The satyr thus summoned, who seemed indeed the leader of the rest, and no mean representative of the god Pan, approached the royal presence with quaint reverence, beating a measured dance with his cloven feet, and brandishing his tail the while.
James Geddes, the fool, in an irrepressible state of excitement, could not forbear imitating his gestures with a grotesque fidelity that provoked shouts of laughter.
Sebastian, somewhat irritated, and taking advantage of his position, struck at him viciously with his tail; but the fool, familiar with such salutes, dodged it adroitly, and the blow fell across the shapely leg of the English ambassador, who winced, and turned crimson with the pain.
Mr Randolph, however, had far too much self-command to betray his anger, which was little alleviated by the laughter that the Queen could not repress.
‘How now?’ quoth the statesman, trying hard to force a smile; ‘is Pan like Atropos, that he spares neither Wisdom nor Folly, but smites down all alike?’
‘It’s the knave aye gets the fule’s arles,’[7] remarked James; ‘or he wadna be siccan a knave; an’ it’s the fule aye tynes[8] them, or he wadna be siccan a fule!’
[7] Wages.
[8] Losses.
And so speaking, he sat composedly down at the Queen’s feet, pulling a grimace at the same time that was too much even for the Earl of Moray’s gravity.
The satyrs then proceeded to enclose a space for the coming masque. So thorough was their disguise as to baffle even the keen eyes of those who were most interested in their identity; and as the sylvan monsters ranged themselves on each side the hall, soft voices behind them whispered—