Her red-
gold hair gleamed and glittered with jewels under the flickering
torchlight. Around her stood a crowd of nobles and ladies only
less brilliant that she. Then, as William gazed and gazed, his
eyes aching with the dazzling lights, there was a movement in the
surging crowd, a murmur of "ohs" and "ahs." And, turning, the
boy saw another lady, another Queen, appear from out the dark
shadow of the trees. Stately and slowly she moved across the
grass. Then following her came a winged boy with golden bow and
arrows. This was the god of Love, who roamed the world shooting
his love arrows at the hearts of men and women, making them love
each other. He aimed, he shot, the arrow flew, but the god
missed his aim and the lady passed on, beautiful, cold, free, as
before. Love could not touch her, he followed her but in vain.
It was with such pageants, such allegories, that her people
flattered Queen Elizabeth, for many men laid their hearts at her
feet, but she in return never gave her own. She was the woman
above all others to be loved, to be worshiped, but herself
remained in "maiden meditation fancy-free.
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