“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!” cried Nick; and up went his cap and down went he on the baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into the crowd, who caught him laughing as he came.  Then all together they cantered out like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and sang in the street before the school till the people cheered themselves hoarse to hear such music on such a wintry day; sang until there was no other business on all the thoroughfare but just to listen to their songs; sang until the under-masters came out with their staves and drove them into the school again, to keep them from straining their throats by singing so loudly and so long in the frosty open air.

But a fig for staves and for under-masters!  The boys clapped fast the gates behind them, and barred the under-masters out in the street, singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking at them with wry faces through the bars; and then trooped off up the old precentor’s private stair and sang at his door until the old man could not hear his own ears, and came out storming and grim as grief.

But when he saw the boys all there, and heard them cheering him three times three, he could not storm to save his life, but only stood there, black and thin, against the yellow square of light, smiling a quaint smile that half was wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean forefinger at them as if he were beating time, and nodding until his head seemed almost nodding off.

“Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles!” they shouted.

“Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum,” said the old man softly to himself, the firelight from behind him falling in a glory on his thin white hair.  “Be off, ye rogues!  Ye are not fit to waste good language on; or, faith, I’d Latin ye all as dumb as fishes in the depths of the briny sea!”

“Hurrah for the fishes in the sea!”

“Soft, ye knaves!  Save thy throats for good Queen Bess!”

“Hurrah for good Queen Bess!”

“Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing varlets; or ye sha’n’t have pie and ale to-night.  But marry, now, ye shall have pie—­ay, pie and ale without a stint; for ye are good lads, and ye have pleased the Queen at last; and I am as proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail!”

“Hurrah for the Queen—­and the pie—­and the ale!  Hurrah for the peacock and his tail!” shouted the boys; and straightway, seeing that they had made a rhyme, they gave a cheer shriller and longer than all the others put together, and went clattering down the stairway, singing at the top of their lungs: 

     Hurrah for the Queen, and the pie and the ale! 
     Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail! 
     Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah again—­
     We’re going to court on Christmas day
          To sing before the Queen!”

“Good lads, good lads!” said the old precentor to himself, as he turned back into his little room.  His eyes were shining proudly in the candle-light, yet the tears were running down his cheeks.  A queer old man, Nat Gyles, and dead this many a long, long year; yet that night no man was happier than he.