Rolfe eagerly pointed out to Pocahontas the various places of interest as they came into South Wark.
“Here on our left, sweetheart, is Erber House, once the home of Sir Francis Drake. See that round tower lying to the west of it? That is Paris Garden, where the common folk resort to witness the bear-baiting. Yonder to the northeast rises the Tower of London. Long ago its walls resounded with mirth and feasting, now it is a gloomy prison house. Now turn your dear eyes to the northwest, here, in this direction. That pile of buildings is Whitehall, where King James holds court. Inigo Jones, the famous architect, is building a magnificent banqueting hall there for the sovereign, and—Why, what is the matter now? Our coach has come to a standstill,” he said abruptly.
Putting his head out of the window, Rolfe saw a crowd of revelers dressed in fantastic garb surging around the six white horses drawing the coach. The oaths of the postilion were met by the jeers of the mob swinging upon the bridle reins.
“Make way for the Lady Rebecca of Virginia, you scum of South Wark. She is the King’s guest!” shouted the angry jehu.
“Is that the commodity you carry? Up, my merry men, let’s have a look at her,” exclaimed the ringleader.
Up on the wheels scrambled three or four adventurous spirits, to peer through the coach windows at the famous Indian princess.
“She is fairly well-favored, saving her copper skin,” sang out the Lord of Misrule.
The sound of his voice attracted the attention of Adam, seated beside the postilion.
“By my soul, ’tis scatterbrain Jack Saunders. Halloa there! Jack, don’t you remember your old comrade?”
“Father Christmas! If ’tis not bottle-nose Adam Clotworthy. I would know your ill-favored visage in Africa. Say, man, how did you escape the scalping-knife, and what has become of the Falstaff paunch you carried about?”