“Whose voice was that?” asked James, as he caught the sound of the King’s impatient exclamation from the corner of the wall.
“Some dreamer of the night,” laughed Buckingham. “Yon love-sick fellow, methinks,” he continued, pointing to a figure, well aloof beneath the trees, who was watching the scene most jealously. It was none other than Hart, who rarely failed to have an eye on Nell’s terrace and who instantly stole away in the darkness.
“This is the home of Eleanor Gwyn we are passing,” said Rochester, superfluously; for all knew full well that it was Nelly’s terrace.
“The love-lorn seer is wise,” cried the Duke of York, quite forgetting his frigid self as he bethought him of Nell, and becoming quite lover-like, as he, sighing, said: “It were well to make peace with Nelly. Sing, hunters, sing!”
The command was quickly obeyed and the voices well attuned; for none were there but worshipped Nelly.
Hail to the moonbeams’
Crystal spray,
Nestling in Heaven
All the day,
Falling by night-time,
Silvery showers,
Twining with love-rhyme
Nell’s fair bowers.
Sing, hunters, sing,
Gently carolling,
Here lies our hart–
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
Hail to the King’s oaks,
Sentries blest,
Spreading their branches,
Guarding her rest,
Telling the breezes,
Hastening by:
“Softly on tiptoe;
Here Nell doth lie.”
Sing, hunters, sing,
Gently carolling,
Here lies our hart–
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
The King heard the serenade to the end, then stepped gaily from his hiding-place.
“Brother James under Nelly’s window!” he said, with a merry laugh.
“The King!” exclaimed James, in startled accents, as he realized the presence of his Majesty and the awkward position in which he and his followers were placed.
“The King!” repeated the courtiers. Hats were off and knees were bent respectfully.