The Panchronicon Part 45

"These be quaint-wondrous images!" she said. "Pray, what now may this be? Some fantastic reverie limned for amus.e.m.e.nt?"

Rebecca jumped up again and peered over the Queen's shoulder.

"Why, thet's a picture of the troops marchin' down Broadway, in New York City. See, it's all explained in print underneath it."

"But these men carry arquebuses and wear a livery. And these temples--to what false G.o.ds are they set up?"

"False G.o.ds!" exclaimed Rebecca. "Bless your simple heart, those ain't temples. They're jest the buildin's where the men hev their offices."

Elizabeth sat in mute contemplation, vainly seeking to realize it all.

"My lords!" she burst forth suddenly, casting the paper violently to the floor, "or this be rank forgery and fraud or else have we been strangely deceived."

She frowned at Sir Walter, who dropped his eyes.

"'Tis not to be believed that such vast cities and great armies habited by peoples polite and learned may be found across the sea and no report of it come to them that visit there. How comes it that we must await so strange a chance as this to learn such weighty news?"

She paused and only silence ensued.

Rebecca stooped and recovered the paper, which in falling had opened so as to expose new matter.

"Don't be surprised," she said, soothingly. "I allus did hear that Britishers knew mighty little 'bout America."

Still frowning, Elizabeth mechanically stretched forth her hand and Rebecca gave her the paper. The Queen glanced at the sheet and her face lost its stern aspect as she eagerly brought the print nearer to her eyes.

"Why, what now!" she exclaimed. "G.o.d mend us, here have we strange attire! Is this a woman of your tribe, my lady?"

Rebecca looked and blushed. Then, in an uneasy tone, she said:

"That's jest an advertis.e.m.e.nt fer a new corset, Mis' Tudor. I never did see how folks ever allowed sech things to be printed--'tain't respectable!"

"A corset, call you it! And these, then?"

"Oh, those are the styles, the fashions! That's the fashion page, ye know. That's where they tell all about what the rich folks down to New York are wearin'."

There was a murmur and a rustle among the ladies-in-waiting, who had hitherto made no sign, and upon the Queen's cheek there spread an added tinge, betokening a high degree of interest and gratification.

"Ah!" she sighed, and glanced pleasantly over her shoulder, "here be matters of moment, indeed! Your Grace of Devonshire, what say you to this?"

Eagerly the elderly lady so addressed stepped forward and made a low reverence.

"Look--look here, ladies all!" Elizabeth continued, with a tremor of excitement in her voice. "Saw you ever such an array as this?"

With one accord the whole bevy of a.s.sembled ladies pressed forward, trembling with delighted antic.i.p.ation. A fashion sheet--and from the New World! What wonder they were moved!

Her Majesty was about to begin perusal of one of the fascinating paragraphs wherein were described those marvellous fashion-plates when there was a cry outside of "Way 'nough!" and a moment later the smart young lieutenant who had before accosted Rebecca entered and stood at attention.

Elizabeth looked up and frowned slightly. Folding the paper carefully, she called to Sir Walter, who still held in his unconscious hand the other section of the paper.

"Bring hither yon sheet, Sir Walter," she cried. "Perchance there may be further intelligence of this sort therein. We will peruse both pamphlets at our leisure anon."

Then, turning to the Lord High Admiral:

"My Lord of Nottingham," she said, "you may depart. Your duties await you without. Let it be the charge of your Grace," she continued, addressing the d.u.c.h.ess of Devonshire, "to attend her Highness the Lady Rebecca. See that she be maintained as suits her rank, and let her be near our person that we may not lose aught of her society."

The ceremony of landing prevented further discourse between Rebecca and the Queen, and it was with the greatest interest that the stranger observed every detail of the formal function.

Peering through the gla.s.s sides of the cabin, Rebecca could see the landing wharf, thronged with servants and magnificently dressed officers, while beyond there loomed a long, two-storied white stone building, with a round-arched entrance flanked by two towers. This was Greenwich Palace, a favorite summer residence of the Queen.

CHAPTER XI

THE FAT KNIGHT AT THE BOAR'S HEAD

When Francis Bacon, having evaded Rebecca's mistaken pursuit, reached the deserted grove in which the Panchronicon still rested, he found to his dismay that Droop was absent.

Copernicus was not the man to let the gra.s.s grow under his feet, and he had set off that morning with his letter of introduction to seek Sir Percevall Hart, the Queen's knight harbinger.

He had determined to begin with moderation, or in other words to ask at first for only two patents. The first of these was to cover the phonograph. The second was to give him a monopoly of bicycles.

Accordingly he set forth fully equipped, carrying a box of records over his shoulder by a strap and his well-oiled bicycle trundling along beside him, with a phonograph and small megaphone hung on the handle-bar. He thought it best to avoid remark by not riding his wheel, being shrewdly mindful of the popular prejudice against witchcraft.

Thanks to his exchange with Master Bacon, he feared no comment upon his garb. A pint flask, well filled, was concealed within his garments, and thus armed against even melancholy itself, he set forth fearlessly upon his quest.

Droop had set out from the Panchronicon in the middle of the forenoon, but, as he was obliged to distribute a large number of photographs among his customers before going to London, it was not until some time after Bacon had crossed the river and Rebecca had departed with the Queen that he found himself on London Bridge.

On reaching the London side, he stood awhile in the ill-smelling street near the fish markets gazing about him in quest of someone from whom he might ask his way.

"Let's see!" he mused. "Bacon said Sir Percevall Hart, Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap. First thing to find is Eastcheap, I guess. Hullo there, forsooth!" he cried, addressing a baker's boy who was shuffling by with his basket on his head. "Hullo there, boy--knave! What's the shortest cut to Eastcheap?"

The lad stopped and stared hard at the bright wheels. He seemed thinking hard.

"What mean you, master, by a cut?" he said, at length.

"Oh, pshaw--bother!" Droop exclaimed. "Jest tell me the way to Eastcheap, wilt thee?"

The boy pointed straight north up New Fish Street.

"Eastcheap is yonder," he said, and turned away.

"Well, that's somethin'," muttered Droop. "Gives me a start, anyway."

Following the route pointed out, he retraced the very course along which earlier in the day Rebecca had proceeded in the opposite direction, thinking she saw him ahead of her. By dint of making numerous inquiries, he found himself at length in a region of squalid residences and second-rate shops and ale-houses, in the midst of which he finally discovered the Boar's Head Tavern.

The entrance was by a dark archway, overhung by the upper stories of the building, down which he could see a reddish glow coming and going, now faint now bright, against the dead wall to the left. Pa.s.sing cautiously down this pa.s.sage, he soon found that the glow was projected through a half-curtained window to the right, and was caused by the dancing light of a pleasant fire of logs within.