“Assuredly, my good friend,” said the King. “Old acquaintances are springing up in every quarter to-night; and our leisure can hardly be better employed than in listening to them.—It was an idle trick of Buckingham,” he added, in a whisper to Ormond, “to send the poor thing hither, especially as he was to-day tried for the affair of the plot. At any rate he comes not to ask protection from us, having had the rare fortune to come off Plot-free. He is but fishing, I suppose, for some little present or pension.”
The little man, precise in Court etiquette, yet impatient of the King’s delaying to attend to him, stood in the midst of the floor, most valorously pawing and prancing, like a Scots pony assuming the airs of a war-horse, waving meanwhile his little hat with the tarnished feather, and bowing from time to time, as if impatient to be heard.
“Speak on, then, my friend,” said Charles; “if thou hast some poetical address penned for thee, out with it, that thou mayst have time to repose these flourishing little limbs of thine.”
“No poetical speech have I, most mighty Sovereign,” answered the dwarf; “but, in plain and most loyal prose, I do accuse, before this company, the once noble Duke of Buckingham of high treason!”
“Well spoken, and manfully—Get on, man,” said the King, who never doubted that this was the introduction to something burlesque or witty, not conceiving that the charge was made in solemn earnest.
A great laugh took place among such courtiers as heard, and among many who did not hear, what was uttered by the dwarf; the former entertained by the extravagant emphasis and gesticulation of the little champion, and the others laughing not the less loud that they laughed for example’s sake, and upon trust.
“What matter is there for all this mirth?” said he, very indignantly—“Is it fit subject for laughing, that I, Geoffrey Hudson, Knight, do, before King and nobles, impeach George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, of high treason?”
“No subject of mirth, certainly,” said Charles, composing his features; “but great matter of wonder.—Come, cease this mouthing, and prancing, and mummery.—If there be a jest, come out with it, man; and if not, even get thee to the beaffet, and drink a cup of wine to refresh thee after thy close lodging.”
“I tell you, my liege,” said Hudson impatiently, yet in a whisper, intended only to be audible by the King, “that if you spend overmuch time in trifling, you will be convinced by dire experience of Buckingham’s treason. I tell you,—I asseverate to your Majesty,—two hundred armed fanatics will be here within the hour, to surprise the guards.”
“Stand back, ladies,” said the King, “or you may hear more than you will care to listen to. My Lord of Buckingham’s jests are not always, you know, quite fitted for female ears; besides, we want a few words in private with our little friend. You, my Lord of Ormond—you, Arlington” (and he named one or two others), “may remain with us.”