The Earl of Moray stepped quietly into the room and closed the door behind him. The scribe lifted up his head without ceasing to write. ‘Ah, Monsieur de Moray! Qu’il soit le bienvenu!’ He finished the foliation of a word, jumped up, snatched at his patron’s hand, briskly kissed it, and said, ‘Commandi!’
They talked in French, in which the Earl was an exact, if formal, practitioner. There was no fencing between them. My lord did not affect to be shocked at hearing what he desired to know, nor the Italian to mean what he did not say.
‘I have been witness of great doings this night, Signior David.’
‘The night is the time for doings, I consider,’ replied the Italian.
This general reflection the Earl passed over for the moment. ‘They dance the galliard in hall—the Queen and the Prince. You can hear the rebecks from here.’
‘I know the tune, sir!’ cried Davy. ‘I set it. I scored it for her long ago. It is Baisons-nous, ma belle. But they murder it by clinging to the fall. It needs passion if it is to breed passion. That music should hurt you.’
‘Passion is not wanting, Signior David,’ said my lord, with narrowed, ever narrowing eyes. ‘And passion is much. But opportunity is more.’
The Italian started. ‘You think it is a good hour?’
‘Judge you of the hour,’ said the Earl of Moray.
The Italian frowned, as he drummed with his fingers on the table. He sang a little air: Belle, qui tiens ma vie! My lord took a ring from his finger and laid it down: a thin ring with a flat-cut single diamond in it, of great size and water. Singing still, the Italian picked it up, looked lazily at it. He embodied his criticism in his song—‘Non c’è male, Signore! No-o-o-o-on c’è-è male!’ All at once he clapped it down upon the desk and jumped round—fire-fraught, quivering, a changed man.