The play seemed well understood between them, for the mimic queen again settled herself on her throne, while Will Cavendish, calling out, "Now I'm Master Hatton," began to tread a stately measure on the grass, while the queen exclaimed, "Who is this new star of my court? What stalwart limbs, what graceful tread! Who art thou, sir?"
"Madam, I am—I am. What is it? An ef—ef—"
"A daddy-long-legs," mischievously suggested another of the group.
"No, it's Latin. Is it Ephraim? No; it's a fly, something like a gnat" (then at an impatient gesture from her Majesty) "disporting itself in the beams of the noontide sun."
"Blood-sucking," whispered the real Queen behind the fern. "He is not so far out there. See! see! with what a grace the child holds out her little hand for him to kiss. I doubt me if Elizabeth herself could be more stately. But who comes here?"
"I'm Sir Philip Sydney."
"No, no," shouted Humfrey, "Sir Philip shall not come into this fooling. My father says he's the best knight in England."
"He is as bad as the rest in flattery to the Queen," returned young Cavendish.
"I'll not have it, I say. You may be Lord Leicester an you will! He's but Robin Dudley."
"Ah!" began the lad, now advancing and shading his eyes. "What burnished splendour dazzles my weak sight? Is it a second Juno that I behold, or lovely Venus herself? Nay, there is a wisdom in her that can only belong to the great Minerva herself! So youthful too. Is it Hebe descended to this earth?"