“Orders have already been given to have Ridolfi seized, Your Majesty,” interjects Burleigh.
“Very well,” replies Elizabeth, “then there is nothing more to do for the present, though I shall change my cook; except”—here Her Majesty’s eyes light up—“except to reward this young gentleman whom we have outlawed for matters of State policy: but then, we love pirates! There is our Francis Drake, who thinks no more of despoiling a Spaniard and turning in ten per cent. of his booty than he does of eating and drinking. There’s old John Hawkins, who’ll steal blackamoors on the coast of Africa to sell them to the Dons and cut their throats while trading with them—all for the glory of England! In fact, I think, Burleigh, pirates are my best subjects. But since I have dismissed my own mummers this evening on your account Master Chester, I ought to have some compensation. Tell me the tale of your adventures in the Netherlands.” [[115]]
This Guy doing, Her Majesty listens with open ears and one or two little chuckles and slaps with her fan upon Burleigh, though at the mention of Doña de Alva they give earnest attention, especially at that portion of Chester’s story which refers to his various interviews with that young lady. And Guy, getting warmed up to his subject, his eyes brighten once or twice in mentioning the beauty of the girl.
“Odds bodkins!” cries Elizabeth, as he closes. “This is a story as romantic as the troubadours tell of Amadis de Gaul saving maidens from giants, as you did Miss Minx of Alva from the Sea Beggars. Egad, I’m afraid she has disturbed his loyalty, my Burleigh. When speaking of his Spanish wench, Master Chester looks at his sovereign of England in a manner that the Lords might condemn as high treason.”
“Ah, Your Gracious Majesty,” replies Guy, who is courtier as well as pirate, “if love is high treason, then every young man who gazes upon his sovereign of England is a traitor.”
His ardent glance emphasizes his speech, which is easy, as Elizabeth is in the zenith of her beauty—a beauty that is hardly understood now, most of her portraits having been taken when she was fifty and upward. But as Chester looks at her she is only thirty-five.
“And I will punish this audacious gallant,” she says, laughing, “though he is no traitor. Give me your sword, Guy Chester.”
The young man is about to unbuckle the weapon.
“No, naked, as you use it on my enemies!”
Drawing it from the scabbard and sinking on one knee, Guy, a sudden hope of unexpected glory coming to him, hands it to his sovereign.