ed to wear the emblem and mark of such a Romish tyrant as he of Spain?”
“O, content you, my love,” answered the Earl; “we who spread our sails to gales of court favour, cannot always display the ensigns we love the best, or at all times refuse sailing under colours which we like not. Believe me, I am not the less good Protestant, that for policy I must accept the honour offered me by Spain, in admitting me to this his highest order of knighthood. Besides, it belongs properly to Flanders; and Egmont, Orange, and others, have pride in seeing it displayed on an English bosom.”
“Nay, my lord, you know your own path best,” replied the Countess.“And this other collar, to what country does this fair jewel belong?”
“To a very poor one, my love,” replied the Earl; “this is the Order of Saint Andrew, revived by the last James of Scotland. It was bestowed on me when it was thought the young widow of France and Scotland would gladly have wedded an English baron; but a free coronet of England is worth a crown matrimonial held at the humour of a woman, and owning only the poor rocks and bogs of the north.”
The Countess paused, as if what the Earl last said had excited some painful but interesting train of thought; and, as she still remained silent, her husband proceeded.
“And now, loveliest, your wish is gratified, and you have seen your vassal in such of his trim array
