Part 10 (1/2)

”My arm and coach are yours, madame,” pleaded his lords.h.i.+p, as he gallantly offered an arm.

”Pardon, my lord; Nell, my arm!” said Hart.

”Heyday!” cried the witch, bewitchingly. ”Was ever maid so n.o.bly squired? This is an embarra.s.sment of riches.” She looked longingly at the two attending gallants. There was something in her voice that might be mockery or that might be love. Only the devil in her eyes could tell.

”Gentlemen, you tear my heart-strings,” she continued. ”How can I choose between such loves? To-night, I sup at Whitehall!” and she darted quickly toward the door.

”Whitehall!” the rivals cried, aghast.

”Aye, Whitehall--_with the King_!”

There was a wild, hilarious laugh, and she was gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MISTRESS NELL IS TOLD OF THE KING'S DANGER.]

Buckingham and Hart stood looking into each other's face. They heard the sound of coach-wheels rapidly departing in the street.

CHAPTER V

_It was never treason to steal a King's kisses._

A year and more had flown.

It was one of those glorious moon-lit nights in the early fall when there is a crispness in the air which lends an edge to life.

St. James's Park was particularly beautiful. The giant oaks with their hundreds of years of story written in their rings lifted high their spreading branches, laden with leaves, which s.h.i.+mmered in the light. The historic old park seemed to be made up of patches of day and night. In the open, one might read in the mellow glow of the harvest-moon; in the shade of one of its oaks, a thief might safely hide.

Facing on the park, there stood a house of Elizabethan architecture.

Along its wrinkled, ivy-mantled wall ran a terrace-like bal.u.s.trade, where one might walk and enjoy the night without fear.

The house was well defined by the rays of the moon, which seemed to dance upon it in a halo of mirth; and from the park, below the terrace, came the soft notes of a violin, tenderly picked.

None other than Strings was sitting astride of a low branch of an oak, looking up at a window, like some guardian spirit from the devil-land, singing in his quaintly unctuous way:

_”Four and twenty fiddlers all in a row, And there was fiddle-fiddle, and twice fiddle-fiddle.”_

”How's that for a serenade to Mistress Nell?” he asked himself as he secured a firm footing on the ground and slung his fiddle over his back.

”She don't know it's for her, but the old viol and old Strings know.” He came to a stand-still and winced. ”Oons, my old wound again,” he said, with a sharp cry, followed as quickly by a laugh. His eyes still wandered along the bal.u.s.trade, as eagerly as some young Romeo at the balcony of his Juliet. ”I wish she'd walk her terrace to-night,” he sighed, ”where we could see her--the lovely lady!”

His rhapsody was suddenly broken in upon by the approach of some one down the path. He glided into the shadow of an oak and none too quickly.

From the obscurity of the trees, into the open, a chair was swiftly borne, by the side of which ran a pretty page of tender years, yet well schooled in courtly wisdom. The lovely occupant leaned forward and motioned to the chairmen, who obediently rested and a.s.sisted her to alight.

”Retire beneath the shadow of the trees,” she whispered. ”Have a care; no noise.”

The chairmen withdrew quietly, but within convenient distance, to await her bidding.