Thou'rt not Lord of the Indies yet."
"Faith," chuckled Barlowe, "here be some little eyasses practising a
fantasy for the Queen's pleasure. Hey, lads, what's all the pother
about?"[2]
The company emerged half-shamefacedly from the shrubbery, a group of
youngsters between ten and fourteen, in fanciful costumes of silk and
brocade, or mimic armor and puffed doublets. The central figure of the
group was a handsome little lad in a sort of tunic of hairy undressed
goatskin, a feather head-dress and gilded ornaments. His dark face had a
sullen look, and he grasped his lance as if about to use it. Another
urchin, whose great arched eyebrows, rolling eyes and impish mouth
marked him as the clown of the company, made answer boldly,
"'T is Tom Poope, your lordships, who mislikes the dress he must wear,
and says if we have but a king and queen of the monkeys to welcome the
discoverers, the Queen will only laugh at us, and 'a will not stay to be
laughed at. 'T is a masque of the ventures of Captain Cabot, look you,
and Tom's the King of the salvages and makes all the long speeches."
"Upon my word, coz," laughed Armadas, "I think we have stumbled upon a
pretty conceit intended to do honor to our master. Methinks His Royal
Highness here has the right on't--the man who made that costume never
saw true Indians.
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