o is that woman?

QUEEN (_throwing off her veil._)

I am that woman!

BOURBON (_starting up._)

You, by the holy mass! I scorn your proffers;
Is there no crimson blush to tell of fame
And shrinking womanhood! Oh shame! shame! shame!

(_The Queen remains clasping her hands to her temples, while _De Bourbon_
walks hastily up and down; after a long pause the _Queen_ speaks._)

(_The _Queen_ summons her Confessor._)

_Enter _GONZALES.

Sir, we have business with this holy father;
You may retire.

BOURBON.

Confusion!

QUEEN.

Are we obeyed?

BOURBON (_aside._)

Oh Margaret!--for thee! for thy dear sake!
[_Rushes out. The _Queen_ sinks into a chair._]

QUEEN.

Refus'd and scorn'd! Infamy!--the word chokes me!
How now! why stand'st thou gazing at me thus?

GONZALES.

I wait your highness' pleasure.--(_Aside_) So all is well--
A crown hath fail'd to tempt him--as I see
In yonder lady's eyes.

QUEEN.

Oh sweet revenge!
Thou art my only hope, my only dower,
And I will make thee worthy of a Queen.
Proud noble, I will weave thee such a web,--
I will so spoil and trample on thy pride,
That thou shalt wish the woman's distaff were
Ten thousand lances rather than itself.
Ha! waiting still, sir Priest! Well as them seest
Our venture hath been somewhat baulk'd,--'tis not
Each arrow readies swift and true the aim,--
Love having failed, we'll try the best expedient,
That offers next,--what sayst thou to revenge?
'Tis not so soft, but then 'tis very sure;
Say, shall we wring this haughty soul a little?
Tame this proud spirit, curb this untrain'd charger?
We will not weigh too heavily, nor grind
Too hard, but, having bow'd him to the earth,
Leave the pursuit to others--carrion birds,
Who stoop, but not until the falcon's gorg'd
Upon the prey he leaves to their base talons.

GONZALES.

It rests but with your grace to point the means.

QUEEN.

Where be the plans of those possessions
Of Bourbon's house?--see that thou find them straight:
His mother was my kinswoman, and I
Could aptly once trace characters like those
She used to write--enough--Guienne--Auvergne
And all Provence that lies beneath his claim,--
That claim disprov'd, of right belong to me.--
The path is clear, do thou fetch me those parchments.
[_Exit_ Gonzales.
Not dearer to my heart will be the day
When first the crown of France deck'