“A princely air, indeed!” exclaimed Simnel.
“Who was it cried ‘’Tis he?’” demanded Bittern.
“Nay, I know not,” returned Jack Holiday. “Whoever the fellow might be, he went away quickly.”
“From the glimpse I caught of him, he looked like the French Ambassador,” observed Huttoft. “His Excellency is in Southampton. I saw him this morning.”
“The French Ambassador!” exclaimed Rodomont. “Nay, then, my suspicions are well founded. Gentlemen, we have been conversing with the Prince of Spain.”
Expressions of incredulity arose from the whole party.
“If it be the Prince of Spain, I would not give much for your ears, Rodomont,” said Simnel, laughing. “Bethink you how disrespectfully you spoke of the Queen.”
“I but affirmed the truth in saying she was not a beauty,” rejoined Bittern.
“Ay, but the truth must not be spoken when her Majesty’s looks are in question,” observed Simnel. “You are in for it, friend Rodomont.”
“Bah! I am not afraid,” cried Bittern, “The Prince will be of my opinion when he beholds his royal consort. Mark what I say. There is not a gallant in the Two Castiles fonder of a pretty woman than Don Philip—a pretty woman, d’ye heed? How then will he reconcile himself to one so much the reverse of beautiful as the Queen? But we must watch over his Highness’s safety. The French Ambassador is the Prince’s worst enemy, and capable of doing him a mischief. Good-night, worthy Master Tyrrell. We will have another merry bout to-morrow. Come along, gentlemen—but caution!—caution!—The Prince must not perceive that he is followed.”