“What do you know of Andalusian beauties, Sir?” said Philip.
“By the mass! a good deal,” rejoined Rodomont, significantly; “as your lordship will guess, when I tell you I have been at Seville. That is how I knew you for a grandee. I could not be deceived. Enter, I pray you, and make Master Tyrrell’s acquaintance. You will find his daughter as I have described her—the fairest creature you ever clapped eyes on. Not, however, that you will see her to-night, for she is at her devotions. She is as pious as Saint Elizabeth. Had I the choice, I would take Constance Tyrrell in preference to our Queen, whom the Prince, your master, has come hither to marry—ha! ha!”
And the laughter in which he indulged was echoed by his companions.
“Heaven grant that the Prince may not have raised his expectations too high on the score of his consort’s beauty, or he is like enough to be disappointed,” pursued Rodomont. “Hath your lordship ever beheld her Majesty?”
“How could I, Sir?” replied Philip, “since I have never set foot in England before this hour. But I have seen her portrait by Sir Antonio More.”
“Sir Antonio is a court painter, and has doubtless flattered her,” said Rodomont. “By my beard! she is as thin as a whipping-post, and as sour as verjuice.”
This sally was followed by a shout of laughter from the party.
“Let me impress upon you the necessity of a little caution, Master Bittern,” said Osbert. “You seem to forget that Don Philip is attached to his Highness’s person.”
“But he is not going to marry the Queen, therefore the question of her good or ill looks can have no interest to him,” laughed Rodomont. “After all, tastes differ, and the Prince may think her Majesty charming, though I do not.”
“Are you allowed to talk thus freely of great personages in England, Sir?” demanded Philip, sternly.