“May I presume to ask your Majesty what decencies are those?” said the Duke.
Charles bit his lip to keep himself from smiling. “Buckingham,” he said, “this is a foolish business; and we must not forget (as we have nearly done), that we have an audience to witness this scene, and should walk the stage with dignity. I will show you your fault in private.”
“It is enough that your Majesty has been displeased, and that I have unhappily been the occasion,” said the Duke, kneeling; “although quite ignorant of any purpose beyond a few words of gallantry; and I sue thus low for your Majesty’s pardon.”
So saying, he kneeled gracefully down. “Thou hast it, George,” said the placable Prince. “I believe thou wilt be sooner tired of offending than I of forgiving.”
“Long may your Majesty live to give the offence, with which it is your royal pleasure at present to charge my innocence,” said the Duke.
“What mean you by that, my lord?” said Charles, the angry shade returning to his brow for a moment.
“My Liege,” replied the Duke, “you are too honourable to deny your custom of shooting with Cupid’s bird-bolts in other men’s warrens. You have ta’en the royal right of free-forestry over every man’s park. It is hard that you should be so much displeased at hearing a chance arrow whizz near your own pales.”
“No more on’t,” said the King; “but let us see where the dove has harboured.”
“The Helen has found a Paris while we were quarrelling,” replied the Duke.
“Rather an Orpheus,” said the King; “and what is worse, one that is already provided with a Eurydice—She is clinging to the fiddler.”