“The disappointment of the King,” John Copeland considered, “is a smaller evil than allowing all of us to be butchered.”
“Not to me, John Copeland,” the Queen said.
Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. “We must make peace with the Scottish rascal!—England is lost!—A ship must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!” So they shouted.
“Messieurs,” said Queen Philippa, “who commands here? Am I, then, some woman of the town?”
Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng. “Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent.”
“The occasion is very urgent, my lord,” the Queen assented, deep in meditation.
John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol lustily.
Sang John Copeland:
“There are taller lads than Atys,
And many are wiser than he,—