Goring and Finett were not idle, but each of them fully employed in
their respective vocations. Sir John had been pierced by a pair of dark
eyes from the crowd upon the staircase, and Goring was making all haste
for the royal hunt, his Majesty having signified that he would on that
same evening kill a stag. James was, generally, as quick to resolve as
he was impotent to execute; vacillating, and without any fixed purpose,
in matters that required decision and promptitude of action.
With his usual pusillanimity the king went through the business of the
hunt, the deer being literally driven into the very teeth of the dogs.
An hour having been thus occupied, he commanded that they should return,
highly satisfied with his own skill and intrepidity. Ascending the hill
with his favourite, Goring, and discoursing pleasantly on this noble
pastime, the king turned round on the sudden, as though recollecting
something he had lost.
"What! Jack Finett. Quhere? quhere, I say, is my Sienna balsam?" said
he, laying a deep emphasis on the guttural. This sally was acknowledged
with delight by the courtiers. But "Jack" had not been seen or even
remembered.
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