A fortnight later, of a Sunday morning, the Lord Chamberlain of England was disturbed out of his usual equanimity.

As he was treading the rushes in the presence-chamber of the Royal Palace at Greenwich, his eye busy in inspection--for the Queen would soon pass on her way to chapel--his head nodding right and left to archbishop, bishop, councillors of state, courtiers, and officers of the crown, he heard a rude noise at the door leading into the ante-chapel, where the Queen received petitions from the people.

Hurrying thither in shocked anxiety, he found a curled gentleman of the guard, resplendent in red velvet and gold chains, in peevish argument with a boisterous Seigneur of a bronzed good-humoured face, who urged his entrance to the presence-chamber.
The Lord Chamberlain swept down upon the pair like a flamingo with wings outspread.

"God's death, what means this turmoil?
Her Majesty comes hither!" he cried, and scowled upon the intruder, who now stepped back a little, treading on the toes of a huge sailor with a small head and bushy red hair and beard.
"Because her Majesty comes I come also," the Seigneur interposed grandly.
"What is your name and quality ?" "Yours first, and I shall know how to answer." "I am the Lord Chamberlain of England." "And I, my lord, am Lempriere, Seigneur of Rozel--and butler to the Queen." "Where is Rozel ?" asked my Lord Chamberlain.
The face of the Seigneur suddenly flushed, his mouth swelled, and then burst.
"Where is Rozel!" he cried in a voice of rage.

"Where is Rozel! Have you heard of Hugh Pawlett," he asked, with a huge contempt--"of Governor Hugh Pawlett ?" The Lord Chamberlain nodded.