The King laughed despite himself, followed by his ever-aping courtiers.
“I’ll plead for the Crown,” asserted the grim James, with great vehemence, “to rid the realm of this dancing-Jack.”
“Thou hast cause, brother,” laughed the King. “Rochester, thou shalt sit by us here.”
Rochester sprang, with a contented chuckle, into a chair on the opposite side of the table to that upon which his Majesty was holding his mock-court and seated himself upon its high back, so poised as not to fall. From this lofty bench, with a queer gurgle, to say nothing of a swelling of the chest, and with an approving glance from his Majesty, he added his mite to the all-inspiring dignity of the revellers’ court.
“Judge Rochester!” continued the King, slapping him with his glove, across the table. “Judge–of good ale. We’ll confer with the cups, imbibe the statutes and drink in the law. Set the rascal before us.”
In obedience to the command, a man well muffled with a cloak was forced into the room, a guard at either arm.
Behind them, taking advantage of the open door to appease their curiosity, crowded many hangers-on of courtdom, among whom was Strings, who had met the revellers some distance from the house and had returned with them.
“Hold off your hands, knaves,” commanded the prisoner, who was none other than Hart, the player, indignant at the detention.
“Silence, rogue!” commanded the King. “Thy name?”
“Sire!” cried Hart, throwing off his mantle and glancing for the first time at the judge’s face. He sank immediately upon one knee, bowing respectfully.