The Italian waved all this away. ‘Understood! Understood already! Do you think I am a dunce? Why am I here, or why are you here, if I am dunce? I ask you again, What is he? Is he a man? or is he a minion—a half, a quarter man? Do you know, Mr. Secretary, that he has got to serve Dame Venus? Do you know that he may drown in the Honeypot? Pooh, sir! I ask you, can he swim? He will need the faculty. I could tell you, for example, of one lord——But no! I will not.’ He hushed his voice to an awed whisper, seeming to reason with himself: ‘Here, upon my conscience, is a woman all clear flame, who has never yet—never yet—met with a man. Here is a Cup of the spirit of honey and wine. Who is going to set the match to kindle this quick essence! Who is about to dare? Why, why, why,—all your drabbled Scotland may go roaring out in such a blaze! Corpo di sangue e sanguinaccio!’ His excitement carried him far; but soon he was beaming upon Lethington, reasonable again. ‘Let us change the figure, and come down. Dame Venus is asleep as yet, but uneasy in her sleep, stirring to the dawn. She dreams—ha! And maids belated can dream, I assure you. Is this young man a Man? Lo, now! There is my question of you.’
Mr. Secretary was alarmed. His teeth showed, and his eyes did not.
‘You go too near, you go too near.’
But the Italian was now calm.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I am not of your race—sniffing about, nosing for ever, wondering if you dare venture. I am at least a man in this, that I dare anything with my mind.’
Mr. Secretary agreed with him. ‘I assure you, Signior Davy,’ he said, ‘that my Lord of Darnley is a fine young man.’
The Italian threw up his hands. ‘Eh—allora! All is said, and I go to work. Sir, I salute you. Addio.’
And to work he went, in the manner already indicated:—‘To draw the Queen into the net of this fine young man but one thing is needful: she must run there for shelter. She is a quail at this hour, grouting at ease in the dusty furrow. If we are to help this favoured fowler we must send over her a kite.’
Alas for friendship! His kite of election was Monsieur de Châtelard. It will not be denied that the poet did his share; but there were two kites sent up. Sir James Melvill came back from England.