At the moment Monsieur of Rozel was munching macaroons and washing them down with canary. The Governor’s announcement was such a shock that he choked and coughed, the crumbs flying in all directions; and another pint of canary must be taken to flush his throat. Thus cleared for action, he struck out.
“‘Tis St. Ouen’s work,” he growled.
“‘Tis the work of the Medici,” said Sir Hugh. “Read,” he added, holding out the paper.
Now Lempriere of Rozel had a poor eye for reading. He had wit enough to wind about the difficulty.
“If I see not the Queen’s commands, I’ve no warrant but Sir Hugh Pawlett’s words, and I’ll to London and ask ‘fore her Majesty’s face if she wrote them, and why. I’ll tell my tale and speak my mind, I pledge you, sir.”
“You’ll offend her Majesty. Her commands are here.” Pawlett tapped the letter with his finger.
“I’m butler to the Queen, and she will list to me. I’ll not smirk and caper like St. Ouen’s; I’ll bear me like a man not speaking for himself. I’ll speak as Harry her father spoke—straight to the purpose.... No, no, no, I’m not to be wheedled, even by a Pawlett, and you shall not ask me. If you want Michel de la Foret, come and take him. He is in my house. But ye must take him, for come he shall not!”
“You will not oppose the Queen’s officers?”
“De la Foret is under my roof. He must be taken. I will give him up to no one; and I’ll tell my sovereign these things when I see her in her palace.”
“I misdoubt you’ll play the bear,” said Pawlett, with a dry smile.