In the inner chamber, Elizabeth was seated at a small table, at the opposite end of which sat Rebecca. Burleigh, Nottingham, and two or three other great lords stood near at hand, while one dish after another was brought in from the outer room by maids of honor.

Standing to the right of the Queen's chair was a dark man of foreign aspect, wearing the robes of a Doctor of Laws. In his hand was Rebecca's copy of the New York World, which he was perusing with an expression of the utmost perplexity.

"Well, Master Guido," said the Queen, "what make you of it?"

"MaestÀ eccellentissima—" the scholar began.

"Nay—nay. Speak good plain English, man," said the Queen. "The Lady Rebecca hath no Italian."

Messer Guido bowed and began again, speaking with a scarcely perceptible accent.

"Most Excellent Majesty, I have but begun perusal of this document. It promiseth matter for ten good years' research in the comparison of parts, interpretation of phrases, identifying customs, manners, dress, and the like."

"Nay, then," said the Queen, "with the help of the Lady Rebecca, 'twill be no weighty task, methinks. My lady, why partake you not of the pasty?" she said, turning to Rebecca. "Hath it not a very proper savor?"

"My, yes," Rebecca replied; "it's mighty good pie! Somehow, though, pie don't lay very good with me these days. Ye don't happen to have any tea, do ye?"

"Tea!"

"If I may venture—" said Guido, eagerly.

"Speak, Messer Guido."

"Why, it would appear, your Majesty, that tea is a sort of stuff for dresses—silk, belike."

"Stuff for dresses!" said Rebecca. "Stuff and nonsense! Why, tea's a drink!"

"A beverage! Then how explain you this?" the Italian cried, triumphantly. Lifting the newspaper, he read from it the following passage: "The illustration shows a charming tea-gown, a creation of Mme. DÉcolletÉ."

"You see, MaestÀ—your Majesty—it is clear. A 'tea-gown' is shown in the drawing—a gown made of tea."

Rebecca had opened her mouth to overwhelm the poor savant with the truth when a page entered and stood before the Queen.

"Well, sirrah," said Elizabeth, "what is your message?"

"Sir Percevall Hart craves an audience, your Majesty, for himself and his American friend and client."

"Another American!" exclaimed the Queen.

"Copernicus Droop!" cried Rebecca.

"Know you Sir Percevall's friend, Lady Rebecca?" asked Elizabeth.

"Why, yes, your Majesty. He and I came over together from Peltonville. I believe he's after a patent."

"A patent? What mean you? Doth he ask for a patent of nobility—a title? Can this be the suit of the fat knight?"

"I don't know," said Rebecca. "'Tain't nothin' 'bout nobility, I'm sure, though. It's a patent on a phonograph, I b'lieve."

"Know you aught of this, my lord?" said Elizabeth, turning to Burleigh.

"Why, yes, your Majesty. I have to-day received from Sir Percevall Hart a letter written by my nephew, Francis Bacon——"

"Bacon! What! Ay—methinks we know somewhat of this same Francis," said the Queen, grimly. "A member of Parliament, is he not?"

"Even so, your Majesty," said Burleigh, somewhat crestfallen. "From this letter I learn," he continued, while Elizabeth shook her head, "that this American—a Master Dupe, I believe——"

"No—no—Droop!" cried Rebecca. "Copernicus Droop."

The baron bowed.

"That this Master Droop desires the grant of a monopoly in——"

"A monopoly!" cried Elizabeth. "What! This independent young barrister—this parliamentary meddler in opposition, forsooth! He craveth a monopoly? God's death! A monopoly in all the impudence in this our realm is of a surety this fellow's right! We grant it—we grant it. Let the papers be drawn forthwith!"

The baron bent before the storm and, bowing, remained silent. Rebecca, however, could scarce see the justice of the Queen's position.

"Well, but look here, your Majesty," she said. "'Tain't Mr. Bacon as wants this patent; it's Mr. Droop. Mr. Bacon only gave him a letter to Mr. Burleigh here."

Astonishment was depicted in every face save in that of the Queen, whose little eyes were now turned upon her sister sovereign in anger.

"Harkye, Lady Rebecca!" she exclaimed. "Is it the custom to take the Queen to task in your realm?"

Rebecca's reply came pat. The type was prepared beforehand, and she answered now with a clear conscience.

"Why, of course. We talk jest as we feel like to all the queens there is in my country."

The equivocation in this reply must have struck the Queen, for she said, without taking her eyes from Rebecca's face:

"And, prithee, Lady Rebecca, how many queens be there in America? We begin to doubt if royalty be known there."

Again Messer Guido evinced signs of an anxious desire to speak, and Rebecca shrewdly took advantage of this at once.

"Messer Guido can tell you all 'bout that, I guess," she said.

Elizabeth turned her eyes to the savant.

"What knowledge have you of this, learned doctor?" she asked, coldly.

"Why, your Majesty," said Guido, with delighted zeal, "the case is plain. Will your Majesty but look at this drawing on one of the inner pages of the printed document brought by the Lady Rebecca? Behold the effigy of a powder canister, with the words 'Royal Baking Powder' thereon. This would appear evidence that in America gunpowder is known and is used by the sovereigns of the various tribes. Here again we see 'The Royal Corset,' and there 'Crown Shirts.' Can it be doubted that the Americans have royal governors?"

The Queen's face cleared a little at this, and Guido proceeded with increased animation:

"Behold further upon the front page, your Majesty, the effigy of a man wearing a round crown with a peak or projecting shelf over the eyes. Under this we read the legend 'The Czar of the Tenderloin.' Now, your Majesty will remember that the ruler of Muscovy is termed the Czar. The Tenderloin signifieth, doubtless, some order, akin, perchance, to the Garter."

"This hath a plausible bent, Messer Guido," said Elizabeth, with more good-nature. "Lady Rebecca, can you better explain this matter of the Czar?"

"No, indeed," Rebecca replied, with perfect truth. "Mister Guido must have a fine mind to understand things like that!"

"In sooth, good Messer Guido," said Elizabeth, with a smile, "your research and power of logic do you great credit. We doubt not to learn more of these new empires from your learned pains than ever from Raleigh, Drake, and the other travellers whose dull wits go but to the surface of things. But, Lord warrant us!" she continued, "here standeth our page, having as yet no answer. Go, sirrah, and bid Sir Percevall and this great American to our presence straight."

Then, turning again to Guido, she said:

"Messer Guido, we enjoin it upon your learning that you do make a note of the petition of this American, as well as of those things which he may answer in explanation of his design."

With a bow, Guido stepped to one side and, carefully folding the newspaper, drew from his bosom his tablets and prepared to obey.

All eyes turned curiously to the door as it opened to admit the two suitors, who were followed by the page. Sir Percevall, with plumed hat in one hand and sword hilt in the other, advanced ponderously, bowing low at every other step. Droop hurriedly deposited his two boxes upon the floor and followed his monitor, closely imitating his every step and gesture. Having no sword, he thought it best to put his left hand into his bosom, an attitude which he recollected in a picture of Daniel Webster.

The fat knight was about to kneel to kiss the royal hand, but Elizabeth, smiling, detained him.

"Nay, nay!" she said. "You, Sir Percevall, have paid your debt of homage in advance for a twelvemonth. He who kisses the dust at our feet hath knelt for ten." Then, turning to Droop, who was down on both knees, with his hand still in his breast: "What now!" she exclaimed. "Hath your hand suffered some mischance, Sir American, that you hide it in your bosom?"

"Not a mite—not a mite!" Droop stuttered, quickly extending the member in question. "Nay, your Majesty—in sooth, no—my hand beeth all right!"

"We learn from the Lord Treasurer," said Elizabeth, addressing Sir Percevall, "that your petition hath reference to a monopoly. Know you not, Sir Knight, that these be parlous days for making of new monopolies? Our subjects murmur, and 'tis said that we have already been too generous with these great gifts. Have you considered of this?"

"My liege," said Sir Percevall, "these things have we considered. Nor would we tempt this awful Presence with petitions looking to tax further the public patience. But, please your Majesty, Master Droop, my client here," indicating the still kneeling man with a sweeping gesture, "hath brought into being an instrument, or rather two instruments, of marvellous fashion and of powers strange. Of these your Majesty's subjects have had hitherto no knowledge, and it is in the making and selling of these within this realm that we do here crave a right of monopoly under the Great Seal."

"Excuse me, forsooth, your Majesty," Droop broke in, "but would thou mind if I get up, my liege?"

"Nay, rise, rise, Master Droop!" exclaimed the Queen, smothering a laugh. "We find matter for favor in your sponsor's speech. Can you more fully state the nature of this petition?"

"Yes, ma'am—your Majesty," said Droop, rising and dusting off his knees. "I am the inventor of a couple of things, forsooth, that are away ahead of the age. Marry, yes! I call 'em a bicycle and a phonograph."

"Well, did you ever!" murmured Rebecca, amazed at this impudent claim to invention.

Messer Guido paused in his writing and began to unfold his precious American newspaper, while Droop went on, encouraged by the attentive curiosity which he had evidently excited in the Queen.

"Now, the bicycle—or the bike, fer short—is a kind of a wagon or vehycle, you wot. When you mount on it, you can trundle yerself along like all possessed——"

"Gramercy!" broke in the Queen, in a tone of irritation. "What have we here! We must have plain English, Master Droop. American idioms are unknown to us."

As Droop opened his mouth to reply, Guido stepped forward with a great rustling of paper.

"May it please your Gracious Majesty—" he panted, eagerly.

"Speak, Messer Guido."

"I would fain question this gentleman, your Majesty, touching certain things contained herein." He shook the paper at arm's length and glared at Droop, who returned the look with a calm eye.

"You may proceed, sir," said Elizabeth.

"Why, Master Droop, you that are the inventor of this same 'bicycle,' how explain you this?"

He thrust the paper under Droop's nose, pointing to an advertisement therein.

"Here," he continued, "here have we a picture bearing the legend, 'Baltimore Bicycle—Buy No Other'—" He paused, but before Copernicus could speak he went on breathlessly: "And look on this, Master Droop—see here—here! Another drawing, this time with the legend, 'Edison's Phonographs.' How comes it that you have invented these things? Can you invent on this 21st day of May, in the year of our Lord 1598, what was here set forth as early as—as—" he turned the paper back to the first page, "as early as April—" he stopped, turned pale, and choked. Droop looked mildly triumphant.

"Well—well!" cried Elizabeth, "hast lost thy voice, man?"

"My liege," murmured the bewildered savant, "the date—this document——"

"Is dated in 1898," said Droop, solemnly. "This here bike and phonograph won't be invented by anyone else for three hundred years yet."

Elizabeth frowned angrily and grasped the arms of her chair in an access of wrath which, after a pause, found vent in a torrent of words:

"Now, by God's death, my masters, you will find it ill jesting in this presence! What in the fiend's name! Think ye, Elizabeth of England may be tricked and cozened—made game of by a scurvy Italian bookworm and a witless——"

The adjectives and expletives which followed may not be reported here. As the storm of words progressed, growing more violent in its continuance, Droop stood open-mouthed, not comprehending the cause of this tirade. Of the others, but one preserved his wits at this moment of danger.

Sir Percevall, well aware that the Queen's fury, unless checked, would produce his and his client's ruin, determined to divert this flood of emotion into a new channel. With the insight of genius, the fat knight realized that only a woman's curiosity could avert a queen's rage, and with what speed he could he stumbled backward to where Droop had left his exhibits. He lifted the box containing the phonograph and, taking the instrument out, held it on the palm of his huge left hand and bent his eyes upon it in humble and resigned contemplation.

The quick roving eye of the angry Queen caught sight of this queer assemblage of cogs, levers, and cylinder, and for the first time her too-ready tongue tripped. She looked away and recovered herself to the end of the sentence. She could not resist another look, however, and this time her words came more slowly. She paused—wavered—and then fixed her gaze in silence upon the enigmatical device. There was a unanimous smothered sigh as the bystanders recognized their good fortune. Guido, frightened half to death, slipped unobserved out of a side door, and was never seen at Greenwich again. Nor has that fatal newspaper been heard from since.

"What may that be, Sir Percevall?" the Queen inquired at length, settling back in her chair as comfortably as her ruff would permit.

"This, my liege, is the phonograph," said the knight, straightening himself proudly.

"An my Greek be not at fault," said the Queen, "this name should purport a writer of sound."

Sir Percevall's face fell. He was no Greek scholar, and this query pushed him hard. Fortunately for him, Elizabeth turned to Droop as she concluded her sentence.

"Hath your invention this intent, Master Droop?" she said.

"Verily, I guess you've hit it—I wot that's right!" stammered the still frightened man.

A very audible murmur of admiration passed from one to another of the assembled courtiers and ladies-in-waiting. These expressions reached the ears of the Queen, for whom they were indeed intended, and the consciousness of her acumen restored Elizabeth entirely to good-humor.

"The conceit is very novel, is it not, my lord?" she said, turning to Baron Burleigh.

"Novel, indeed, and passing marvellous if achieved, your Majesty," was the suave reply.

"How write you sounds with this device, Master Droop?" she asked.

"Why, thusly, ma'am—your Majesty," said Droop, with renewed courage. "One speaketh, you wot—talketh-like into this hole—this aperture." He turned and pointed to the mouth-piece of the instrument, which was still in Sir Percevall's hands. "Hevin' done this, you wot, this little pin-like pricketh or scratcheth the wax, an' the next time you go over the thing, there you are!"

Conscious of the lameness of this explanation, Droop hurried on, hoping to forestall further questions.

"Let me show ye, my liege, how she works, in sooth," he said, taking the phonograph from the knight. Looking all about, he could see nothing at hand whereon to conveniently rest the device.

"Marry, you wouldn't mind ef I was to set this right here on your table, would ye, my liege?" he asked.

Permission was graciously accorded, and, depositing the phonograph, Droop hurried back to get his records. Holding a wax cylinder in one hand, he proceeded.

"Now, your Majesty can graciously gaze on this wax cylinder," he said. "On here we hev scrawled—written—a tune played by a cornet. It is 'Home, Sweet Home.' Ye've heerd it, no doubt?"

"Nay, the title is not familiar," said the Queen, looking about her. With one accord, the courtiers shook their heads in corroboration.

"Is that so? Well, well! Why, every boy and gal in America knows that tune well!" said Droop.

He adjusted the cylinder and a small brass megaphone, and, having wound the motor, pressed the starting-button. Almost at once a stentorian voice rang through the apartment:

"Home, Sweet Home—Cornet Solo—By Signor Paolo Morituri—Edison Record."

The sudden voice, issuing from the dead revolving cylinder, was so unexpected and startling that several of the ladies screamed and at least one gentleman pensioner put his hand to his sword-hilt. Elizabeth herself started bolt upright and turned pale under her rouge as she clutched the arms of her chair. Before she could express her feelings the cornet solo began, and the entire audience gradually resumed its wonted serenity before the close of the air.

"Marvellous beyond telling!" exclaimed Elizabeth, in delight. "Why, this contrivance of yours, Master Droop, shall make your name and fortune throughout our realm. Have you many such ingenious gentlemen in your kingdom, Lady Rebecca?"

"Oh, dear me, yes!" said Rebecca, somewhat contemptuously. "Copernicus Droop ain't nobody in America."

Droop glanced reproachfully at his compatriot, but concluded not to give expression to his feelings. Accordingly, he very quickly substituted another cylinder, and turned again to the Queen.

"Now, your Majesty," said he, "here's a comic monologue. I tell you, verily, it's a side-splitter!"

"What may a side-splitter be, Master Droop?"

"Why, in sooth, somethin' almighty funny, you know—make a feller laugh, you wot."

Elizabeth nodded and, with a smile of anticipation, which was copied by all present, prepared to be amused.

Alas! The monologue was an account of how a farmer got the best of a bunco steerer in New York City, and was delivered in the esoteric dialect of the Bowery. It was not long before willing smiles gave place to long-drawn faces of comic bewilderment, and, although Copernicus set his best example by artificial grins and pretended inward laughter, he could evoke naught but silence and bored looks.

"Marry, sir," said Elizabeth, when the monologue was at an end, "this needs be some speech of an American empire other than that you come from. Could you make aught of it, Lady Rebecca?"

"Nothin' on airth!" was the reply. "Only a word now an' then about a farmer—an' somethin' about hayseed."

"Now, here's a reg'lar bird!" said Droop, hastily, as he put in a new cylinder.

"Can you thus record e'en the voices of fowls?" said the Queen, with renewed interest.

Hopeless of explaining, Droop bowed and touched the starting-button. The announcement came at once.

"Liberty Bells March—Edison Record," and after a few preliminary flourishes, a large brass band could be heard in full career.

This proved far more pleasing to the Queen and her suite.

"So God mend us, a merry tune and full of harmony!" said the Queen.

"But that ain't all, your Majesty," said Droop. "Here's a blank cylinder, now." He adjusted it as he spoke and unceremoniously pushed the instrument close to the Queen. "Here," he said, "jest you talk anythin' you want to in there and you'll see suthin' funny, I'll bet ye!" He was thoroughly warmed to his work now, and the little court etiquette which he had acquired dropped from him entirely.

The Queen's eager interest had been so aroused that she was unconscious of his too familiar manner. Leaning over the phonograph as Droop started the motor, she looked about her and said, with a titter: "What shall we say? Weighty words should grace so great an occasion, my lords."

"Oh, say the Declaration of Independence or the 'Charge of the Light Brigade'!" Droop exclaimed. "Any o' them things in the school-books!"

Elizabeth saw that the empty cylinder was passing uselessly and wasted no time in discussion, but began to declaim some verses of Horace.

"M—m—m—" exclaimed Droop, doubtfully. "I don't know as this phonograph will work on Latin an' Greek!"

The Queen completed her quotation and, sitting back again in her chair:

"Now, Master Droop, we have done our part," she said.

Droop readjusted the repeating diaphragm and started the motor once more. There were two or three squeaks and then an affected little chuckle.

"What shall we say?" it began. "Weighty words should grace so great an occasion, my lords."

Elizabeth laughed a little hysterically to hear her unstudied phrase repeated, and then, with a look of awe, listened to the repetition of the verses she had recited.

"Can any voice be so repeated?" she asked, seriously, when this record was completed.

"Anyone ye please—any ye please!" said the delighted promoter, visions of uncounted wealth dancing in his head. "Now, here's a few words was spoken on a cylinder jest two or three weeks ago by Miss Wise," he continued, hunting through his stock of records. "Ah, here it is! It's all 'bout Mister Bacon—I daresay you know him." The Queen looked a little stern at this. "Tells all 'bout him, I believe. I ferget jest what it said, but we can soon see."

The cylinder was that before which Phoebe had read an extract from the volume on Bacon's supposed parentage and his writings while she was at the North Pole. Little did Droop conceive what a train he was unconsciously lighting as he adjusted the cylinder in place. As he said, he had forgotten the exact purport of the extract in question, but, even had he recollected it, he would probably have so little understood its terrific import that his course would have been the same. Ignorant of his danger, he pushed the starting-button and looked pleasantly at the Queen, whose dislike of anything having to do with Francis Bacon had already brought a frown to her face.

All too exactly the fateful mechanism ground out the very words and voice of Phoebe:

"It is thus made clear from the indubitable evidence of the plays themselves, that Francis Bacon wrote the immortal works falsely ascribed to William Shakespeare, and that the gigantic genius of this man was the result of the possession of royal blood. In this unacknowledged son of Elizabeth Tudor, Queen of England, was made manifest to all countries and for all centuries the glorious powers inherent in the regal blood of England."

As the fearful meaning of these words was developed by the machine, amazement gave place to consternation in those present and consternation to abject terror. Each fear-palsied courtier looked with pale face to right and left as though to seek escape. The fat knight, hitherto all complacency, listening to this brazen traducer of the Queen's virgin honor, seemed to shrink within himself, and his very clothing hung loose upon him.

Droop and Rebecca, ignorant of the true bearing of the spoken words, gazed in amazement from one to another until, glancing at the Queen, their eyes remained fixed and fascinated.

The unthinkable insult implied in the words repeated was trebled in force by being spoken thus publicly and in calm accents to her very face. She—the daughter of Henry the Eighth; she—Elizabeth of England—the Virgin Queen—to be thus coolly proclaimed the mother of this upstart barrister!

As a cyclone approaches, silent and terrific, visible only in the swift swirling changes of a livid and blackened sky, so the fatal passion in that imperial bosom was known at first only in the gleaming of her black eyes beneath contorted brows and the spasmodic changes that swept over the pale red-painted face.

The danger thus portended was clear even to the bewildered Droop, and, before the instrument had said its say, he began to slip very quietly toward the door.

As the speech ended, Elizabeth emitted a growl that grew into a shriek of fury, and, with her hair actually rising on her head, she threw herself bodily upon the offending phonograph.

In her two hands she raised the instrument above her, and with a maniac's force hurled it full at the head of Copernicus Droop.

Instinctively he dodged, and the mass of wood and steel crashed against the door of the chamber, bursting it open and causing the two guards without to fall back.

Droop saw his chance and took it. Turning, with a yell he dashed past the guards and across the antechamber to the main entrance-hall. The Queen, choked with passion, could only gasp and point her hand frantically after the fleeing man, but at once her gentlemen, drawing their swords, rushed in a body from the room with cries of "Treason—treason! Stop him! Catch him!"

Down the main hallway and out into the silent court-yard Droop fled on the wings of fear, pursued by a shouting throng, growing every moment larger.

As he emerged into the yard a sentry tried to stop him, but, with a single side spring, the Yankee eluded this danger and flung himself upon his bicycle, which he found leaning against the palace wall.

"Close the gates! Trap him!" was the cry, and the ponderous iron gates swung together with a clang. But just one second before they closed, the narrow bicycle, with its terror-stricken burden, slipped through into the street beyond and turned sharply to the west, gaining speed every instant. Droop had escaped for the moment, and now bent every effort upon reaching the Panchronicon in safety.

Then, as the tumult of futile chase faded into silence behind the straining fugitive, there might have been seen whirling through the ancient streets of London a weird and wondrous vision.

Perched on a whirl of spokes gleaming in the moonlight, a lean black figure in rumpled hose, with flying cloak, slipped ghostlike through the narrow streets at incredible speed. Many a footpad or belated townsman, warned by the mystic tinkle of a spectral bell, had turned with a start, to faint or run at sight of this uncanny traveller.

His hat was gone and his close-cropped head bent low over the handle-bars. The skin-tight stockings had split from thigh to heel, mud flew from the tires, beplastering the luckless figure from nape to waist, and still, without pause, he pushed onward, ever onward, for London Bridge, for Southwark, and for safety. The way was tortuous, dark and unfamiliar, but it was for life or death, and Copernicus Droop was game.