t, had
won a still higher place in the same influence, was his only motive
for action at first. His cruelty was not redeemed even by the sensuous
interest the girl might arouse in a reckless nature by her beauty and
her charm.

So the great Leicester--the Gipsy, as the dead Sussex had called
him--lay in wait in Greenwich Park for Angele to pass, like some orchard
thief in the blossoming trees. Knowing the path by which she would
come to her father's cottage from the palace, he had placed himself
accordingly. He had thought he might have to wait long or come often for
the perfect opportunity; but it seemed as if Fate played his game for
him, and that once again the fruit he would pluck should fall into his
palm. Bright-eyed, and elated from a long talk with the Duke's Daughter,
who had given her a message from the Queen, Angele had abstractedly
taken the wrong path in the wood. Leicester saw that it would lead her
into the maze some distance off. Making a detour, he met her at the
moment she discovered her mistake. The light from the royal word
her friend had brought was still in her face; but it was crossed by
perplexity now.

He stood still as though astonished at seeing her, a smile upon his
face. So perfectly did he play his part that she thought the meeting
accidental; and though in her heart she had a fear of the man and knew
how bitter an enemy he was of Michel's, his urbane power, his skilful
diplomacy of courtesy had its way. These complicated lives, instinct
with contradiction, have the interest of forbidden knowledge. The dark
experiences of life leave their mark and give such natures that touch
of mystery which allures even those who have high instincts and true
feelings, as one peeps over a hidden depth and wonders what lies beyond
the dark. So Angele, suddenly arrested, was caught by the sense of
mystery in the man, by the fascination of finesse, of dark power; and
it was womanlike that all on an instant she should dream of the soul of
goodness in things evil.

Thus in life we are often surprised out of long years of prejudice, and
even of dislike and suspicion, by some fortuitous incident, which might
have chanced to two who had every impulse towards each other, not such
antagonisms as lay between Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, and this
Huguenot refugee. She had every cue to hate hum. Each moment of her life
in England had been beset with peril because of him-peril to the man she
loved, therefore pe