Sir Robert Cecil had paved the way for the downfall of the Earl of Leicester, and, at the same time, achieved one step towards the advancement of Essex; but these measures, though great and momentous of their own selves, were but preliminary to what he meditated. His next object, according to the plan he had laid out, was to create a dissension between Essex and Raleigh; and, while he pretended to be a friend to each of those personages, to act really as an enemy to them both. This duplicity was not motiveless, although, on a cursory view, its purpose may not be apparent. He foresaw that Raleigh and Essex would henceforward divide the favour of the Queen between them; and if, by pursuing the policy specified, he could lead each to look upon the other as a rival, and yet regard him as a friend, he would himself be the real favourite, and they only his instruments.

The unsuspecting disposition of the impetuous Essex promised him an easy prey; but the sagacious Raleigh, whose knowledge of the world rendered him less unwary, would require more tangible evidence of friendship than mere professions. It became necessary, therefore, in order to secure his confidence, to entangle him in some more complicated snare, and then work out the issue as circumstances should dictate.

The man of policy had already laid his first toils, when Sir Walter Raleigh, unconscious of danger, and still thinking of the appointment that he had just made with Evaline de Neville, entered the outer hall of Greenwich palace. At the same moment that he entered on one side, an aged-looking man, of a grave and venerable appearance, made his ingress on the other. The old man was dressed in a long blue robe, embroidered, on the left breast, about half-way down, with the royal arms; a high ruff, or frill; and a black velvet cap, fitted close to his head. He walked very lame, and leaned on a stout staff, headed with gold, which seemed to bow beneath the weight of his age and infirmities.

Though somewhat discomposed, Sir Walter’s first impulse, on observing the old man’s approach, would have led him to spring to his side, and proffer him the support of his arm. Before he could realize his intention, however, he caught the old man’s eye, and it dealt him such a glance as forbade approach.

After his eye had thus rested on him for near a moment, the old man, seeming suddenly to recollect himself, dropped him a formal bow, and prepared to pass on. Sir Walter, however, though he saw that he bore him no good-will, was not disposed to suffer him to pass thus; and before he had yet taken a step forward, he accosted him.

“Give thee good day, my Lord Burleigh,” he said. “I grieve to see your Lordship walk so lame.”

“I would ye could all walk straight!” answered Burleigh, with a sour and significant look. “Thy new friends, the Papists, be ever walking lame.”

The gouty minister passed on with these words. His look and manner, being so unusually churlish, had not been unobserved by Sir Walter; and, taken in connexion with his words, they seemed to him to menace him with some serious mischief.

He did not doubt that the pointed expressions of the minister alluded to his friendly disposition towards Sir Edgar de Neville. But, allowing his supposition to be correct, how had he been made acquainted with this disposition, or how, in the present stage of the affair, could it excite his enmity? This was a mystery—a question which, with all his experience of courts and courtiers, Sir Walter could not at the moment unravel.

Nothing transpired during the day to lend the uneasiness he began to feel any additional incitement. The evening came at last; and as the hour at which he had arranged to meet Evaline drew nigh, with seeming reluctance and tardiness, he sallied into the park, intending to proceed straight to the spot he had appointed.

Just as he entered the park, he observed the Queen, attended by a train of lords and ladies, pacing a neighbouring walk. Though the hour of his appointment was now fast approaching, this circumstance induced him to pause, and, while thus stationary, to reflect whether it would be advisable, when the Queen was so close at hand, to seek to pass unobserved. While he was pondering how he should proceed, the Queen, who had hitherto been walking away from the palace, suddenly turned round, and discerned him.

It was not without gratification that the great Princess observed herself to be watched by a man whom every unenvious person admired. She did not doubt, from his mournful and hesitating posture, that he was watching her with the deepest interest, though awe of her rank induced him to do so by stealth. There was something touching, as well as pleasing, in this prostrate affection; and when it was revealed by an individual of such eminent merit, its appeal to the sympathies was irresistible. Elizabeth, supposing Sir Walter to be thus influenced, resolved to lighten his misery, and graciously beckoned him to approach.

As he drew nigh, her quick eye readily perceived that, though he strove to conceal it, his manner was embarrassed, and his countenance greatly dejected. These appearances, however, tended to confirm the impressions she had conceived, and her yet fair face became flushed with triumph.

“Why, knight! knight!” she cried, extending him her small hand; “what hath happed?—I prithee, what hath happed?”

While she was yet speaking, she turned her head away, and dealt what (notwithstanding its exceeding brevity) appeared to be a significant look at one of the ladies in waiting. In a moment afterwards, the crowd of courtiers who had been attending her passed into another walk, and she and Sir Walter stood alone.

“Thou hast not told me what hath befallen thee,” remarked the Queen, at this juncture.

“Methought your Highness looked coldly on me to-day,” answered Sir Walter, at a loss for an excuse.

“Thy thought was false, then, knight,” returned Elizabeth. “But even an’ it were true, could that make thee so melancholy?”

“Alas, your Highness, no evil could afflict me more!” said Sir Walter. “But your Highness looks wearied. Shall I escort you to the palace?”

“No!” answered the Queen. “I will rest me here a while.”

Here she turned towards an adjacent summer-house, on one side of the walk, and, still leaning on Sir Walter’s arm, passed to its interior. The summer-house, which was open in front, looked on to the walk; but, as its seat was at the back, which was covered in, they were perfectly private, and no one could approach without first incurring their observation.

When Elizabeth had seated herself in the summer-house, she beckoned Sir Walter, who had taken his station at the entrance, to come forward, and seat himself by her side. The knight, without further ceremony, obeyed the command, well knowing that she liked such manifestations of confidence to be as slightly dwelt upon as possible.

There was a moment’s pause after he had taken his seat. Sir Walter, however, though a fear that he would have to neglect his appointment with Evaline de Neville greatly disturbed him, was too polished and experienced a courtier, and, what was a greater advantage, too well acquainted with the character and temperament of the Queen, to suffer this pause to continue. Quickly collecting himself, he proceeded to thank her, in a somewhat hyperbolical strain, but which was not unsuited to her taste, for her marked and flattering condescension, and to pray that her royal favour might ever stand immoveable between him and his enemies.

“Enemies?” cried the Queen: “what enemies, my chosen knight?”

“Legion, legion, dread Sovereign!” answered Sir Walter. “And as I know, and do heartily confess, that my merits be most pitiful, and that ’tis only the gracious eyes of your Highness that view them favourably, so I do often fear, in my hours of solitude, that my enemies may sometime triumph with your Highness, and compass my disgrace.”

“Have a better heart,” said the Queen, kindly. “But come! come, I will secure thee! Take this ring”—here she drew a light ring from her finger, and placed it in his hand—“and, whenever thou shalt need my favour, let this be thy token to me, and thy suit shall not fail.”

Sir Walter, with real and unfeigned gratitude, here dropped on one knee at her feet, and, in this posture, respectfully caught up her hand, and raised it to his lips.

“An’ our dearest thoughts be at any time visible,” he said, “when I die, my liege, the pattern of this ring will be found graven on my heart.”

“Aroynt thee, flatterer!” replied Elizabeth, with a smile, at the same time turning away her head.

“Then, let me die, dread Sovereign,” pursued Sir Walter, in a plaintive tone, “an’ I am to be shut out from the light of those beauteous eyes! Take from me all thy favours; deprive me of my high and unmerited fortunes; but suffer me, I beseech thee, still to live in thy presence, for there only is life supportable.”

“Is it even so?” rejoined the Queen, turning back her head, and regarding him tenderly. “Well, well—but who is this approaches?”

While she was yet speaking, the expression of her features changed, and she darted an angry glance at the neighbouring walk. As she did so, Sir Walter sprang to his feet; and, hastily wheeling round, and turning his eyes in the same direction as the Queen’s, confronted the Earl of Essex and Sir Robert Cecil.

“Your pardon, my liege,” said Essex to Elizabeth; “for, by my sacred honour, I knew not you were here. Sir Robert and I, crossing the park from Blackheath, came here by absolute chance, and saw none about to intimate the vicinity of your Highness.”

“Enough, gentle Essex,” cried Elizabeth. “But we will homeward now. Give us thine arm! Now, knight!” she added to Raleigh, “where is thine?”

“At your Highness’s command,” answered Sir Walter, drawing the arm she had extended through one of his.

Thus escorted, Elizabeth passed into the walk, and thence, at a leisurely pace, into the walk adjoining. There she was joined by the lords and ladies in waiting, and, after a brief promenade, the whole party, following in the wake of the Queen, proceeded thence to the palace.

It was a part of the household policy of Elizabeth, at this period of her life, to extend her favour to several persons at once, so that only herself should be supreme. By such a policy, which seemed to open the way of preferment to every one, she retained in her court all the most distinguished cavaliers of the country, and, whenever she appeared in public, secured the attendance and service of a train of handsome admirers. She did not depart from her usual practice on the present occasion. Throughout her progress to the palace, she divided her favour between Essex and Raleigh so equally, that it was impossible to say, from her manner and bearing, which had the higher place in her regard, and the courtiers were quite at a loss to know whom they were to pay their respects to.

Nearly half an hour elapsed before Sir Walter Raleigh could leave the royal presence. Notwithstanding that the delay caused him some annoyance, he was still highly elated, on reflection, at the manner in which the time had been spent; and though he had no hope that Evaline would wait so long a period over the hour he had engaged to meet her, he resumed his design of proceeding to the locality of the appointment with considerable complacency.

He passed into the first walk of the park without meeting anything to repel this feeling. Before turning into the walk adjoining, which led straight to his destination, he happened to cast a glance around, and his quick eye detected the figure of a man stealing behind one of the rearward trees. Though he did not suppose that any one would make it a special business to follow and watch him, he was anxious, lest he should be made the subject of any scandalous reports, to pursue his present object unobserved; and, therefore, the presence of an overlooker disturbed him exceedingly. It did not, however, induce him to halt. Still passing on, he thought that, if the person in his rear were really watching him, his best course would be to turn out of the walk, and proceed to the scene of his appointment through the open park. Accordingly, after taking a few paces in the walk, he made a short turn into the adjoining area, and slanted off towards his destination.

In a short time, he reached the summit of a neighbouring hill, from which he could view the lower park, except where it was screened by the trees, to the very door of the palace. There, looking round, he effected this survey, and satisfied himself that no person was in sight.

On one side of the hill, a broad walk, running between two rows of fine old trees, which almost met in the middle, led directly to the Blackheath-gate; and, on ascertaining that no one was in view, he turned hitherwards, and pursued his way towards the gate.

As he approached the gate, he distinguished the figure of a female, with a long veil drawn over her face, standing under the tree he had named to the messenger of Evaline. He came up with her a few moments afterwards, and, to his great satisfaction, discovered that the fair loiterer was Evaline herself.

Their greeting was cordial and sincere. Their salutations interchanged, Sir Walter apologised to Evaline, in a few earnest words, for having kept her waiting, and assured her that his delay was not wilful, but had been owing to his unavoidable attendance on the Queen.

“Indeed,” he added, with a somewhat mournful smile, “after my duty to her Highness was fulfilled, I could not repair hither straight; for on my way, happening to glance behind, I descried some evil-minded dastard dogging me; and, to avoid him, I had to make a great round.”

On hearing these words, Evaline, though she saw that Sir Walter no longer apprehended that he was watched, could not refrain from glancing wistfully down the walk, with the view of ascertaining if any one was in sight. She discerned no person in the walk; but, turning her gaze on the further side, she fancied that she distinguished some object, not unlike the figure of a man, leaning against one of the trees. Though she was not certain of this, it caused her some alarm; and she pointed it out to Sir Walter.

“Mayhap, thou art still followed, Sir,” she said. “Is not that a man’s head yonder?”

Sir Walter turned an earnest glance on the spot she pointed out.

“No, ’tis not a man,” he answered. Then, with recovered composure, he again confronted her, and pursued his speech.

“I have yet been unable, dear lady,” he said, “to compass thy father’s liberation; but I hope to bring it to pass anon. There be more difficulties in the way than I had looked for.”

“Alas!” sighed Evaline, her dark eyes filling with tears.

“Nay, be of good cheer!” resumed Sir Walter, in a tone of deep sympathy. “A day or two, at furthest, will set him at liberty.”

“An’ I could see him,” answered the fair girl, in a voice broken with emotion—“an’ I could be with him in prison, and whisper him a few words of cheer, it would ease my heart of half its sorrow.”

“Thou rather needest comfort thyself,” observed Sir Walter, tenderly.

“No, I am young, and able to bear much—very much,” returned Evaline. “If he saw me hopeful, he would not mourn; for all his care is for me.”

“Hast thou sought access to him?” asked Sir Walter.

“Twice,” answered Evaline; “but fruitlessly.”

“’Tis a most cruel persecution,” said Sir Walter. “But fear not for the issue, dear lady. To-morrow, an’ events be not notably adverse, I will unfold the matter to the Queen, and secure you her protection.”

“I cannot thank thee,” faltered Evaline, turning away her head.

Sir Walter, not without emotion, gently pressed her hand, and suffered her to weep a few moments in silence. After a brief interval, he again addressed her; and in a soft, soothing tone, which fell on her depressed spirit with the most assuasive effect, exhorted her to take comfort, and to look to the morrow with confidence and hope.

Whether from his words, or from some other cause, Evaline became more composed in a short time, and, though she spoke in an agitated voice, was able to answer him.

“Thou art very, very kind,” she said. “We must bow to God’s will: and with His blessing, and thy help, we will even bear up. But I will not detain thee longer, brave Sir!”

“I will attend thee to thy horse, dear lady,” replied Sir Walter.

“Thou mayst then be observed,” returned Evaline, “and ’twere running a risk, under passing circumstances, for which there is no need. The man who bore thee my letter waits without the gate; and my servants, with our horses, which I thought it best not to bring so far, wait us on the heath.”

“Thou hast in all things done well,” rejoined Sir Walter. “Be sure, I will bear thy business fairly in mind. Meantime, I bid thee farewell!”

“Farewell, worthy Sir Walter!” answered Evaline.

Sir Walter, doffing his plumed hat, raised her hand to his lips, and then suffered her to depart. He watched her till she had passed out of the gate, when, with a somewhat thoughtful step, he turned away, and proceeded slowly down the walk.

He had gone but a short way down the walk, when he broke off into the park, on the side where, after following the line of the outer heath for some distance, it takes a sweep round to the river. It was a beautiful evening, and the hour, which was approaching eight, was not so advanced but that it was quite light. Everything looked gay, and buoyant, and cheerful; and, though the splendour of the day had passed off, the verdure of the grass and foliage, which had now attained its most perfect tint, had lost none of its freshness, or looked a whit less green in the mild light of the evening. The nimble fawns, too, which were scattered in groups over the prairie, evidently met the evening with a welcome, and sported and raced about with unwonted spirit. Now in groups, anon in pairs, or singly, they shot across the park, or, like trusty sentinels, watched the solitary passenger who had intruded on their domain, as though his vicinity and progress caused them alarm. But Sir Walter, absorbed in meditation, noted none of these things. He pursued his way over the area without looking round; and the sweet tranquillity of the scene, which, in its diversity of wood, and hill, and dale, all clothed with verdure, embraced a hundred beautiful accidents, quite escaped his perception.

Thus progressing, he came to the top of a high hill, looking down on the river, and crowned, about the centre of its summit, with a solitary oak. This fair tree, which gives the hill its name, was then arrayed in foliage, and, in its upland situation, looked truly like the monarch of the realm below.

Pausing on the crown of the hill, he seemed, for the first time during his ramble, to understand his local position, and to look with interest and pleasure on the objects around. In its peculiar features, the landscape which those objects constituted had no peer in the world. In his rear lay the noble park, with its surface varied by fair valleys, and gentle eminences, topped with trees; and, here and there, traversed by broad avenues, to which unbroken lines of oak and elm, but principally oak, were appropriate landmarks. On his side, at the verge of the park, rose the stately palace, with a flag, on which was emblazoned the royal arms, floating from each of its two dome-capped towers, and marking it as the residence of the Sovereign. Beyond could be seen a forest of tall masts, which a glance on his further side, down the river, would change for a view of Kent, extending as far as Shooter’s Hill. Opposite to him was spread the low coast of Essex, creeping back, from where its turfy limit was laved by the river, to inland heights, which tall woods seemed to mark as its natural boundary. Before him flowed the matchless Thames, coursing along, on either hand, as far as the eye could reach, in twenty graceful sweeps; and bearing on its calm bosom hundreds of barks, with their white sails swelling under the volume of the evening breeze.

No one could contemplate such a scene with indifference, and, though he had often viewed it before, Sir Walter Raleigh, on waking from his reverie, scanned its varied features with the liveliest enjoyment. He did not, however, tarry long on the hill. After a brief pause, he set forward again, and—for the steepness of the descent obliged him to pick his steps—passed slowly, but not mournfully, towards the further park.

Whether it be true, or not, what some assert, that men sometimes have an instinctive foreboding of a coming ill, there certainly are moments when we are more inclined to look forward to calamity, than to anticipate success. And, perhaps, it may not be difficult, on a close survey, to make this dejection appear to be really the work of instinct. As the guiding influence of man is distinguished from that of brutes by its attribute of reason, so all its promptures, though without our perception, regard more than the passing time, and are tempered by a look at the future. When the judgment is healthy, this look, however closely pursued, will ever have some savour of hope; and if we cast hope aside, the judgment loses its distinguishing characteristic, and sinks to the level of an unrestrained instinct.

During his progress to the palace, the cheerfulness which Sir Walter had derived from external nature, in contemplating the prospect from One-Tree Hill, subsided, and his melancholy returned. The depression seemed to weigh him down, and, despite his efforts to repel it, to take the shape of a presentiment. Though his strong mind wrestled with the feeling, he found himself, every now and then, anticipating some evil, and looking forward to misfortune as if it were actually in view.

His dejection increased as he approached the palace. As he was advancing to the palace-door, a pursuivant, who was standing by, came up to him, and delivered to him a sealed billet. Sir Walter, glancing at the superscription, perceived that it was from the Queen, and eagerly tore it open.

The billet ran thus:—