"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 fairer men than Atys,
And many are wiser than he—
How should I heed them?—whose fate is
Ever to serve and to be
Ever the lover of Atys,
And die that Atys may dine,
Live if he need me—Then heed me,
And speed me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!
"Fair is the form unbeholden,
And golden the glory of thee
Whose voice is the voice of a vision,
Whose face is the foam of the sea,
And the fall of whose feet is the flutter
Of breezes in birches and pine,
When thou drawest near me, to hear me,
And cheer me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!"
I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as with extreme cold. She gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was as of stone, fretting at his lute-strings, head downcast. Then in a while the Queen turned to Hastings.
"The occasion is very urgent, my lord," the Queen assented. "Therefore it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered at Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of Scots."
The riot began anew. "Madness!" they shouted; "lunar madness! We can do nothing until the King return with our army!"
"In his absence," the Queen said, "I command here."
"You are not Regent," the Marquess said. Then he cried, "This is the Regent's affair!"