The Secretary put a hand upon his shoulder. ‘Set my words to music, my man. You shall hear them sung at a marriage door. All Scotland shall sing them.’
‘Do you think Monsieur de Moray will sing them?’
The Secretary touched his mouth. ‘Our present music,’ he said, ‘should be chamber-music, not brayed from the housetops out of brass. But I am no musician. Let us talk of other things. I have May in my mood, do you know. This day, Signior David, May hath shone upon December. Do you see a chaplet on my silver pow?’
‘Ah! La Fiamminga has been kind?’ asked the Italian, knowing with whom he had to deal.
‘You are pleased to say so,’ said the Secretary. ‘Know then, my dear sir, since there are to be no secrets to keep us apart, that I am a happy man. For, sitting with our mistress upon that great needlework of theirs, I found a certain fair lady very busy over a skewered heart. “Come hither, Mr. Secretary,” saith our mistress, with that look aslant which you know as well as I do, “Come hither,” saith she, “and judge whether Fleming hath well tinct this heart.” I overlooked the piece. “Oh, madam,” say I, “the organ should be more gules: this tincture is false heraldry. And the wound goes deeper.” My fair one, in a flutter, curtsied and left the presence. Then saith our Queen, with one pretty finger admonishing, “Fie, Mr. Secretary, if you read so well now, before the letter is in your hand, what will you do when you have it in your bosom to con at your leisure?” I had no answer for her but the true one, which was and shall ever be, “Why, then, madam, I shall have it by heart, and your Majesty two lovers in the room of one.” I put it fairly, I think; at least, she thanked me. Now, am I a happy man, Master David, think you? With the kindness of my prince and the heart of my dear! Sir, sir, serve the Queen in this matter of the young Lord of Darnley. He is in Scotland now; I believe at Glasgow. But we expect him here, and——Oh, sir, serve the Queen!’
The Italian, who was fatigued by a rhapsody which did not at all interest him, wagged his hands about, up and down, like a rope-dancer that paddles the air for his balance.
‘Va bene, va bene, va bene!’ he cried fretfully. ‘Understood, my good sir. But will this serve the Queen?’
‘If I did not think so,’ returned the Secretary—and really believed this was the answer—‘if I did not think so, would my Lord of Moray, should I, press it upon you?’
Signior David shrugged—but you could not have seen it. ‘What is this young man?’ he asked.
‘It is impossible that you know so little. He is of the blood royal by the mother’s side. He is next in title to this throne, and to the other after my mistress.’