Part 39 (1/2)
”Aye, gallants,” cried the Merry Monarch, approvingly, ”we'll form a Court of Inquiry. This table shall be our bench, on which we'll hem and haw and puff and look judicial. Odsfish, we will teach Radamanthus and Judge Jeffreys ways of terrorizing.”
He sprang upon the table, which creaked somewhat beneath the royal burden, and a.s.sumed the austere, frowning brow of worldly justice.
”_Oyer, oyer_, all ye who have grievances--” cried the garrulous Rochester in the husky tones of the crier, who most generally a.s.sumes that he is the whole court and oftentimes should be.
”Mistress Nell,” commanded the royal judge, summoning Nell to the bar, ”thou shalt be counsel for the prisoner; Adair's life hangs upon thy skill to outwit the law.”
”Or bribe the judge, Sire?” suggested Nell, demurely.
”Not with thy traitor lips,” retorted Charles, with the injured dignity of a petty justice about to commit a flash of true wit for contempt of court.
”Traitor lips?” cried Nell, sadly. ”By my troth, I never kissed Adair. I confess, I tried, your Majesty; but I could not.”
”Have a care,” replied the King, in a tone which indicated that the fires of suspicion still smouldered in his breast; ”I am growing jealous.”
Nell fell upon one knee and stretched forth her arms suppliantly.
”Adair is in such a tight place, Sire, he can scarcely breathe,” she pleaded, with the zeal of a barrister hard-working for his first fee in her voice, ”much less speak for himself. Mercy!”
”We will have justice; not mercy,” replied the court, with a sly wink at Rochester. ”Guilty or not guilty, wench?”
”Not guilty, Sire! Did you ever see the man who was?”
The King laughed despite himself, followed by his ever-aping courtiers.
”I'll plead for the Crown,” a.s.serted the grim James, with great vehemence, ”to rid the realm of this dancing-Jack.”
”Thou hast cause, brother,” laughed the King. ”Rochester, thou shalt sit by us here.”
Rochester sprang, with a contented chuckle, into a chair on the opposite side of the table to that upon which his Majesty was holding his mock-court and seated himself upon its high back, so poised as not to fall. From this lofty bench, with a queer gurgle, to say nothing of a swelling of the chest, and with an approving glance from his Majesty, he added his mite to the all-inspiring dignity of the revellers' court.
”Judge Rochester!” continued the King, slapping him with his glove, across the table. ”Judge--of good ale. We'll confer with the cups, imbibe the statutes and drink in the law. Set the rascal before us.”
In obedience to the command, a man well m.u.f.fled with a cloak was forced into the room, a guard at either arm.
Behind them, taking advantage of the open door to appease their curiosity, crowded many hangers-on of courtdom, among whom was Strings, who had met the revellers some distance from the house and had returned with them.
”Hold off your hands, knaves,” commanded the prisoner, who was none other than Hart, the player, indignant at the detention.
”Silence, rogue!” commanded the King. ”Thy name?”
”Sire!” cried Hart, throwing off his mantle and glancing for the first time at the judge's face. He sank immediately upon one knee, bowing respectfully.
”Jack Hart!” cried one and all, craning their necks in surprise and expectation.
”'Slife, a spy upon our merry-making!” exclaimed the displeased monarch.
”What means this prowling, sir?”
”Pardon, pardon, my reply, your Majesty,” humbly importuned the player.
”Blinded by pa.s.sion, I might say that I should regret.”