Leaving Edmund to bemoan his fate to himself, the party drew nigh to the window to witness the play afresh.  They were just in time to witness the advent of another “silent scene.”

“Let me explain it to you,” proffered the once more equable Boniface.  “I know all about these things, they oft-times visit us here.  I know every bit of this play as well as I know my creed.”

“Happen you may not be very familiar with the creed, though,” laughed Sir Thomas.

“Don’t I know it, though?” he replied.  “Sir Nicholas, if I might be pardoned for mentioning it, knows full well that every citizen of London knows the creed by heart.”

“Yes,” assented the Lord Keeper, “everyone is compelled to attend some church at least once a Sabbath.”

“Or else they are smartly fined for staying away, as I was,” ruefully added the landlord.  “Yes, my lords, I know my creed full well.”

“Well, what’s that fellow drinking now?” asked Sir George.

“He’s fainting, poor fellow,” replied Sir Thomas.

“Fainting,” laughed the host, “fainting! not a bit of it.  He is drinking some of my best Malmesey wine, that’s what he is doing; only you must think he is taking poison.  He is Gorboduc, the king.”

“Well?”

“Oh, I forgot, you know naught of him as yet.  Well, he, a king of Britain years ago, has just told everybody that the kingdom is to be divided between his two sons, Ferrex and Porrex.  Some of his councillors advised ‘Yes,’ and some said ‘No,’ but the old king was decided upon having his own way, and the land had just been divided between them.”

“Get on,” said the baron impatiently, as the other paused and finally came to a dead stop.  “They are beginning to act again.”

“And one of the old councillors strongly advised the king to keep his realm entire,” continued the man, “I remember his very words.  He told the king how bad any division would be, not only for himself, but also for his sons.  He says:—­

  But worst of all for this our native land. 
  Within one land one single rule is best,
  Divided reigns do make divided hearts,
  But peace preserves the country and the prince.”

“As correct as the creed itself,” whispered Sir Nicholas.

“It may be so,” exclaimed the young knight, “but we will let the poetry go.  For my part I can’t understand that new-fashioned poetry, and I don’t want to either.  I only like it when it rhymes, like Chaucer.”

“That all means,” resumed the landlord, “that Queen Mary of Scotland had far better leave our gracious Queen Elizabeth (God bless her) to herself.  We don’t want Roman Catholic princesses here again, Sir Nicholas.”

“No, indeed not.  Mary was enough.”

Sir George Vernon frowned heavily.  He was too sincere a Papist himself to relish such remarks, but he dared not show his displeasure in the face of the Queen’s minister.