sits in them yonder, as proud and gay as if she were the Queen of Sheba.”
“’Tis the better, good Anthony,” answered Varney; “we must found our future fortunes on her good liking.”
“We build on sand then,” said Anthony Foster; “for supposing that she sails away to court in all her lord’s dignity and authority, how is she to look back upon me, who am her jailor as it were, to detain her here against her will, keeping her a caterpillar on an old wall, when she would fain be a painted butterfly in a court garden?”
“Fear not her displeasure, man,” said Varney. “I will show her that all thou hast done in this matter was good service, both to my lord and her; and when she chips the egg-shell and walks alone, she shall own we have hatched her greatness.”
“Look to yourself, Master Varney,” said Foster, “you may misreckon foully in this matter—She gave you but a frosty reception this morning, and, I think, looks on you, as well as me, with an evil eye.”
“You mistake her, Foster—you mistake her utterly—To me she is bound by all the ties which can secure her to one who has been the means of gratifying both her love and ambition. Who was it that took the obscure Amy Robsart, the daughter of an impoverished and dotard knight—the destined bride of a moon-struck, moping enthusiast, like Edmund Tressilian, from her lowly fates, and held out to her in prospect, the brightest fortune in England, or perchance in Europe? Why, man, it was
