“Bah!” said his grace.
“It ... it’s a hanging matter.”
“Oh, damn your silliness. A hanging matter! When I’m behind you?”
“That’s what makes it so. They’ll never venture to hang your grace. But they’ll need a scapegoat, if there’s trouble, and they’ll hang your instruments to pacify the rabble’s clamour for justice.”
“Are ye quite mad?”
“I’m not only sane, your grace; I’m shrewd. And if I may presume to advise your grace....”
“That would, indeed, be a presumption, you impudent rogue!” The Duke’s voice rose sharply, a heavy frown rumpled his brow. “You forget yourself, I think.”
“I beg your grace’s pardon.” But he went on, none the less. “Your grace, perhaps, is not aware of the extent of the panic in the City over this pestilence. The cry everywhere is that it is a visitation provoked by the sins of the Court. That’s what the canting Nonconformist preachers have put about. And if this thing that your grace contemplates....”
“My God!” thundered Buckingham. “But it seems you presume to advise me in spite of all.”
Bates fell silent; but there was obstinacy in every line of him as he stood there facing his master now. More calmly Buckingham continued: