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“Not so, John Copeland! Let Sire Edward conquer in France, if such be the Trinity’s will. Always he has dreamed of that, and if I bade him return now he would be vexed.”

“The disappointment of the King,” John Copeland considered, “is a lesser evil than allowing all of us to be butchered.”

“Not to me, John Copeland,” the Queen said.

Now came many lords into the chamber, seeking Madame Philippa. “We must make peace with the Scottish rascal!–England is lost!–A ship must be sent entreating succor of Sire Edward!” So they shouted.

“Messieurs,” said Queen Philippa, “who commands here? Am I, then, some woman of the town?”

Ensued a sudden silence. John Copeland, standing by the seaward window, had picked up a lute and was fingering the instrument half-idly. Now the Marquess of Hastings stepped from the throng. “Pardon, Highness. But the occasion is urgent.”

“The occasion is very urgent, my lord,” the Queen assented, deep in meditation.

John Copeland flung back his head and without prelude began to carol lustily.

Sang John Copeland:

“There are fairer men than Atys,
And many are wiser than he–
How should I heed them?–whose fate is
Ever to serve and to be
Ever the lover of Atys,
And die that Atys may dine,
Live if he need me–Then heed me,
And speed me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!

“Fair is the form unbeholden,
And golden the glory of thee
Whose voice is the voice of a vision,
Whose face is the foam of the sea,
And the fall of whose feet is the flutter
Of breezes in birches and pine,
When thou drawest near me, to hear me,
And cheer me, (the moment is thine!)
And let the heart of Atys,
At last, at last, be mine!”

I must tell you that the Queen shivered, as with extreme cold. She gazed toward John Copeland wonderingly. The secretary was as of stone, fretting at his lute-strings, head downcast. Then in a while the Queen turned to Hastings.

“The occasion is very urgent, my lord,” the Queen assented. “Therefore it is my will that to-morrow one and all your men be mustered at Blackheath. We will take the field without delay against the King of Scots.”

The riot began anew. “Madness!” they shouted; “lunar madness! We can do nothing until the King return with our army!”

“In his absence,” the Queen said, “I command here.”

“You are not Regent,” the Marquess said. Then he cried, “This is the Regent’s affair!”

“Let the Regent be fetched,” Dame Philippa said, very quietly. Presently they brought in her son, Messire Lionel, now a boy of eight years, and Regent, in name at least, of England.

Both the Queen and the Marquess held papers. “Highness,” Lord Hastings began, “for reasons of state, which I need not here explain, this document requires your signature. It is an order that a ship be despatched in pursuit of the King. Your Highness may remember the pony you admired yesterday?” The Marquess smiled ingratiatingly. “Just here, your Highness–a cross-mark.”

“The dappled one?” said the Regent; “and all for making a little mark?” The boy jumped for the pen.

“Lionel,” said the Queen, “you are Regent of England, but you are also my son. If you sign that paper you will beyond doubt get the pony, but you will not, I think, care to ride him. You will not care to sit down at all, Lionel.”

The Regent considered. “Thank you very much, my lord,” he said in the ultimate, “but I do not like ponies any more. Do I sign here, mother?”

Philippa handed the Marquess a subscribed order to muster the English forces at Blackheath; then another, closing the English ports. “My lords,” the Queen said, “this boy is the King’s vicar. In defying him, you defy the King. Yes, Lionel, you have fairly earned a pot of jam for supper.”