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 antechapel, 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-humored 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 Lemprière, 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. “Then ask his Excellency when next you see him, Where is Rozel? But take good counsel and keep your ignorance from the Queen,” he added. “She has no love for stupids.” “You say you are butler to the Queen? Whence came your commission?” said the Lord Chamberlain, smiling now; for Lemprière’s words and ways were of some simple world where odd folk lived, and his boyish vanity disarmed anger. “By royal warrant and heritage. And of all of the Jersey Isle, I only may have dove-cotes, which is the everlasting thorn in the side of De Carteret of St. Ouen’s. Now will you let me in, my lord?” he said, all in a breath. At a stir behind him the Lord Chamberlain turned, and with a horrified exclamation hurried away, for the procession from the Queen’s apartments had already entered the presence-chamber: gentlemen, barons, earls, knights of the garter, in brave attire, with bare heads and sumptuous calves. The Lord Chamberlain had scarce got to his place when the Chancellor, bearing the seals in a red silk purse, entered, flanked by two gorgeous folk with the royal sceptre and the sword of state in a red scabbard, all flourished with fleurs-de-lis. Moving in and out among them all was the Queen’s fool, who jested and shook his bells under the noses of the highest.