"My Lord of Nottingham," she said, "you may depart. Your duties await you without. Let it be the charge of your Grace," she continued, addressing the Duchess of Devonshire, "to attend her Highness the Lady Rebecca. See that she be maintained as suits her rank, and let her be near our person that we may not lose aught of her society."
The ceremony of landing prevented further discourse between Rebecca and the Queen, and it was with the greatest interest that the stranger observed every detail of the formal function.
Peering through the glass sides of the cabin, Rebecca could see the landing wharf, thronged withservants and magnificently dressed officers, while beyond there loomed a long, two-storied white stone building, with a round-arched entrance flanked by two towers. This was Greenwich Palace, a favorite summer residence of the Queen.
When Francis Bacon, having evaded Rebecca'smistaken pursuit, reached the deserted grove in which the Panchronicon still rested, he found to his dismay that Droop was absent.
Copernicus was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet, and he had set off that morning with his letter of introduction to seek Sir Percevall Hart, the Queen's knight harbinger.
He had determined to begin with moderation, or in other words to ask at first for only two patents. The first of these was to cover the phonograph. The second was to give him a monopoly of bicycles.
Accordingly he set forth fully equipped, carrying a box of records over his shoulder by a strap and his well-oiled bicycle trundling along beside him, with a phonograph and small megaphone hung on the handle-bar. He thought it best to avoid remark by not riding his wheel, being shrewdly mindful of the popular prejudice against witchcraft. Thanks to his exchange with Master Bacon, he feared no comment upon his garb. A pint flask, well filled, was concealed within his garments, and thus armed against even melancholy itself, he set forth fearlessly upon hisquest.
Droop had set out from the Panchronicon in the middle of the forenoon, but, as he was obliged to distribute a large number of photographs among his customers before going to London, it was not until some time after Bacon had crossed the river and Rebecca had departed with the Queen that he found himself on London Bridge.
On reaching the London side, he stood awhile in the ill-smelling street near the fish markets gazing about him in quest of someone from whom he might ask his way.
"Let's see!" he mused. "Bacon said Sir Percevall Hart, Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. First thing to find is Eastcheap, I guess. Hullo there, forsooth!" he cried, addressing a baker's boy who was shuffling by with his basket on his head. "Hullo there, boy—knave! What's the shortest cut to Eastcheap?"
The lad stopped and stared hard at the bright wheels. He seemed thinking hard.
"What mean you, master, by a cut?" he said, at length.
"Oh, pshaw—bother!" Droop exclaimed. "Jest tell me the way to Eastcheap, wilt thee?"
The boy pointed straight north up New Fish Street.
"Eastcheap is yonder," he said, and turned away.
"Well, that's somethin'," muttered Droop. "Gives me a start, anyway."
Following the route pointed out, he retraced the very course along which earlier in the day Rebecca had proceeded in the opposite direction, thinking she saw him ahead of her. By dint of making numerous inquiries, he found himself at length in a region of squalid residences and second-rate shops and ale-houses, in the midst of which he finally discovered the Boar's Head Tavern.
The entrance was by a dark archway, overhung by the upper stories of the building, down which he could see a reddish glow coming and going, now faint now bright, against the dead wall to the left. Passing cautiously down this passage, he soon found that the glow was projected through a half-curtained window to the right, and was caused by the dancing light of a pleasant fire of logs within.
He thought it wise to reconnoitre before proceeding farther, and, peeping through the small leaded panes, he found he could survey the entire apartment.
The room into which Droop stood gazing was the common tap-room of the inn, at that moment apparently the scene of a brisk altercation.
To the left of the great brick fireplace, a large pewter mug in his right hand, an immensely fat man was seated. He was clad as became a cavalier, although in sober colors, and his attitude was suggestive of defence, his head being drawn far back to avoid contact with a closed fist held suggestively before his face. The fist was that of a woman who,standing before the fire with her other hand resting on her hip, was evidently delivering her sentiments in no gentle terms.
A long table, black with age and use, stood parallel to the right-hand wall, and behind this three men were sitting with mugs before them, eying the disputants with evident interest. To the left a large space was devoted to three or four bulky casks, and here an aproned drawer sat astride of a rush-bottomed chair, grinning delightedly and exchanging nods and winks from time to time with an impish, undersized lad who lay on his stomach on a wine-butt with his head craning forward over the edge.
Only an occasional word reached the watcher at the window, but among these few he recognized a number which were far more forcible than decent. He drew back, shook his head, and then slowly returned to the door and looked up.
Yes—he had made no mistake. Above his head there swung the sign of the Boar's Head. And yet—was it likely or even possible that Sir Percevall Hart could make such a vulgar haunt as this his headquarters? Sir Percevall—the Queen's harbinger and the friend of the Prime Minister!
With a sinking heart and a face clouded with anxiety, Droop propped his bicycle against the wall within the passage and resolutely raised the heavy latch.
To his surprise, instead of the torrent of words which he had expected to hear when he opened thedoor, complete silence reigned as he entered. The fat man in the chair by the fire was still leaning backward, but his tankard was now inverted above his head, and a glance showed that his companions at the long table were similarly employed.
Copernicus turned about and closed the door very carefully, unwilling to break the profound silence. Then he tiptoed his way to the fire, and leaning forward rubbed his hands before the crackling logs, nervously conscious of six pairs of eyes concentrated upon his back. Droop was not unfamiliar with the bar-rooms of such a city as Boston, but he found an Elizabethan tavern a very different sort of place. So, although already warmer than desirable, he could only stand half bent before a fire all too hot and wonder what he should do next.
Finally he mustered courage enough to turn about and survey with shamefaced mien the tavern interior. As he turned the four guests dropped their eyes with painful unanimity and the drawer fell to scouring a pewter mug with his apron. Only the boy perched on the cask kept his eyes obstinately fixed on the stranger.
Droop now noticed for the first time that behind the casks there was a snug recess containing a table and two well-worn benches, evidently intended for the entertainment of guests desirous of atête-à-tête.
Thither he at once directed his steps, and seating himself upon one of the benches, looked about him for a bell. He could hear the three men at the longtable whispering busily, and could see that they had their heads together.
The fat man stirred in his chair with a rolling motion.
"Drawer!" he called.
"Here!" cried the drawer, bustling up to the fire.
"A second tankard of that same sack, boy. Bustle, bustle!"
"I must first to my mistress, sir," was the reply. "Nothing for credit, sir, save by permission."
"A pox upon thee!" growled the thirsty man. "On thee and thy mistress, too!"
Muttering and shaking his head, the ponderous guest stretched forth his legs, closed his eyes, and composed himself for a nap.
The drawer tipped a wink to the grinning pot-boy on the cask, and then bustled over to Droop's table, which he proceeded to wipe vigorously with his apron.
"Did you call, sir?" he said.
"Yes," said Copernicus. "Bring me a schooner of light lager."
The drawer's busy apron hand stopped at once and its owner leaned hard on the table.
"What command gave you, sir?" he said.
"Marry—a schooner of lager—light, forsooth!" Droop repeated.
"Cry you mercy, sir," said the drawer, straightening up, "this be the Boar's Head Tavern, sir. What may your worship require by way of food and drink?"
"These old-timers beat all creation for ignorance," muttered Droop. Then, looking up into the man's face, he called for one drink after another, watching hopefully for some sign of answering intelligence.
"Give me a Scotch high-ball. No? Then a gin sling. Hot Tom and Jerry, then. Marry, an egg flip, i' faith! Ain't got 'em? Get me a brandy smash—a sherry cobbler—a gin rickey—rock and rye—a whisky sour—a mint julep! What! Nothin'? What in thunderdoye sell, then?"
The drawer scratched his head, and then grinned suddenly and gave vent to a dry laugh.
"Well said! Well said, master! The jest is a merry one—call me a Jew else!" Then, sobering as briskly as he had taken to laughing: "Will you have a cup of sack, master, to settle the stomach after fasting—or a drop of Canary or Xeres or a mug of ale, perchance——"
"That's right, by my halidom!" Droop broke in. "Bring me some ale, waiter."
The drawer whisked away and returned in a few moments with a huge power tankard topped with a snowy foam.
"That's the stuff!" said Droop, smacking his lips. He half-emptied the beaker, and then, turning to the drawer:
"Can you tell me," he said, "if I can find a man by the name of Hart here—Sir Percevall Hart?"
"Sir Percevall," said the drawer, in an undertone."Why, there's your man, master. The fat knight snoring by yon fire."
"What!" exclaimed Droop. "The man who—" He broke off and stared awhile in silence. Finally, shaking his head: "Never would have thought it!" he said.
Copernicus lapsed into meditation and the drawer withdrew. At length Droop roused himself with a shake.
"Won't do no good to set here doin' nothin'," he muttered. Then, swallowing the remainder of his ale, he drew his letter of introduction from his pocket and walked back to the fireplace.
The knight, who was not sleeping very soundly, slightly opened one eye, and to his surprise, beheld a letter which Droop held almost under his nose.
Sitting up straight and now fully awake, Sir Percevall stared first at Copernicus and then at the letter.
"A letter!" he exclaimed. "For me?"
"Verily, yea," Droop replied, very politely.
The knight opened the letter slowly and turned so that the light from a window fell full upon it.
"What's here!" he exclaimed. "This direction is to my Lord Burleigh."
"Yep—oh, yes, yea!" said Droop, confusedly. "But you was to read it—peruse it, you wot—Bacon said as much. He said you knew the lord and could take me around, forsooth, and sorter interduce me, ye see."
With leisurely gravity, Sir Percevall slowly read the note, and then, returning it with a polite gesture:
"This letter hath reference to certain monopolies," he said. "My cousin Bacon doth write in high terms of your skill and high merit, Master—Master——"
"Droop, sir. Copernicus Droop's my name."
"Ah, yes! And the service you require—? I beg your indulgence, but, sooth to say, being nigh starved of late in this tavern of ill repute, my poor wits have grown fat. I am slow of apprehension, Master Wither——"
"Droop, sir—Droop."
"Nay—cry you mercy—Master Droop."
"Why, now, Sir Percy," said Copernicus, with oily grace, "ef you wouldn't mind, I'd be proud ef you'd set down over yonder, perchance, and have a glass with me. We'd be more private then, and I could make this hull business clear to ye. What say ye, sir?"
"Why, there's my hand, Master Dupe—Droop," said the knight, his face brightening mightily. "Five yards are a mile for a man of my girth, Master Droop, but praise God such words as these of yours cheer my heart to still greater deeds than faring a mile afoot."
Slowly and painfully the corpulent knight drew himself to his feet, and with one hand bearing affectionately but heavily on Droop's shoulder, he shuffled over to the recess and seated himself.
"What ho, there! Drawer!" he shouted, as soon as they were comfortably disposed face to face.
"Anon, sir, anon!" came the familiar reply, and the drawer, who had just served two new guests at the long table, now hurried over to the nook behind the casks.
"A quart of sack, villain!" said Sir Percevall.
"And for you, sir?" said the drawer, turning to Droop.
"Yes, yea, bring me the same." He had no idea what sack was, but he felt that in all probability it was a mild beverage, or no one would order a quart at once.
"And this same letter, now," Sir Percevall began. "To warn you truly, friend, this matter of monopolies hath something of an ill savor in the public mind. What with sweet wines, salt, hides, vinegar, iron, oil, lead, yarn, glass, and what not in monopoly, men cry out that they are robbed and the Queen's advisers turn pale at the very word."
He interrupted himself to give his attention to the wine which had just been placed before him.
"To better acquaintance!" he said, and the two drank deep together.
Droop smacked his lips critically and turned up his eyes for greater abstraction. The wine was pleasant to the palate, he thought, but—well—it wasn't whiskey.
"Of this letter, now," the knight resumed, anxious to discover his own advantage in Droop's plans."'Twere vain for you, a stranger to the Lord High Treasurer, to accost him with it. A very circumspect and pragmatical old lord, believe me. Not every man hath admittance to him, I promise ye. As for me, why, God 'ild you, man! 'twas but yesterday a fortnight Burleigh slapped me o' the shoulder and said: 'Percevall, ye grow fat, you rogue—on the word of a Cecil!' Oh, trust me, Master Droop; my lord much affects my conversation!"
"Is that a fact?" said Droop, admiringly. "It certainly ain't done your conversation any harm to be affected that way."
"Oh, then, an you jest, Master——"
"Not a mite!" exclaimed Copernicus, anxiously. "Verily, nay, friend. Trust me—never!"
"Or never trust thee!" quoth the knight, with a twinkle in his eye.
Droop took refuge in his wine, and Sir Percevall imitating him, the two emptied their cups together and sighed with a simultaneous content.
"That's not bad swizzle," said Droop, patronizingly. "But, as fer me, give me whiskey every time!"
"Whiskey!" said the knight with interest. "Nay, methought I knew every vintage and brew, each label and brand from Rhine to the Canaries. But this name, Master Droop, I own I never heard. Whiskey, say you?"
"Well, now, do tell!" said Droop, drawing forth his flask of nineteenth-century rye, "never heerd o' whiskey, eh? Never tasted it, either, I s'pose?"
"How should I taste it, man, not knowing its very name?"
"Verily, thou sayest sooth!" said Droop. Then, glancing all about him: "Ain't there any smaller glasses 'round here?"
"Drawer—ho, drawer, I say!" roared the knight.
"Here, sir—here! What is your pleasure?"
"The pleasure is to come, rogue! Fetch hither two of yon scurvy glass thimbles you wot of. Hostess calls them cordial glasses. Haste now! Scramble, varlet!"
When the two small glasses were brought, Droop uncorked his flask and poured each full to the brim.
"Th' ain't any seltzer in this one-hoss town," he said, "so I can't make ye a high-ball. We'll jest hev to drink it straight, Sir Knight. Here's luck! Drink hearty!" and with a jerk of hand and head he tossed the spirits down his throat at a gulp and smacked his lips as he set down his glass.
Sir Percevall followed his friend's movements with a careful eye and imitated him as exactly as possible, but he did not escape a coughing fit, from which he emerged with a purple face and tear-filled eyes.
"Have another?" said Droop, cheerfully.
"A plague on queezy gullets!" growled the knight. "Your spirits sought two ways at once, Master Droop, and like any other half-minded equivocal transaction, contention was the outcome. But for the whiskey, mind you—why, it hath won old Sir Percevall's heart. Zounds, man! Scarce two fingers of it, andyet I feel the wanton laugh in me a'ready. Good fellows need good company, my master! So pour me his fellow! So—so!"
They drank again, and this time the more cautious knight escaped all painful consequences.
"Look you, Master Droop," said the delighted old toper, leaning back against the wall as he beamed across the table at his companion, "look you! An you have a butt of this same brew, Sir Percevall Hart is your slave, your scullion, your foot-boy! Why, man, 'tis the elixir of life! It warms a body like a maid's first kiss! Whence had you it?"
"Oh, they make it by the million gallons a year where I come from," Droop replied. "Have another. Take it with hot water and sugar—I mean honey."
The advice was followed, and while they sipped the enlivening decoction, Copernicus explained his plans touching the patenting of his phonograph and bicycle. When he concluded his relation, the knight leaned back and gazed at him with an affectionate squint.
"See, now, bully rook, if I take you," he said. "It behooves you to have fair inductance at court. For this ye come to Sir Percevall Hart, her Majesty's harbinger and—though he says so himself—a good friend to Cecil. Now, mark me, lad. Naught do I know or care of thy 'funny craft' or 'bicycle.' Master Bacon is a philosopher and you have here his certificate. Say I well—what?"
He paused and Droop nodded.
"Good—and so to better. Naught care I, or know I, or should or could I trow, being a man of poetical turn and no base mechanic—no offence meant to yourself, Master Droop. But this I do say—and now mark me well—I say—and dare maintain it (and all shall tell ye that is a fair maintenance and a good champion), that for a sure and favorable inductance to the favors of the court there's no man living takes the wall o' Percevall Hart, Knight!"
"Bacon told me as much," said Droop.
"And he told thee well, my master. Frank is a good lad, though vain, and his palm itcheth. So to terms, eh? Now, methinks 'twere but equity and good fellowship for two such as we are to go snacks, eh? Cut through the middle—even halves, bully—even halves! How say you?"
"You don't mean," said Droop, "that you'd want half the profits, jest fer introducin' me to Lord What's-is-name, do ye?"
"With a small retainer, of course, to bind fast. Say—oh, a matter of twenty gold angels or so."
"Why, blame your confounded overstretched skin!" cried Droop, hotly, "I'd sooner drop the hull darn thing! You must take me fer a nat'ral born fool, I guess!"
"Nay, then—'twixt friends," said the knight, soothingly. "'Twixt friends, say we remit one half the profits. Procure me but the angels, Master Droop, and drop the remainder."
"As many devils sooner!" said Droop, indignantly. "I'll take my pigs to another market."
He rose and beckoned to the drawer.
"Nay, then, why so choleric!" pleaded the knight, leaning anxiously across the table. "What terms do ye offer, Master Droop? Come, man, give a show of reason now—name your terms."
It was to this point that Copernicus had counted upon bringing the helpless knight, who was far from a match for a Yankee. He had driven his own bargain with Bacon, and he now resolved that Bacon's friend should fare no better. In pursuit of this plan, he moved from his seat with a sour face.
"I don't feel much like takin' up with a man who tries to do me," he grumbled, shaking his head and beckoning again to the drawer.
"Do thee, man—do thee!" cried the knight. "Why, an I do thee good, what cause for grief?" Spreading forth his two fat hands, he continued: "Spake I not fairly? An my offer be not to thy taste—say thine own say. What the devil, man; must we quarrel perforce?"
Droop scratched his head and seemed to hesitate. Finally he slapped the table with his open hand and cried with a burst of generosity:
"I'll tell ye what Iwilldo. I've got two quart bottles of that same ripe whiskey, and I'll give 'em both to ye the day the Queen gives me my patents!"
"Nay—nay!" said the knight, straightening himself with dignity. "'Twere a mere fool's prank at such terms!"
"Oh, all right!" cried Droop, turning away.
"Hold—hold! Not so fast!" cried Sir Percevall. But Copernicus merely slapped his hat on his head and started toward the door.
Sir Percevall leaned over the table in flushed desperation.
"Listen, friend!" he cried. "Wilt make a jolly night of it in the bargain?"
Droop stopped and turned to his companion.
"D'ye mean right now?"
A nod was the reply.
"And you'll take my offer if I do?"
The knight sat upright and slapped the table.
"On my honor!" he cried.
"Then it's a go!" said Droop.
As Francis Bacon returned to London from thePeacock, Phœbe had stood at the foot of the steps leading into the courtyard and watched him depart. She little foresaw the strange adventure into which he was destined to lead her sister. Indeed, her thoughts were too fully occupied with another to give admittance to Rebecca's image.
Her lover was in danger—danger to his life and honor. She knew he was to be saved, yet was not free from anxiety, for she felt that it was to be her task to save him. To this end she had sent Bacon with his message to Copernicus. She believed now that a retreat was ready for young Fenton. How would her confidence have been shaken could she have known that Copernicus had already left the Panchronicon and that Bacon had been sent in vain!
In ignorance of this, she stood now at the foot of the stairs and let her thoughts wander back to the day before, dwelling with tenderness upon the memory of her lover's patient attendance upon her in that group of rustic groundlings. With a self-reproachfulache at the heart she pictured herself as she had sat far up in the gallery gazing downward with every faculty centred upon the stage, while he, thinking only of her——
She started and looked quickly to right and left. Why, it was here, almost upon these very stones, that he had stood. Here she had seen him for one moment at the last as she was leaving her seat. He was leaning upon a rude wooden post. She sought it with her eyes and soon caught sight of it not ten feet away.
Then she noticed for the first time that she was not alone. A young fellow in the garb of a hostler stood almost where Guy had been the day before. He paid no attention to Phœbe, for he was apparently deeply preoccupied in carving some device upon the very post against which Guy had leaned.
Already occupied with her own tenderness, she was quick to conclude that here, too, was a lover, busy with some emblem of affection. Had not Orlando cut Rosalind's name into the bark of many a helpless tree?
Clasping her hands behind her, she smiled at the lad with head thrown back.
"A wager, lad!" she cried. "Two shillings to a groat thou art cutting a love-token!"
The fellow looked up and tried to hide his knife. Then, grinning, he replied:
"I'll no take your challenge, mistress. Yet, i' good faith, 'tis but to crown another's work."
Then, pointing with his blade:
"See where he hath carved letters four," he continued. "Wi' love-links, too. A watched un yestre'en, whiles the play was forward. A do but carve a heart wi' an arrow in't."
She blushed suddenly, wondering if it were Guy who had done this. Stepping to the side of the stable-boy, she examined the post.
The letters were in pairs. They were M. B. and G. F.
Her feeling bubbled over in a little half-stifled laugh.
"Silly!" she exclaimed. Then to the boy: "Know you him who cut the letters?" she asked, with affected indifference.
"Nay, mistress," he replied, falling again to his work, "but he be a rare un wi' the bottle."
"The bottle!" Phœbe exclaimed, in amazement. Then quite sternly: "Thou beliest him, knave! No more sober—" She checked herself, suddenly conscious of her indiscretion.
"Why, how knowest his habits?" she asked, more quietly.
"A saw un, mistress, sitting in the kitchen wi' two bottles o' Spanish wine. Ask the player else."
"The player! What player?"
"Him as was drinking wi' him. Each cracked his bottle, and 'twas nip and tuck which should call first for the second."
So Guy had spent the evening—those hours whenshe was tenderly dreaming of him with love renewed—drinking and carousing with some dissolute actor!
Within her Phœbe Wise and Mary Burton struggled for mastery of her opinion.
What more natural than that a poor lad, tired with waiting on his feet for hours for one look from the mistress who disdained him, should seek to forget his troubles quaffing good wine in the company of some witty player? This was Mary's view.
What! To leave the presence of his sweetheart—the girl to whom he had just written that penitent letter—to go fresh from the inspiration of all that should uplift a lover, and befuddle his brains with "rum," gossiping with some coarse-grained barn-stormer! So Phœbe railed.
"Who was the player?" she asked, sharply.
"Him as wore the long white beard," said the boy. "The Jew, to wit. Eh, but a got his cess, the runnion!"
"Shylock!" she cried, in spite of herself.
So this was the gossiping barn-stormer, the dissolute actor. Will Shakespeare it was with whom her Guy had spent the evening! Phœbe Wise could but capitulate, and Mary Burton took for a time triumphant possession of the heart that was Guy Fenton's.
"Have the players left the Peacock?" she asked, eagerly.
"Nay, mistress, know you not that they play to-night at the home of Sir William Percy?"
"Then they are here, at the inn, boy?"
"A saw him that played the Jew i' the garden not a half hour since. He's wont to wander there and mutter the words of the play. I'll warrant him there now, mistress."
Here, indeed, was good fortune! Shakespeare was in the garden. He should tell her where to find Guy that she might warn him. Quickly she turned away and hurried out of the yard and around the north L, beyond which was the garden, laid out with ancient hedges and long beds of old-fashioned flowers.
Now this same garden was the chief pride of the neighborhood, the more especially that gardens were but seldom found attached to inns in those days. Here there had been a partly successful attempt to imitate Italian landscape gardening; but the elaborately arranged paths, beds, and parterres, with their white statues and fountains, lost their effectiveness closed in as they were by high walls of vine-covered brick. It was rumored that once a stately peacock had here once flaunted his gorgeous plumage, giving his name to the inn itself—but this legend rested upon little real evidence.
When Phœbe reached the entrance to the main walk she stopped and looked anxiously about her. Nowhere could she see or hear anyone. Sadly disappointed, she moved slowly forward, glancing quickly to right and left, still hoping that he whom she sought had not utterly departed.
She reached a small stone basin surmounted by a statue of Plenty, whose inverted horn suggested acopious stream long since choked up. Behind the fountain there was a stone bench with a high back. Peeping behind this, Phœbe found that a second seat was placed beyond the back, inviting a seclusion whose expected purpose was distinctly suggested by a sly little Cupid on a pedestal, holding one forefinger to his smiling lips.
At this moment Phœbe was conscious of a distant mumbling to her left, and, glancing quickly in that direction, she saw a plainly dressed, bareheaded man of medium height just turning into the main walk out of a by-path, where he had been hidden from view by a thick hedge of privet. His eyes were turned upon some slips of paper which he held in one hand.
Could this be he? Shakespeare! The immortal Prince of Poets!
To Mary Burton, the approach of a mere player would have given little concern. But Phœbe Wise, better knowing his unrivalled rank, was seized with a violent attack of diffidence, and in an instant she dodged behind the stone seat and sat in hiding with a beating heart.
The steps of the new-comer slowly approached. Phœbe knew not whether pleasure or a painful fear were stronger within her. Here was indeed the culmination of her strange adventure! There, beyond the stone which mercifully concealed her, He was approaching—the wondrous Master Mind of literature.
Would he go by unheeding? Could she let him pass on without one glance—one word? And yet, how address him? How dare to show her face?
The slow steps ceased and at the same time he fell silent. She could picture him gazing with unconscious eyes at the fountain while within he listened to the Genius that prompted his majestic works. Again the gravel creaked, and then she knew that he had seated himself on the other bench. The two were sitting back to back with only a stone partition between them.
To her own surprise, the diffidence which had oppressed her seemed now to be gradually passing off. She still realized the privilege she enjoyed in thus sharing his seat, but perhaps Mary Burton was gaining her head as well as her heart, for she positively began to think of leaving her concealment, contemplating almost unmoved a meeting with her demi-god.
Then he spoke.
"The infant first—then the school-boy," he muttered. "So far good! The third age—m—m—m—" There was a pause before he proceeded, slowly and distinctly:
"Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing his heart out in a woful ballad—
m—m—m—Ah!—
Made to his mistress' eyebrow."
He chuckled audibly a moment, and then, speakinga little louder:
"Fenton to the life, poor lad!" he said.
Phœbe sat up very straight with a startled movement. Oh, to think of it! That she should have forgotten Sir Guy! To have sought Will Shakespeare for the sole purpose of tracing her threatened lover—and then to forget him for a simple name—a mere celebrity!
Unconscious of the small inward drama so near at hand, the playwright proceeded with his composition.
"'Sighing his heart out,'" he mused. "Nay, that were too strong a touch for Jacques. Lighter—lighter." Then, after a moment of thought: "Ay—ay!" he chuckled. "'Sighing like furnace'—poor Fenton! How like a very furnace in his dolor! Yet did he justice to the Canary. So—so! To go back now:
"Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace with a woful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow."
'Twill pass, in sooth, 'twill pass!"
Lightly Phœbe climbed onto the bench and peeped over the back. She looked down sidewise upon the author, who was writing rapidly in an illegible hand upon one of his paper slips.
There was the head so familiar to us all—the domelike brow, the long hair hanging over the ears.This she could see, but of his face only the outline of his left cheek was visible. Strange and unexpected to herself was the light-hearted calm with which, now that she really saw him, she could contemplate the great poet.
He ceased writing and leaned against the back, gazing straight ahead.
"The third age past, what then? Why the soldier, i' faith—the soldier——"
Full of strange oaths"
came a mischievous whisper from an invisible source—
"and bearded like the pard.Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth."
For a moment the poet sat as though paralyzed with astonishment. Then rising, he turned and faced the daring girl.
Now she saw the face so well remembered and yet how little known before. Round it was and smooth, save for the small, well-trimmed mustache above the beautifully moulded mouth and chin—sensitive yet firm. But above all, the splendid eyes! Eyes of uncertain color that seemed to Phœbe mirrors of universal life, yet just now full of a perplexed admiration.
For she was herself the centre of a picture wellfitted to arrest a poet's attention. Her merry face was peering over the smooth white stone, with four pink finger-tips on each side clinging for greater security. Behind her a cherry-tree was dropping its snowy blossoms, and two or three had fallen unheeded upon her wavy brown hair, making a charming frame for the young eyes and tender lips whose smiling harmony seemed to sing with arrant roguishness.
With a trilling laugh, half-suppressed, she spoke at last.
"A penny for your thoughts, Master Shakespeare!" she said.
The mood of the astonished player had quickly yielded to the girl's compelling smile, and his fine lips opened upon a firm line of teeth.
"'Show me first your penny,'" he quoted.
"I'll owe you it."
He laughed and shook his head.
"That would I not my thoughts, damsel."
"Pay them, then. Pay straightway!" she pouted, "and see the account be fair."
"Nay, then," he replied, bowing half-mockingly, "an the accountant be so passing fair, must not the account suffer in the comparison?"
The face disappeared for a moment, and then Phœbe emerged from behind the stone rampart, dusting her hands off daintily one against the other.
"Did not your wit exceed your gallantry, sir," shesaid, courtesying slightly, "I had had my answer sooner."
Shakespeare was somewhat taken aback to see a developed young woman, evidently of gentle birth, where he had thought to find the mere prank-loving child of some neighboring cottager. Instantly his manner changed. Bowing courteously, he stepped forward and began in a deferential voice:
"Nay, then, fair mistress, an I had known——"
"Tut—tut!" she interrupted, astonished at her own boldness. "You thought me a chit, sir. Let it pass. Pray what think you of my lines?"
"They seemed the whisper of a present muse," he said, gayly, but with conviction in his voice. "'Twas in the very mood of Jacques, my lady—a melancholy fellow by profession——"
"Holding that light which another might presently approve"—she broke in—"and praise bestowing on ill deserts in the mere wantonness of a cynic wit! What!—doth the cap fit?"
The amazement in her companion's face was irresistible, and Phœbe burst forth into a spontaneous laugh of purest merriment.
"'A hit—a hit—a very palpable hit!'" she quoted, clapping her hands in her glee.
"Were not witches an eldritch race," said Shakespeare, "you, mistress, might well lie under grave suspicion."
"What—what! Do I not fit the wizened stamp of Macbeth's sisters three?"
Shakespeare flung out his arms with a gesture of despair.
"Yet more and deeper mystery!" he cried. "My half-formed plots—half-finished scraps—the clear analysis of souls whose only life is here!" he tapped his forehead. "Say, good lady, has Will Shakespeare spoken, perchance, in sleep—yet e'en so, how could——"
He broke off and coming to her side, spoke earnestly in lowered tones.
"Tell me. Have you the fabled power to read the soul? Naught else explains your speech."
"Tell me, sir, first the truth," said Phœbe. "In all sadness, Master Shakespeare, have you had aught from Francis Bacon? I mean by way of aid in writing—or e'en of mere suggestion?"
"Bacon—Francis Bacon," said he, evidently at a loss. "There was one Nicholas Bacon——"
"Nay, 'tis of his son I speak."
"Then, in good sooth, I can but answer 'No,' mistress; since that I knew not even that this Nicholas had a son."
Phœbe heaved a sigh of relief and then went on with a partial return of her former spirit.
"Then all's well!" she exclaimed. "I am a muse well pleased; and now, an you will, I'll teach you straight more verses for your play."
"As you like it," said Shakespeare, bowing, half-amused and wholly mystified.
"Good!" she retorted, brightly. "'As You LikeIt' shall you name the piece, that henceforth this our conversation you may bear in mind."
Smiling, he took up his papers and wrote across the top of one of them "As You Like It" in large characters.
"Now write as I shall bid you," Phœbe said. "Pray be seated, good my pupil, come."
Then, seated there by Phœbe's side, the poet committed to paper the whole of Jacques's speech on "The Seven Ages," just as Phœbe spoke it from her memory of the Shakespeare club at home.
When he ceased scribbling, he leaned forward with elbows on his knees and ran his eyes slowly and wonderingly over each line in turn, whispering the words destined to become so famous. Phœbe leaned a little away from her companion, resting one hand on the bench, while she watched his face with a smile that slowly melted to the mood of dreamy meditation. They sat thus alone in silence for some time, so still that a wren, alighting on the path, hopped pecking among the stones at their very feet.
At length the poet, without other change in position, turned his head and looked searchingly and seriously into the young girl's eyes. What amazing quality was it that stamped its impress upon the maiden's face—a something he had never seen or dreamed of? Even a Shakespeare could give no name to that spirit of the future out of which she had come.
"Is it then true?" he said, in an undertone. "Doththe muse live? Not a mere prompting inward sense, but in bodily semblance visiting the poet's eye? Or art thou a creature of Fancy's colors blended, feigning reality?"
Never before had the glamour of her situation so penetrated her to whom these words were addressed. She was choked by an irrepressible sob that was half a laugh, and a film of moisture obscured her vision. With a sudden movement, she seized the poet's hand and pressed it to her lips. Then, half-ashamed, she rose and turned away to toy with the foliage of a shrub that stood beside the path.
"Nay, then!" Shakespeare cried, with something like relief in his voice, "you are no insubstantial spirit, damsel. Yet would I fain more clearly comprehend thee!"
There was a minute's pause ere Phœbe turned toward the speaker, that spirit of mischief dancing again in her eyes and on her lips.
"I am Mary Burton, of Burton Hall," she said.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. And then again: "Oh!" with much of understanding and something of disappointment.
"Is all clear now?" she asked, roguishly.
Shakespeare rose, and, shaking one finger playfully at her, he said:
"Most clear is this—that Sir Guy knows well to choose in love; although, an I read you aright, my Mistress Mockery, his wife is like to prove passingmettlesome. For the rest, your lover knows poor Will Shakespeare's secrets—his Macbeth and half-written Hamlet. 'Tis with these you have made so bold to-day! My muse, in sooth! Oh, fie—fie!" And he shook his head, laughing.
"Indeed! In very sooth!" said Phœbe, with merry sarcasm. "And was it, then, Guy who brought me these same lines of Jacques the melancholy?" And she pointed to the papers in his hand.
"Nay, there I grant you," said the poet, shaking his head, while the puzzled expression crept once more into his face.
"Ay, there, and in more than this!" Phœbe exclaimed. "You have spoken of Hamlet, Master Shakespeare. Guy hath told me something of that tragedy. This Prince of Denmark is a most unhappy wight, if I mistake not. Doth he not once turn to thought of self-murder?"
"Ay, mistress. I have given Sir Guy my thoughts on the theme of Hamlet, and have told him I planned a speech wherein should be made patent Hamlet's desperate weariness of life, sickened by brooding on his mother's infamy."
"'To be or not to be, that is the question,'" quoted Phœbe. "Runs it not so?"
"This passes!" cried Shakespeare, once more all amazement. "I told not this to your friend!"
"Nor did I from Guy receive it," said Phœbe. "Tell me, Master Shakespeare, have you yet brought that speech to its term?"
"No," he replied, "nor have I found the task an easy one. Much have I written, but 'tis all too slight. Can you complete these lines, think you?"
"My life upon it!" she cried, eagerly.
He shook his head, smiling incredulously.
"You scarce know what you promise," he said. "Can one so young—a damsel, too—sound to its bitter deeps the soul of Hamlet!"
"Think you so?" Phœbe replied, her eyes sparkling. "Then what say you to a bargain, Master Shakespeare? You know where Sir Guy Fenton may be found?"
"Ay, right well! 'Tis a matter of one hour's ride."
"So I thought," she said. "Hear, then, mine offer. I must perforce convey a message straight that touches the life and honor of Sir Guy. To send my servant were over-dangerous, for there may be watchers on my going and coming. Will you go, sir, without delay, if that I speak for you the missing lines completing young Hamlet's soliloquy?"
Shakespeare looked into her face for a few moments in silence.
"Why, truly," he said at last, "I have here present business with my fellow-player Burbidge." He paused, and then, yielding to the pleading in her eyes: "Yet call it a bargain, mistress," he said. "Speak me the lines I lack and straightway will I take your word to Sir Guy."
"Now blessings on thee!" cried Phœbe. "Give me straight the line you last have written."
At once the poet began:
"When he himself might his quietus make——"
"With a bare bodkin"—broke in the excited girl. "Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat beneath a weary life, but that the thought of something after death—the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns—puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of. Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, and so the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment by this regard their currents turn awry and lose the name of action."
"No more—no more!" cried Shakespeare, in an ecstasy. "More than completely hast thou made thy bargain good, damsel unmatchable! What! Can it be! Why here have we the very impress of young Hamlet's soul—'To grunt and sweat beneath a weary life'—feel you not there compunction and disgust, seeing in life no cleanly burden, but a 'fardel' truly, borne on the greasy shoulders of filthy slaves!"
He turned and paced back and forth upon the gravel, repeating without mistake and with gestures and accents inimitable the lines which Phœbe had dictated. She watched him, listening attentively, conscious that what she saw and heard, though given in a moment, were to be carried with her forever; convinced as well that she was for something in this, and thankful while half afraid.
Reaching the end of the soliloquy, Shakespeare turned to the maiden, who was still standing, backed by the warm color of a group of peonies.
"Nay, but tell me, damsel," he cried, appealingly. "Explain this power! Art thou, indeed, no other than Mary Burton?"
How refuse this request? And yet—what explanation would be believed? Perhaps, if she had time, she thought, some intelligible account of the truth would occur to her.
"And have you forgot your bargain so soon?" she said, reproachfully shaking her head. "Away, friend, away! Indeed, the matter is urgent and grave. If, when you return, you will ask for Mary Burton, knowing your task fulfilled, she may make clear for you what now must rest in mystery."
"You say well," he replied. "Give me your message, and count fully on Will Shakespeare to carry it with all despatch and secrecy."
Phœbe's face grew grave as she thought of all that depended on her messenger. She stepped closer to her companion and glanced to right and left to make sure they were still alone. Then, drawing from her finger a plain gold ring, she offered it to her companion, who took it as she spoke.
"If you will show this to Sir Guy," she said, "he will know that the case is serious. It beareth writing within the circle—'Sois fidèle'—do you see?"
"Be faithful—ay."
"'Twill be an admonition for you both," saidPhœbe, with a faint smile. "Tell him to be in the lane behind the Peacock garden at sunset to-morrow even with two good horses, one for himself and one for me. Tell him to come alone and to travel by back ways. Bid him in my name—in God's name—close till then, trusting in me that there is need. Tell him to obey now, that later he may have the right to command."
"Good!" said Shakespeare. "And now good-by until we meet again."
A parting pressure of the hand, and he turned to go to the stables. She stood by the fountain musing, her eyes fixed on the entrance gate of the garden until at length a horseman galloped past. He rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. She ran forward, swept by a sudden dread of his loss, waving her hands in a passionate adieu.
When she reached the gate no one was in sight.
On Rebecca's arrival with the royal attendants atGreenwich Palace, the Queen had ordered that she be given a splendid suite of apartments for her own use, and that she be constantly attended by a number of young gentlewomen assigned to her establishment. The news soon spread through the palace that an American princess or empress had arrived, and she was treated in every way on the footing of a sort of inferior royalty. Elizabeth invited her to share every meal with her, and took delight in her accounts of the manners and customs of the American aborigines.
As for Rebecca, she finally yielded to the conviction that Elizabeth was not Victoria, and found it expedient to study her companions with a view to avoiding gross breaches of etiquette. Of these, the first which she corrected was addressing Elizabeth as "Mrs. Tudor."
In twenty-four hours the shrewd and resourceful New England woman was able to learn many things, and she rapidly found her bearings among the strange people and stranger institutions by which she wassurrounded.
Seated in her own "presence chamber," as she called it, surrounded by her civil and assiduous attendants, she discovered a charm in being constantly taken care of which was heightened by the contrast which it presented with her usually independent habits of life. The pleasing effect of novelty had never more strongly impressed her.
Her anxiety in Phœbe's behalf had been dispelled when she learned that Isaac Burton was expected at the palace, and was to bring his family with him. With diplomatic shrewdness, she resolved to improve every opportunity to win the Queen's favor, in order that when the time came she might have the benefit of her authority in removing her younger sister from her pretended relatives.
It was about five in the afternoon of the day succeeding her adventure on the Thames, and Rebecca sat near a window overlooking the entrance court. She was completing the knitting upon which she had been engaged when Droop made his first memorable call on her in Peltonville.
On either side of Rebecca, but on stools set somewhat lower than her chair, were her two favorites, the Lady Clarissa Bray, daughter of Walter Bray, Lord Hunsforth, and the Honorable Lady Margaret Welsh, daughter of the Earl of March.
Clarissa was employed in embroidering a stomacher whose green, gold, and russet set off her darkcurls very agreeably. The Lady Margaret was playing a soft Italian air upon the cithern, which she managed with excellent taste, to the entertainment of her temporary mistress and her half dozen attendants.
Rebecca's needles moved in time with the graceful measure of the music, while her head nodded in unison, and she smiled now and then.
As the air was concluded she let her hands sink for a moment into her lap, turning to bend an approving look upon the fair young musician.
"There, now!" she said. "I declare, Miss Margaret, that's real sweet music. I'm much obliged to ye, I'm sure."
Margaret arose and courtesied, blushing.
"Would your Highness that I play again?" she asked.
"No, thank ye," said Rebecca, resuming her knitting. "The's no sort o' use in drivin' folks to death as are kind to ye. Sit right down an' rest now, an' I'll tell ye all a story thet hez a bearin' right on that point."
She turned to the four maids of honor seated behind her.
"Now you girls can jest's well come an' set in front o' me while I'm talkin'. I'll like it a heap better, I'm sure."
With great diffidence on the part of her attendants, and after much coaxing on Rebecca's part, this change was accomplished. The idea of being seated in thepresence of royalty was in itself quite distasteful to these young courtiers, but upon this Rebecca had insisted from the first. It made her feel tired, she said, to see people standing continually on their feet.
"Well," she began, when all were disposed to their satisfaction, "it all happened in my country, ye know. 'Twas 'bout ten years ago now, I guess—or rather then—I mean it will be——"
Clarissa's wondering eyes caught the speaker's attention and she coughed.
"Never mind when 'twas," she went on. "Ye see, things are very different here—time as well's the rest. However, 'long 'bout then, my cousin Ann Slocum took a notion to 'nvite me down to Keene fer a little visit. Phœbe—thet's my sister—she said I could go jest's well's not, an' so I went. The fust night I was there, when dinner was over, of course I offered to wash up the dishes, seem'——"
An involuntary and unanimous gasp of amazement from her fair auditors cut Rebecca short at this point.
"Well," she said, a little anxiously, "what's the matter? Anythin' wrong?"
The Lady Clarissa ventured to voice the general sentiment.
"Did we hear aright, your Highness?" she asked. "Said you—'wash up the dishes'?"
"Oh!" said Rebecca, conscious for the first time of her slip, "did that puzzle ye?"
"Do queens and princesses perform menial offices in America?" asked the Honorable Lady Margaret.
Short as was the time allowed, it had sufficed for Rebecca to compose a form of words which should not wound her conscience by direct falsehood, while not undeceiving her hearers as to her rank.
"Why, to tell ye the truth," she said, in a semi-confidential manner, "all the queens and princesses there are in America wash the dishes after dinner."
There was some whispering among the girls at this, and Rebecca's ears caught the expressions "passing strange" and "most wonderful" more than once.
She waited until the first excitement thus produced had subsided and then proceeded.
"Of course Cousin Ann hadn't no objection, an' so I went into the kitchen. When we got through, blest ef she didn't ask me to wash out the dish-towels while she filled the lamps! Now——"
The growing amazement in the round, open eyes and shaking curls of her audience brought Rebecca once more to a standstill. Evidently some further explanation of this unwonted state of things would be expected. To gain time for further invention, Rebecca rose and carried her knitting to the window as though to pick up a stitch. Mechanically she glanced down into the court-yard, where there was now a large assemblage, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
"Gracious alive!" she cried. "If there ain't a bicycle! Well, well, don't that look nat'ral, now! Makes me feel homesick."
She turned to her companions, each of whom wasceremoniously standing, but all showing clearly in their faces the curiosity which consumed them.
"Come 'long!" said Rebecca, smiling. "Come one and all! I'm blest ef ye don't make me think of Si Pray's dog waitin' to be whistled fer when Si goes out to walk."
The obedience to this summons was prompt and willing, and Rebecca turned again to observe those who came with the mysterious bicycle.
"Land o' sunshine!" she exclaimed, "did ye ever see sech a fat man as that! Do any of you girls know who 'tis?"
"'Tis Sir Percevall Hart, harbinger to the Queen, I ween," Clarissa replied.
"Gracious!" said Rebecca, anxiously. "I do hope now he ain't bringin' anyverybad news!"
"Wherefore should he, your Highness?" said Clarissa.
"Why, if he's a harbinger of woe—ain't that what they call 'em?" she spoke, with some timidity.
"Nay," said the Lady Margaret. "Sir Percevall is reputed a wit and a pleasant companion, your Highness. He is harbinger to the Queen."
"An' who's the man with him in black togs an' rumpled stockin's?" said Rebecca. "The one holdin' the bicycle?"
"Mean you him holding the two bright wheels, your Highness?"
"Yes."
Lady Margaret could not answer, nor could anyof the other attendants. Could Rebecca have had a more advantageous view of the stranger, she would herself have been the only one in the palace to recognize him. She could only see his hat and his borrowed clothes, however, and her curiosity remained unsatisfied.
"That looks like Copernicus Droop's wheel," she muttered. "I wonder ef somebody's ben an' stole it while he was away. 'Twould serve him right fer givin' me the slip."
Then turning to Lady Margaret again, she continued:
"Would you mind runnin' down to ask who that man is, Miss Margaret? Seems to me I know that bicycle."
Courtesying in silence, the maid backed out of the room and hurried down the stairs quite afire with the eagerness of her curiosity. This strange, bright-wheeled thing to which the American princess so easily applied a name, could only be some wonderful product of the New World. She was overjoyed at the thought that she was to be the first to closely examine and perhaps to touch this curiosity.
Her plans were delayed, however, for when she reached the court-yard she found herself restrained by a row of men with halberds, one of whom informed her that her Majesty was returning from chapel.
The Queen and her retinue were obliged to pass across the courtyard on the way to the apartmentwhere Elizabeth was to take her evening meal. Her progress at such times was magnificently accompanied, and was often much delayed by her stopping to notice her favorites as she passed them, and even at times to receive petitions.
Copernicus, who, as we have seen, had just arrived, was inclined to bewail the interruption caused by this procession, but his companion insisted that, on the contrary, all was for the best.
"Why, man," said he, "Dame Fortune hath us in her good books for a surety. What! Could we have planned all better had we willed it? To meet the Queen in progress from chapel! 'Twill go hard but Sir Percevall shall win his suit—and you, Master Droop, your monopolies. Mark me now—mark me well!"
So saying, the fat knight advanced and joined one of the long lines of courtiers already forming a hedge on each side of the direct way which the Queen was to traverse. Droop, leaning his bicycle against the palace wall and taking in his hands his phonograph and box of cylinders, placed himself behind his guide and watched the proceedings with eager curiosity.
A door opened at one end of the lane between the two courtiers and there appeared the first of a long procession of splendidly apparelled gentlemen-in-waiting, walking bareheaded two by two. Of these, the first were simple untitled knights and gentlemen. These were followed by barons, then earls, and lastlyknights of the garter, each gentleman vying with the others in richness of apparel and lavish display of collars, orders, jewelled scabbards, and heavy chains of gold.
Behind these there came three abreast. These were the Lord High Chancellor, in wig and robes, carrying the Great Seal of England in a red silk bag. On his right walked a gentleman carrying the golden sceptre, jewelled and quaintly worked, while he on the left carried the sword of state, point up, in a red scabbard, studded with golden fleur-de-lis.
A few steps behind this imposing escort came the Queen, with a small but richly covered prayer-book in her hand. She looked very majestic on this occasion, being dressed in white silk bordered with pearls of the size of beans, over which was thrown a mantle of black silk shot with silver threads. An oblong collar of jewelled gold lay upon her otherwise bare bosom.
The Queen's train was very long and was carried by a marchioness, whose plain attire set off the magnificence of royalty.
As Elizabeth proceeded across the yard, she spoke to one by-stander or another, and Droop, looking on, made up his mind that the rule was that anyone to whom she addressed a word, or even a look, should drop forthwith to his knees and so remain until she had passed, unless she pleased to extend her hand to raise him up.
On each side of this main procession there was asingle file of five and twenty gentlemen pensioners, each carrying a gilt battle-axe.
The remainder of the procession consisted of a train of court ladies all dressed in white and nearly destitute of ornaments. Evidently the Royal Virgin would suffer no rivalry in dress from those of her own sex.
Just behind Elizabeth and to one side, in such a position as to be within easy reach for consultation, walked the Lord High Treasurer, William Cecil, Baron of Burleigh. It was to this nobleman that his nephew, Francis Bacon, had addressed the letter which he had given to Copernicus Droop.
By dint of much squeezing and pushing, Sir Percevall made his way to the front of the waiting line, and, as Elizabeth approached, he dropped painfully to his knees, and, with hat in hand, gazed earnestly into the Queen's face, not daring to speak first, but with a petition writ large in every feature.
Now, Elizabeth was most jealous of her dignity, and valued her own favors very highly. In her eyes it was downright impertinence at a time like this for anyone to solicit the honor of her attention by kneeling before he was noticed.
Knowing this, Burleigh, who recognized the knight and wished him well, motioned to him earnestly to rise. Alarmed, Sir Percevall made a desperate effort to obey the hint, and, despite his huge bulk, would perhaps have succeeded in regaining his feet without attracting the notice of the Queen butfor the impatient movement of the crowd behind him. Unfortunately, however, he had but half risen when the bustling multitude moved forward a little against his expansive rear. The result was disastrous.
Sir Percevall lost his balance, and, feeling himself toppling, threw his hands out forward with a cry and fell flat on his face.
Elizabeth was at this moment addressing a few gracious words to a white-haired courtier, who kneeled among those gathered on the right of her line of progress. Startled by the loud cry of the falling knight, she turned swiftly and saw at her feet a man of monstrous girth struggling in vain to raise his unwieldy form. His plumed hat had rolled to some distance, exposing a bald head with two gray tufts over the ears. His sword stood on its hilt, with point in air, and his short, fat legs made quick alternate efforts to bend beneath him—efforts which the fleshy knees successfully resisted.
The helpless, jerking limbs, the broad, rolling body, and the mixture of expletives and frantic apologies poured forth by the prostrate knight turned the Queen's first ready alarm to irrepressible laughter, in which the bystanders joined to their great relief. Droop alone was grave, for he could only see in this accident the ruin of his plans.
"Now, by the rood!" cried the Queen, as soon as she could speak distinctly, "fain would we see your face, good gentleman. Of all our subjects, not onedoth us such low obeisance!" Then, beckoning to those of her gentleman pensioners who stood nearest:
"Raise us yon mighty subject of ours, whose greatness we might in our majesty brook but ill did not his humble bearing proclaim a loyal submission."
Four gentlemen, dropping their gilt axes, hastened to Sir Percevall's aid, raising him by the arms and shoulders.
"Enough—enough, lads!" cried the knight, when they had got him to his knees. "Let it not be said that Sir Percevall Hart dared to tempt erect the dreadful glance of majesty. Here let him lowly bend beneath the eyes that erstwhile laid him low."
Still holding him, the four gentlemen turned their eyes to the Queen for orders, and Sir Percevall, clasping his mud-stained hands, addressed himself directly to Elizabeth, in whose still laughing face he foresaw success.
"O Majesty of England!" he cried. "Marvel not at this my sudden fall—for when, with more than royal glory is linked the potency of virgin loveliness, who can withstand!"