I have this morning been both fool and villain; and when Elizabeth hears of my unhappy marriage, she cannot but think herself treated with that premeditated slight which women never forgive.  We have once this day stood upon terms little short of defiance; and to those, I fear, we must again return.”

“Is her resentment, then, so implacable?” said Varney.

“Far from it,” replied the Earl; “for, being what she is in spirit and in station, she has even this day been but too condescending, in giving me opportunities to repair what she thinks my faulty heat of temper.”

“Ay,” answered Varney; “the Italians say right—­in lovers’ quarrels, the party that loves most is always most willing to acknowledge the greater fault.  So then, my lord, if this union with the lady could be concealed, you stand with Elizabeth as you did?”