At last the Queen was tired, and ordered the music to cease. She was led by
Leicester to the raised dais at the end of the withdrawing-room where the
dancing took place, and then, at her command, Philip Sidney sang to the
mandoline some laudatory verses which he had composed in her honour.

The Queen contrived to keep him near her for most of the evening, but he
escaped now and then to circulate amongst the ladies of the Court and to
answer questions about the coming tournament.

In one of the alcoves formed by the deep bay of one of the windows Philip
found his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, who was purposely waiting there
to see him alone, if possible.

'I have been waiting for you, Philip,' she said, 'to ask who will arrange
the position my gentlewomen will occupy at the tourney. I have several
eager to see the show, more eager, methinks, than their mistress, amongst
them the little country maiden, Lucy Forrester, whom you know of.'

'I will give what orders I can to those who control such matters. But, my
sweet sister, you look graver than your wont.'

'Do I, Philip? Perhaps there is a reason; I would I could feel happy in the
assurance that you have freed yourself from the bonds which I know in your
better moments you feel irksome. You will have no real peace of mind till
you have freed yourself, and that I know well.'

'I am in no mood for reproaches to-night, Mary,' Philip said, with more
heat than he often showed when speaking to his dearly-loved sister. 'Let
me have respite till this tournament is over at least.' And as he spoke,
his eyes were following Lady Rich as she moved through the mazes of a
Saraband--a stately Spanish dance introduced to the English Court when
Philip was the consort of poor Queen Mary.

'I might now be in the coveted position of Charles Blount in yonder dance,'
Philip said. 'I refrained from claiming my right to take it, and came
hither to you instead.'

'Your right! Nay, Philip, you have no right. Dear brother, does it never
seem to you that you do her whom you love harm by persisting in that very
love which is--yes, Philip, I must say it--unlawful? See, now, I am struck
with the change in her since I beheld her last. The modesty which charmed
me in Penelope Devereux seems vanished. Even now I hear her laugh, hollow
and unreal, as she coquettes and lays herself out for the admiring notice
of the gentlemen who are watching her movements. Yes, Philip, nothing but
harm can come