“See,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “who is that burly figure with the black eyes and grizzled beard?”

“That, madam,” said Humfrey, “is the Earl of Warwick.”

“The brother of the minion Leicester?” said Jean Kennedy.  “He hath scant show of his comeliness.”

“Nay; they say he is become the best favoured,” said Humfrey; “my Lord of Leicester being grown heavy and red-faced.  He is away in the Netherlands, or you might judge of him.”

“And who,” asked the lady, “may be yon, with the strangely-plumed hat and long, yellow hair, like a half-tamed Borderer?”

“He?” said Humfrey.  “He is my Lord of Cumberland.  I marvelled to see him back so soon.  He is here, there, and everywhere; and when I was in London was commanding a fleet bearing victuals to relieve the Dutch in Helvoetsluys.  Had I not other work in hand, I would gladly sail with him, though there be something fantastic in his humour.  But here come the Knights of the Privy Council, who are to my mind more noteworthy than the Earls.”

The seats of these knights were placed a little below and beyond those of the noblemen.  The courteous Sir Ralf Sadler looked up and saluted the ladies in the gallery as he entered.  “He was always kindly,” said Jean Kennedy, as she returned the bow.  “I am glad to see him here.”

“But oh, Humfrey!” cried Cicely, “who is yonder, with the short cloak standing on end with pearls, and the quilted satin waistcoat, jewelled ears, and frizzed head?  He looks fitter to lead off a dance than a trial.”

“He is Sir Christopher Hatton, her Majesty’s Vice-Chamberlain,” replied Humfrey.

“Who, if rumour saith true, made his fortune by a galliard,” said Dr. Bourgoin.

“Here is a contrast to him,” said Jean Kennedy.  “See that figure, as puritanical as Sir Amias himself, with the long face, scant beard, black skull-cap, and plain crimped ruff.  His visage is pulled into so solemn a length that were we at home in Edinburgh, I should expect to see him ascend a pulpit, and deliver a screed to us all on the iniquities of dancing and playing on the lute!”

“That, madam,” said Humfrey, “is Mr. Secretary, Sir Francis Walsingham.”

Here Elizabeth Curll leant forward, looked, and shivered a little.  “Ah, Master Humfrey, is it in that man’s power that my poor brother lies?”

“’Tis true, madam,” said Humfrey, “but indeed you need not fear.  I heard from Will Cavendish last night that Mr. Curll is well.  They have not touched either of the Secretaries to hurt them, and if aught have been avowed, it was by Monsieur Nau, and that on the mere threat.  Do you see old Will yonder, Cicely, just within Mr. Secretary’s call—­with the poke of papers and the tablet?”

“Is that Will Cavendish?  How precise and stiff he hath grown, and why doth he not look up and greet us?  He knoweth us far better than doth Sir Ralf Sadler; doth he not know we are here?”