‘Justice, Mr. Secretar, Justice wears a woful face on a blithe spring morning. And you may well think, as I did, that upon yonder twisting wretch had once dropped the waters of baptism. Man, there had been a hoping soul in him once! Sad work on the bonny braeside; woful work in the realm of a glad young queen!’
‘Woful indeed, my lord,’ said Mr. Secretary, ‘and woe would she be to hear of it. But in these days—in these days especially—we keep such miserable knowledge from her. She strays, my lord, at this present, in a garden of enchantment.’
‘And you do well, Mr. Secretar, you do well—if the Queen my sister does well. There is the hinge of the argument. What says my young friend Mr. Bonnar to that?’
Mr. Bonnar, my lord’s chaplain, a lean, solemn young man, was not immediately ready. The Earl replied for him.
‘Mr. Bonnar will allow for the season, and Mr. Bonnar will be wise. What saith the old poet?—
Ac neque jam stabulis gaudet pecus, aut aratror igni:
Nec prata canis albicant pruinis——
Eh, man, how does he pursue? Eh, Mr. Bonnar, what saith he next?
Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus, imminente luna!’