She came with an air that was at once serious and royal, bearing herself haughtily, yet with a certain grace and sprightliness that became her very well.  She was quite tall and well made, and her quickly changing face was long and fair, though wrinkled and no longer young.  Her complexion was clear and of an olive hue; her nose was a little hooked; her firm lips were thin; and her small black eyes, though keen and bright, were pleasant and merry withal.  Her hair was a coppery, tawny red, and false, moreover.  In her ears hung two great pearls; and there was a fine small crown studded with diamonds upon her head, beside a necklace of exceeding fine gold and jewels about her neck.  She was attired in a white silk gown bordered with pearls the size of beans, and over it wore a mantle of black silk, cunningly shot with silver threads.  Her ruff was vast, her farthingale vaster; and her train, which was very long, was borne by a marchioness who made more ado about it than Elizabeth did of ruling her realm.

“The Queen!” gasped Colley.

“Dost think I did na know it?” answered Nick, his heart beginning to beat tattoo as he stared through the peep-hole in the screen.

He saw the great folk bowing like a gardenful of flowers in a storm, and in its midst Elizabeth erect, speaking to those about her in a lively and good-humored way, and addressing all the foreigners according to their tongue—­in French, Italian, Spanish, Dutch; but hers was funny Dutch, and while she spoke she smiled and made a joke upon it in Latin, at which they all laughed heartily, whether they understood what it meant or not.  Then, with her ladies in waiting, she passed to a dais near the stage, and stood a moment, stately, fair, and proud, while all her nobles made obeisance, then sat and gave a signal for the players to begin.

“Rafe Fullerton!” the prompter whispered shrilly; and out from behind the screen slipped Rafe, the smallest of them all, and down the stage to speak the foreword of the piece.  He was frightened, and his voice shook as he spoke, but every one was smiling, so he took new heart.

“It is a masque of Summer-time and Spring,” said he, “wherein both claim to be best-loved, and have their say of wit and humor, and each her part of songs and dances suited to her time, the sprightly galliard and the nimble jig for Spring, the slow pavone, the stately peacock dance, for Summer-time.  And win who may, fair Summer-time or merry Spring, the winner is but that beside our Queen!”—­with which he snapped his fingers in the faces of them all—­“God save Queen Bess!”

At that the Queen’s eyes twinkled, and she nodded, highly pleased, so that every one clapped mightily.

The play soon ran its course amid great laughter and applause.  Spring won.  The English ever loved her best, and the quick-paced galliard took their fancy, too.  “Up and be doing!” was its tune, and it gave one a chance to cut fine capers with his heels.