"Where didst thou see her?" demanded Marian, before Macfarren, who was about to give her an account of the Earl of Essex's adventures in Ireland, could add a word.
"In—in Westminster Abbey," said Macfarren lamely. This was a wretched subterfuge, but it satisfied Marian, who exclaimed:
"And who attended her? Was it at nooning or evening service? And has she aged, as much I fear she hath?"
"She looked just as she has for a long, long time, ever since I first saw her," said he, desperately. Clearly, she would ask embarrassing questions. "But," he added, artfully, "I was not presented to her, nor did she even honor me with a glance."
Marian smiled: "Poor queen! her eyesight doth somewhat fail. But, friend, what is thy name? and is there no entertainment to be had here?"
Macfarren had never before been ashamed of his name, but he wished he could have said he was a Cecil, a Fairfax, a Beauclerk, or any other proud Elizabethan name. He could only say, with a kind of proud humility:
"My name is Macfarren, and I and all that is mine are at your service."
"Well said!" cried Marian. "But tell me, whose roof doth now shelter me? Whose house is this?"
"It is an ho—an inn," answered Macfarren.
"And a good hostelry, I do think," said Marian, glancing around, "though not like the inns of Suffolk. But, since thou wast in London lately, we can not be far from there."