There were not a few whose huge trunks, of such girth that two men together could not encompass them with outstretched arms, rose to a height of more than sixty feet before throwing out a horizontal branch, and these branches, almost trees in themselves, spread forty-eight feet on each side of the bole, lifting a mountain of rich verdure above them, and casting a delicious shade upon the ground beneath them.  Beneath one of these noble trees, some years after the arrival of the hapless Mary Stuart, a party of children were playing, much to the amusement of an audience of which they were utterly unaware, namely, of sundry members of a deer-hunting party; a lady and gentleman who, having become separated from the rest, were standing in the deep bracken, which rose nearly as high as their heads, and were further sheltered by a rock, looking and listening.

“Now then, Cis, bravely done!  Show how she treats her ladies—­”

“Who will be her lady?  Thou must, Humfrey!”

“No, no, I’ll never be a lady,” said Humfrey gruffly.

“Thou then, Diccon.”

“No, no,” and the little fellow shrank back, “thou wilt hurt me, Cis.”

“Come then, do thou, Tony!  I’ll not strike too hard!”

“As if a wench could strike too hard.”

“He might have turned that more chivalrously,” whispered the lady to her companion.  “What are they about to represent?  Mort de ma vie, the profane little imps!  I, believe it is my sacred cousin, the Majesty of England herself!  Truly the little maid hath a bearing that might serve a queen, though she be all too black and beetle-browed for Queen Elizabeth.  Who is she, Master Gilbert?”

“She is Cicely Talbot, daughter to the gentleman porter of your Majesty’s lodge.”

“See to her—­mark her little dignity with her heather and bluebell crown as she sits on the rock, as stately as jewels could make her!  See her gesture with her hands, to mark where the standing ruff ought to be.  She hath the true spirit of the Comedy—­ah! and here cometh young Antony with mincing pace, with a dock-leaf for a fan, and a mantle for a farthingale!  She speaks! now hark!”

“Good morrow to you, my young mistress,” began a voice pitched two notes higher than its actual childlike key.  “Thou hast a new farthingale, I see!  O Antony, that’s not the way to curtsey—­do it like this.  No no! thou clumsy fellow—­back and knees together.”

“Never mind, Cis,” interposed one of the boys—­“we shall lose all our play time if you try to make him do it with a grace.  Curtsies are women’s work—­go on.”

“Where was I?  O—­” (resuming her dignity after these asides) “Thou hast a new farthingale, I see.”

“To do my poor honour to your Grace’s birthday.”

“Oh ho!  Is it so?  Methought it had been to do honour to my fair mistress’s own taper waist.  And pray how much an ell was yonder broidered stuff?”