But had Henry Howard looked at Lady Jane Douglas, he would have seen how she turned pale and blushed; how she smiled with rapture, and how, nevertheless, her eyes filled with tears.
Earl Surrey, however, saw nothing but the queen; and the sight of her made him tremble with rage and pain.

His eyes darted lightning: his countenance glowed with passion; his whole being was in desperate, enthusiastic excitement.

At that moment he would have gladly breathed out his life at Geraldine's feet, if she would only recognize him--if she would only have the courage to call him her beloved.
But her smiling calmness, her friendly coolness, brought him to despair.
He crumpled the paper in his hand; the letters danced before his eyes; he could read no more.
But he would not remain, mute, either.

Like the dying swan, he would breathe out his pain in a last song, and give sound and words to his despair and his agony.

He could no longer read; but he improvised.
Like a glowing stream of lava, the words flowed from his lips; in fiery dithyrambic, in impassioned hymns, he poured forth his love and pain.
The genius of poesy hovered over him and lighted up his noble and thoughtful brow.
He was radiantly beautiful in his enthusiasm; and even the queen felt herself carried away by his words.