'"Admiral Boy--Vice-Admiral Babe," says Gloriana, "I cry your pardon. The heat of these present times ripens childhood to age more quickly than I can follow. But we are at peace with Spain. Where did you break your Queen's peace?" '"On the sea called the Spanish Main, though 'tis no more Spanish than my doublet," says the elder. Guess how that warmed Gloriana's already melting heart! She would never suffer any sea to be called Spanish in her private hearing. '"And why was I not told? What booty got you, and where have you hid it? Disclose," says she. "You stand in some danger of the gallows for pirates." '"The axe, most gracious lady," says the elder, "for we are gentle born." He spoke truth, but no woman can brook contradiction. "Hoity-toity," says she, and, but that she remembered that she was a Queen, she'd have cuffed the pair of 'em. "It shall be gallows, hurdle, and dung-cart if I choose." '"Had our Queen known of our going beforehand, Philip might have held her to blame for some small things we did on the seas," the younger lisps. '"As for treasure," says the elder, "we brought back but our bare lives. We were wrecked on the Gascons' Graveyard, where our sole company for three months was the bleached bones of De Avila's men." 'Gloriana's mind jumped back to Philip's last letter. '"De Avila that destroyed the Huguenots? What d'you know of him?" she says. The music called from the house here, and they three turned back between the yews. '"Simply that De Avila broke in upon a plantation of Frenchmen on that coast, and very Spaniardly hung them all for heretics--eight hundred or so. The next year Dominique de Gorgues, a Gascon, broke in upon De Avila's men, and very justly hung 'em all for murderers--five hundred or so. No Christians inhabit there now," says the elder lad, "though 'tis a goodly land north of Florida." '"How far is it from England?" asks prudent Gloriana. '"With a fair wind, six weeks. They say that Philip will plant it again soon." This was the younger, and he looked at her out of the corner of his innocent eye. 'Chris Hatton, fuming, meets and leads her into Brickwall Hall, where she dances--thus. A woman can think while she dances--can think. I'll show you. Watch!' She took off her cloak slowly, and stood forth in dove-coloured satin, worked over with pearls that trembled like running water in the running shadows of the trees. Still talking--more to herself than to the children--she swam into a majestical dance of the stateliest balancings, the haughtiest wheelings and turnings aside, the most dignified sinkings, the gravest risings, all joined together by the elaboratest interlacing steps and circles. They leaned forward breathlessly to watch the splendid acting.