“Whither away, Master Hart?” he called after the player, who started perceptibly at his voice. “Let not thy fancy play truant to this gay assemblage, to mope in St. James’s Park.”
“My lord!” exclaimed Hart, hotly. The fire, however, was gone in an instant; and he added, evidently under strong constraint: “Pardon; but we prefer to change the subject.”
“The drift’s the same,” chuckled the shrewd Buckingham; “we may turn it to advantage.” He approached the player in a friendly manner. “Be not angry,” he exclaimed soothingly; “for there’s a rift even in the clouds of love. Brighter, man; for King Charles was seeking your wits but now.”
“He’d have me play court-fool for him?” asked the melancholy mime, who had in his nature somewhat of the cynicism of Jaques, without his grand imaginings of soul. “There are many off the stage, my lord, in better practice.” “True, most true,” acquiesced Buckingham; “I could point them out.”
He would have continued in this vein but beyond the door, whence Hart had just appeared, leading by a stair-way of cupids to the entrance to the palace, arose the sound of many voices in noisy altercation.
“Hark ye, hark!” he exclaimed, in an alarmed tone. “What is’t? Confusion in the great hallway below. We’ll see to’t.”
He had assumed a certain supervision of the palace for the night. With the player as a body-guard, he accordingly made a hasty exit.
