Then there was a craning of necks; and the king’s party came in, His Majesty grown sallow with years but gay and nonchalant as ever, with Barillon, the French ambassador, on one side and Her Grace of Portsmouth on the other.  Behind came the whole court; the Duchess of Cleveland, whom our wits were beginning to call “a perennial,” because she held her power with the king and her lovers increased with age; statesmen hanging upon her for a look or a smile that might lead the way to the king’s ear; Sir George Jeffreys, the judge, whose name was to become England’s infamy; Queen Catherine of Braganza, keeping up hollow mirth with those whose presence was insult; the Duke of York, soberer than his royal brother, the king, since Monmouth’s menace to the succession; and a host of hangers-on ready to swear away England’s liberties for a licking of the crumbs that fell from royal lips.

Then the hum of the playhouse seemed as the beating of the north sea; for Lady Kirke was whispering, “There!  There!  There she is!” and Hortense was entering one of the royal boxes accompanied by a foreign-looking, elderly woman, and that young Lieutenant Blood, whom we had encountered earlier in the day.

“The countess from Portugal—­Her Majesty’s friend,” murmurs Lady Kirke.  “Ah, Pierre, you have done finely for us all!”

And there oozed over my Lady Kirke’s countenance as fine a satisfaction as ever radiated from the face of a sweating cook.

“How?” asks Pierre Radisson, pursing his lips.

“Sir John hath dined twice with His Royal Highness——­”

“The Duke is Governor of the Company, and Sir John is a director.”

“Ta-ta, now there you go, Pierre!” smirks my lady.  “An your pretty baggage had not such a saucy way with the men—­why—­who can tell——­”

“Madame,” interrupted Pierre Radisson, “God forbid!  There be many lords amaking in strange ways, but we of the wilderness only count honour worth when it’s won honourably.”

But Lady Kirke bare heard the rebuke.  She was all eyes for the royal box.  “La, now, Pierre,” she cries, “see!  The king hath recognised you!” She lurched forward into fuller view of onlookers as she spoke.  “Wella-day!  Good lack!  Pierre Radisson, I do believe!—­Yes!—­See!—­His Majesty is sending for you!”

And a page in royal colours appeared to say that the king commanded Pierre Radisson to present himself in the royal box.  With his wiry hair wild as it had ever been on the north sea, off he went, all unconscious of the contemptuous looks from courtier and dandy at his strange, half-savage dress.  And presently Pierre Radisson is seated in the king’s presence, chatting unabashed, the cynosure of all eyes.  At the stir, Hortense had turned towards us.  For a moment the listless hauteur gave place to a scarce hidden start.  Then the pallid face had looked indifferently away.

“The huzzy!” mutters Lady Kirke.  “She might ‘a’ bowed in sight of the whole house!  Hoighty-toighty!  We shall see, an the little moth so easily blinded by court glare is not singed for its vanity!  Ungrateful baggage!  See how she sits, not deigning to listen one word of all the young lieutenant is saying!  Mary?”