Well, if Essex had had the sense to read through this treaty he’d have seen it was of too graspin’ a nature to pass with any sort of a respectable sovereign, but he was that mad he just stuck the document in the pocket of his pot-metal overcoat, and away wid him hot foot for England.
“Is the Queen widin?” says he to the butler, when he opened the door o’ the palace. His clothes were that dirty and disorthered wid travellin’ all night, and his boots that muddy, that the butler was for not littin’ him in at the first go off, so says he very grand: “Her Meejesty is abow stairs and can’t be seen till she’s had her breakwhist.”
“Tell her the Lord Liftinant of Ireland desires an enterview,” says Essex.
“Oh, beg pardon, me lord,” says the butler, steppin’ to one side, “I didn’t know ’twas yourself was in it; come inside, sir; the Queen’s in the dhrawin’-room.”
“‘YER MAJESTY, YOU HAVE A FACE ON YOU THAT WOULD CHARM A BIRD OFF A BUSH.’”
Well, Essex leps up the stairs and into the dhrawin’-room wid him, muddy boots and all; but not a sight of Elizabeth was to be seen.
“Where’s your missis?” says he to one of the maids-of-honour that was dustin’ the chimbley-piece.
“She’s not out of her bed yet,” says the maid with a toss of her head; “but if you write your message on the slate beyant, I’ll see”—but before she had finished, Essex was up the second flight and knockin’ at the Queen’s bedroom door.
“Is that the hot wather?” says the Queen.