It was this woman,
then, whom she was about to see; the sister of Mary and Edward, the
daughter of Henry and Anne Boleyn, who had received her kingdom
Catholic, and by her own mere might had chosen to make it Protestant;
the woman whose anointed hands were already red in the blood of God's
servants, yet hands which men fainted as they kissed....
Then on a sudden, as Elizabeth lifted her head this side and that, the
girl saw her.
She was sitting in a low carriage, raised on cushions, alone. Four tall
horses drew her at a slow trot: the wheels of the carriage were deep in
mud, since she had driven for an hour over the deep December roads; but
this added rather to the splendour within. But of this Marjorie
remembered no more than an uncertain glimpse. The air was thick with
cries; from window after window waved hands; and, more than all, the
loyalty was real, and filled the air like brave music.
There, then, she sat, smiling.
She was dressed in some splendid stuff; jewels sparkled beneath her
throat. Once a hand in an embroidered glove rose to wave an answer to
the roar of salute; and, as the carriage came beneath, she raised her
face.
It was a thin face, sharply pear-shaped, ending in a pointed chin; a
tight mouth smiled at the corners; above her narrow eyes and high brows
rose a high forehead, surmounted by strands of auburn hair drawn back
tightly beneath the little head-dress. It was a strangely peaked face,
very clear-skinned, and resembled in some manner a mask.
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