WHILE Mary lay dying at St. James's the nation had been
quietly transferring its support to her sister at Hatfield.
Before the end of October she was acknowledging offers of help;
soon she had received the adherence of the whole nobility. Men
flocked to her: "There is not a heretic or traitor in the country," a
Spaniard wrote, "who has not started as if from the grave to seek
her with expressions of great pleasure." The old order was passing,
passing with that inexorable certainty with which death was com-
ing to the Queen. Even among those whose fortunes were most
intimately linked with it, there were many caught by the prevail-
ing mood to let the dead bury the dead; and Mary's councillors
received an envoy of Philip's as though he came with the bulls of
a defunct pope.

This envoy was the Count de Feria. He was among Elizabeth's
visitors in the busy days before Mary died. He was no stranger
to England; in fact was about to marry one of the ladies of Mary's
Court. Philip fully expected him to be persona grata with the new
sovereign. But he was a typical grandee of Spain, devoid of humour,
proud and patronizing. With another envoy, a more tactful man,
Elizabeth had been gracious, acknowledging Philip's services in
the past, and promising her goodwill in the future. Her tone
changed when Feria started boasting that she owed her throne
solely to his master. She was not inclined to be anyone's puppet,
certainly not Philip's. It was not Philip, she retorted, nor yet the
nobility who had placed her where she was; it was the people. "She
is much attached to the people," Feria wrote, "and is very con-

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