A year and more had flown.

It was one of those glorious moon-lit nights in the early fall when there is a crispness in the air which lends an edge to life.

St. James’s Park was particularly beautiful. The giant oaks with their hundreds of years of story written in their rings lifted high their spreading branches, laden with leaves, which shimmered in the light. The historic old park seemed to be made up of patches of day and night. In the open, one might read in the mellow glow of the harvest-moon; in the shade of one of its oaks, a thief might safely hide.

Facing on the park, there stood a house of Elizabethan architecture. Along its wrinkled, ivy-mantled wall ran a terrace-like balustrade, where one might walk and enjoy the night without fear.The house was well defined by the rays of the moon, which seemed to dance upon it in a halo of mirth; and from the park, below the terrace, came the soft notes of a violin, tenderly picked.

None other than Strings was sitting astride of a low branch of an oak, looking up at a window, like some guardian spirit from the devil-land, singing in his quaintly unctuous way:

“How’s that for a serenade to Mistress Nell?” he asked himself as he secured a firm footing on the ground and slung his fiddle over his back. “She don’t know it’s for her, but the old viol and old Strings know.” He came to a stand-still and winced. “Oons, my old wound again,” he said, with a sharp cry, followed as quickly by a laugh. His eyes still wandered along the balustrade, as eagerly as some young Romeo at the balcony of his Juliet. “I wish she’d walk her terrace to-night,” he sighed, “where we could see her–the lovely lady!”

His rhapsody was suddenly broken in upon by the approach of some one down the path. He glided into the shadow of an oak and none too quickly.

From the obscurity of the trees, into the open, a chair was swiftly borne, by the side of which ran a pretty page of tender years, yet well schooled in courtly wisdom. The lovely occupant leaned forward and motioned to the chairmen, who obediently rested and assisted her to alight.

“Retire beneath the shadow of the trees,” she whispered. “Have a care; no noise.”

The chairmen withdrew quietly, but within convenient distance, to await her bidding.

Strings’s heart quite stopped beating. “The Duchess of Portsmouth at Mistress Nell’s!” he said, almost aloud in his excitement. “Then the devil must be to pay!” and he slipped well behind the oak-trunk again.

Portsmouth’s eyes snapped with French fire as she glanced up at Nell’s terrace. Then she turned to the page by her side. “His Majesty came this path before?” she asked, with quick, French accent.

“Yes, your grace,” replied the page.

“And up this trellis?”

“Yes, your grace.”

“Again to-night?”

“I cannot tell, your grace,” replied the lad. “I followed as you bade me; but the King’s legs were so long, you see, I lost him.”

Portsmouth smiled. “Softly, pretty one,” she said. “Watch if he comes and warn me; for we may have passed him.”

The lad ran gaily down the path to perform her bidding.

“State-business!” she muttered, as she reflected bitterly upon the King’s late excuses to her. “Mon Dieu, does he think me a country wench? I was schooled at Louis’s court.” Her eyes searched the house from various points of advantage. “A light!” she exclaimed, as a candle burned brightly from a window, like a spark of gold set in the silver of the night. “Would I had an invisible cloak.” She tiptoed about a corner of the wall–woman-like, to see if she could see, not Nell, but Charles.

Scarcely had she disappeared when a second figure started up in the moonlight, and a gallant figure, too. It was the Duke of Buckingham. “Not a mouse stirring,” he reflected, glancing at the terrace. “Fair minx, you will not long refuse Buckingham’s overtures. Come, Nelly, thy King is already half stolen away by Portsmouth of France, and Portsmouth of France is our dear ally in the great cause and shall be more so.”

To his astonishment, as he drew nearer, he observed a lady, richly dressed, gliding between himself and the terrace. He rubbed his eyes to see that he was not dreaming. She was there, however, and a pretty armful, too.

“Nell,” he chuckled, as he stole up behind her.

Portsmouth meanwhile had learned that the window was too high to allow her to gain a view within the dwelling. She started–observing, more by intuition than by sight, that she was watched–and drew her veil closely about her handsome features.

“Nelly, Nelly,” laughed Buckingham, “I have thee, wench. Come, a kiss!–a kiss! Nay, love; it was never treason to steal a King’s kisses.”

He seized her by the arm and was about to kiss her when she turned and threw back her veil.

“Buckingham!” she said, suavely.

“Portsmouth!” he exclaimed, awestruck.

He gathered himself together, however, in an instant, and added, as if nothing in the world had happened: “An unexpected pleasure, your grace.”

“Yes,” said she, with a pretty shrug. “I did not know I was so honoured, my lord.”

“Or you would not have refused the little kiss?” he asked, suggestively.

“You called me ‘Nelly,’ my lord. I do not respond to that name.”

“Damme, I was never good at names, Louise,” said he, with mock-apology, “especially by moonlight.”

“Buz, buz!” she answered, with a knowing gesture and a knowing look. Then, pointing toward the terrace, she added: “A pretty nest! A pretty bird within, I warrant. Her name?”

“Ignorance well feigned,” he thought. He replied, however, most graciously: “Nell Gwyn.”

“Oh, ho! The King’s favourite, who has more power, they say, than great statesmen–like my lord.”

Her speech was well defined to draw out his lordship; but he was wary.

“Unless my lord is guided by my lady, as formerly,” he replied, diplomatically.

A look of suspicion crept into Portsmouth’s face: but it was not visible for want of contrast; for all things have a perverted look by the light of the moon.

She had known Buckingham well at Dover. Their interests there had been one in securing privileges from England for her French King. Both had been well rewarded too for their pains. There were no proofs, however, of this; and where his lordship stood to-day, and which cause he would espouse, she did not know. His eyes at Dover had fallen fondly upon her, but men’s eyes fall fondly upon many women, and she would not trust too much until she knew more.

“My chairmen have set me down at the wrong door-step,” she said, most sweetly. “My lord longs for his kiss. Au revoir!”

She bowed and turned to depart.

Buckingham was alert in an instant. He knew not when the opportunity might come again to deal so happily with Louis’s emissary and the place and time of meeting had its advantages.

“Prythee stay, Duchess. I left the merry hunters, returning from Hounslow Heath, all in Portsmouth’s interest,” he said. “Is this to be my thanks?”

She approached him earnestly. “My lord must explain. I am stupid in fitting English facts to English words.”

“Have you forgotten Dover?” he asked, intensely, but subdued in voice, “and my pledges sworn to?–the treaty at the Castle?–the Duchess of OrlÉans?–the Grand Monarch?”

“Hush!” exclaimed Portsmouth, clutching his arm and looking cautiously about.

“If my services to you there were known,” he continued, excitedly, “and to the great cause–the first step in making England pensioner of France and Holland the vassal of Louis–my head would pay the penalty. Can you not trust me still?”

“You are on strange ground to-night,” suggested Portsmouth, tossing her head impatiently to indicate the terrace, as she tried to fathom the real man.

“I thought the King might pass this way, and came to see,” hastily explained his lordship, observing that she was reflecting upon the incongruity of his friendship for her and of his visit to Madame Gwyn.

“And if he did?” she asked, dubiously, not seeing the connection.

“I have a plan to make his visits less frequent, Louise,–for your sweet sake and mine.”

The man was becoming master. He had pleased her, and she was beginning to believe.

“Yes?” she said, in a way which might mean anything, but certainly that she was listening, and intently listening too.

“You have servants you can trust?” he asked.

“I have,” she replied as quickly; and she gloried in the thought that some at least were as faithful as Louis’s court afforded.

“They must watch Nell’s terrace here, night and day,” he almost commanded in his eagerness, “who comes out, who goes in and the hour. She may forget her royal lover; and–well–we shall have witnesses in waiting. We owe this kindness–to his Majesty.”

Portsmouth shrugged her shoulders impatiently. “Mon Dieu!” she said. “My servants have watched, my lord, already. The despatches would have been signed and Louis’s army on the march against the Dutch but for this vulgar player-girl, whom I have never seen. The King forgets all else.”

The beautiful Duchess was piqued, indeed, that the English King should be so swayed. She felt that it was a personal disgrace–an insult to her charms and to her culture. She felt that the court knew it and laughed, and she feared that Louis soon would know. Nell Gwyn! How she hated her–scarce less than she loved Louis and her France.

“Be of good cheer,” suggested Buckingham, soothingly; and he half embraced her. “My messenger shall await your signal, to carry the news to Louis and his army.”

“There is no news,” replied she, and turned upon him bitterly. “Charles evades me. Promise after promise to sup with me broken. I expected him to-night. My spies warned me he would not come; that he is hereabouts again. I followed myself to see. I have the papers with me always. If I can but see the King alone, it will not take long to dethrone this up-start queen; wine, sweet words–England’s sign-manual.”

There was a confident smile on her lips as she reflected upon her personal powers, which had led Louis XIV. of France to entrust a great mission to her. His lordship saw his growing advantage. He would make the most of it.

“In the last event you have the ball!” he suggested, hopefully.

“Aye, and we shall be prepared,” she cried. “But Louis is impatient to strike the blow for Empire unhampered by British sympathy for the Dutch, and the ball is–”

“A fortnight off,” interrupted Buckingham, with a smile.

“And my messenger should be gone to-night,” she continued, irritably. She approached him and whispered cautiously: “I have to-day received another note from Bouillon. Louis relies upon me to win from Charles his consent to the withdrawal of the British troops from Holland. This will insure the fall of Luxembourg–the key to our success. You see, Buckingham, I must not fail. England’s debasement shall be won.”

There was a whistle down the path.

“Some one comes!” she exclaimed. “My chair!”

The page, who had given the signal, came running to her. Her chairmen too were prompt.

“Join me,” she whispered to Buckingham, as he assisted her to her seat within.

“Later, Louise, later,” he replied. “I must back to the neighbouring inn, before the huntsmen miss me.”

Portsmouth waved to the chairmen, who moved silently away among the trees.

Buckingham stood looking after them, laughing.

“King Charles, a French girl from Louis’s court will give me the keys to England’s heart and her best honours,” he muttered.

He glanced once again quickly at the windows of the house, and then, with altered purpose, swaggered away down a side path. He was well pleased with his thoughts, well pleased with his chance interview with the beautiful Duchess and well pleased with himself. His brain wove and wove moonbeam webs of intrigue as he passed through the light and shadow of the night, wherein he would lend a helping hand to France and secure gold and power for his pains. He had no qualms of conscience; for must not his estates be kept, his dignity maintained? His purpose was clear. He would bring Portsmouth and the King closer together: and what England lost, he would gain–and, therefore, England; for was not he himself a part of England, and a great part?

Then too he must and would have Nell.