Now fare thee well, my master--if true service
Be guerdon'd with hard looks, e'en cut the tow-line,
And let our barks across the pathless flood
Hold different courses--THE SHIPWRECK.

Tressilian walked into the outer yard of the Castle scarce knowing what
to think of his late strange and most unexpected interview with Amy
Robsart, and dubious if he had done well, being entrusted with the
delegated authority of her father, to pass his word so solemnly to leave
her to her own guidance for so many hours. Yet how could he have denied
her request--dependent as she had too probably rendered herself upon
Varney? Such was his natural reasoning. The happiness of her future
life might depend upon his not driving her to extremities; and since no
authority of Tressilian's could extricate her from the power of Varney,
supposing he was to acknowledge Amy to be his wife, what title had he
to destroy the hope of domestic peace, which might yet remain to her,
by setting enmity betwixt them? Tressilian resolved, therefore,
scrupulously to observe his word pledged to Amy, both because it had
been given, and because, as he still thought, while he considered and
reconsidered that extraordinary interview, it could not with justice or
propriety have been refused.

In one respect, he had gained much towards securing effectual protection
for this unhappy and still beloved object of his early affection. Amy
was no longer mewed up in a distant and solitary retreat under the
charge of persons of doubtful reputation. She was in the Castle of
Kenilworth, within the verge of the Royal Court for the time, free from
all risk of violence, and liable to be produced before Elizabeth on
the first summons. These were circumstances which could not but assist
greatly the efforts which he might have occasion to use in her behalf.