diff options
| author | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-22 01:10:35 -0800 |
|---|---|---|
| committer | nfenwick <nfenwick@pglaf.org> | 2025-01-22 01:10:35 -0800 |
| commit | 1f3ce1f2afc1c76f8fb84aa4d39156d0cbaba7e1 (patch) | |
| tree | 36a004b6ee222577cbad24a575a441ee6234bc33 | |
| parent | 826c22b79da6f2b2f3f0ab450dd1510863ae7d5b (diff) | |
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 4 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-0.txt | 10004 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-0.zip | bin | 185488 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-h.zip | bin | 652640 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-h/67774-h.htm | 12301 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 343520 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-h/images/i_cover.jpg | bin | 101466 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/67774-h/images/i_title.jpg | bin | 12781 -> 0 bytes |
10 files changed, 17 insertions, 22305 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ea437c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67774 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67774) diff --git a/old/67774-0.txt b/old/67774-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3d8bb92..0000000 --- a/old/67774-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10004 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anne Feversham, by J. C. Snaith - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Anne Feversham - -Author: J. C. Snaith - -Release Date: April 4, 2022 [eBook #67774] - -Language: English - -Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by University of California - libraries) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE FEVERSHAM *** - - - - - - ANNE FEVERSHAM - - BY - J. C. SNAITH - - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - NEW YORK AND LONDON - 1914 - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY - D. APPLETON AND COMPANY - - Published in England as “The Great Age” - - - Printed in the United States of America - - - - -ANNE FEVERSHAM - - - - -CHAPTER I - - -A DISTINGUISHED member of the Lord Chamberlain’s company, Mr. -William Shakespeare by name, had entered the shop of a tailor in the -town of Nottingham. This popular and respected actor and playwright was -about thirty-five years of age. Of middle height, he had the compact -figure of one in the prime of a vigorous manhood. His hair was worn -rather long, but his beard, inclining to red in color, was trim and -close. His dress was plainer than is the rule with those who follow his -calling. Indeed at a first glance he had less of the look of an actor -than of a shrewd, cautious man of affairs who has prospered in trade. -Close observation might have amended this estimate. There was a vivid -pallor about the face, and the somber eyes, slow-burning and deep-set, -were like a smoldering fire. Even when the mobile features were in -repose, which was seldom the case, the whole effect of the countenance -was vital and arresting. - -“That is a very choice coffin-cloth you have there, Master Tidey.” - -The manner of the actor and playwright was simplicity itself. There was -not a suspicion of affectation in it. He passed his fingers over the -rich pall that lay on the tailor’s knee. Upon the hem of the cloth an -armorial device was being stitched by the hand of a master craftsman. - -“Yes, it is Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor gravely. “Choice -enough, choice enough.” - -“Who is the happy man?” - -“A young gentleman who lies in the Castle yonder. He is to have his -head cut off a Tuesday by order of the Queen.” - -A look of startled interest came into the eyes of the player. “Is that -so, Master Tidey? And young, you say, and gentle, too?” - -“Aye, young enough. But two or three and twenty--by all accounts a very -fair and deliver young man.” - -“It seems a pity,” said the player, “a mortal pity, for a man to die -by the ax in the heat of his youth. And yet ’tis better to die by the -ax than by the string. It is at least a gentleman’s death the Queen is -giving him,” he added grimly. - -“As you say,” the tailor agreed, “it is at least a gentleman’s death -the Queen is giving him, and he’ll have the robe of a gentleman in -which to wrap his corpse. Happen, Master Shakespeare, that in like case -it is a better consideration than would fall to you and me.” - -A light flashed in the somber eyes of the player. “Speak for yourself -Master Tidey,” he said, with a slow, deep laugh. “Whenever I get my -deliverance, by God’s grace I’ll have the robe of a gentleman to cover -me. Unless”--the light in the somber eyes was so intense that they -shone almost black--“unless they let the reason out, and then there’s -no warrant for any man’s exit. But what of this poor young man? How -comes he to this?” - -The tailor lowered his voice to a whisper. It was as if he feared to -be overheard. “They do say ’a has plotted with the Papishers, who are -always contriving against the Queen.” - -“What’s the name of the unlucky youth?” - -“His name is Mr. Gervase Heriot.” - -“Mr. Gervase Heriot! He is a kinsman of my Lord Southampton.” A look -of keen pity came upon the player’s face. “I know the lad well enough. -He sat on our stage at The Globe less than two months ago. An open, -cheerful youth incapable of plotting against aught save a flask of -canaries, if I’m any judge of nature. Poor young man. Master Tidey, -this is a very tragic matter.” - -“Sad enough, Master Shakespeare, sad enough,” said the tailor, -stitching busily at the coffin-cloth. - -The actor passed a delicately shaped hand, the hand of a poet, across -his face. “More than once I have marked the lad as he sat in the -playhouse,” he said. “’A was a proper neat youth. ’A had a subtle -tongue and a very flaming eye. ’A was german-cousin to Perseus, him -that bestrid the winged horse. And now--with the taste of milk yet on -his lips!” The player ceased abruptly, as if overcome by a surge of -feeling. For a time he was silent. The tragic end of a youth of bright -promise appeared to weigh upon him sorely. - -Master Nicholas Tidey, whose skill with the needle and shears had -spread far and wide over the midland counties, was, like the player, -a Stratford man. In a rather shamefaced way, the tailor was a little -inclined to be proud of his fellow-townsman. To be sure his calling -was hardly that of a Christian. On occasion his speech was apt to be -a little disorderly, it even verged upon the fantastical, but Master -Tidey was bound to admit that there must be something in the fellow. -For one thing, rumor had it that he had recently bought New Place, -the largest house in his native town. Such a fact spoke for itself, -even if a wise man was inclined to discount the glowing reports of the -play-actor’s ever-growing success which reached him continually from -London. But, even as far back in the world’s history as the age of -Elizabeth, “Nothing succeeds like success” was a maxim known to the -philosophers. - -“They do tell me, Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor, “that some of -these harlotry pieces of yours have been approved by the Queen.” - -The playwright could not help smiling a little at a certain uneasiness -which was apparent in the tone of his friend, in spite of the fact that -that honest man tried very hard to conceal it. “If I said they had not, -Master Tidey,” he answered, with dry modesty, “I might be speaking less -than I know. On the other hand, if I said that they had, a needy writer -for the stage might be claiming more than becomes the least of her -Majesty’s servants.” - -Master Tidey looked a little incredulous. “They do tell me, Master -Shakespeare, that you make them out of your own head entirely. Master -Burbage, who was here an hour ago to have new points set in his -hose, swore it was so, by the beard of the prophet--facetiously, as -I think. But I can hardly believe it, Master Shakespeare, not out of -your own head, and that’s the fact. Why, I mind the time you was a -little graceless runnion that used to play truant from Stratford Free -School. Many’s the time I’ve seen you come sliding down Short Hill of -a winter’s morning in your blue short coat, with your books falling -out o’ your satchel as you dangled it behind you, and generally twenty -minutes late for the muster. You were always a sharp lad, Master -Shakespeare, I’m bound to say that although somewhat idly given, but I -never thought you’d have had wit enough to make one of these interludes -all out of your own head like book-learned men who have been bred at -college.” - -“It seems unlikely enough I grant you,” said the player discreetly. -“And my pieces, such as they are, don’t compare of course with those -of some I could mention--there is a young fellow by the name of Ben -Jonson, and one of these days you’ll be able to contrive a whole -garment for the best of us out of his sleeve ruffles. But I sometimes -think, Master Tidey, when of an evening I’ve had a glass o’ clear -spring water with a carroway-seed in it at the Mermaid Tavern, that -if only he had had the singular good fortune to have been bred at -Oxford or Cambridge, the world might one day have heard of William -Shakespeare--but no matter! It will all be the same a hundred years -hence.” The player laughed cheerfully. “We shall all be forgotten, and -our interludes too, long before then.” - -“Yes, Master Shakespeare, there can be no doubt about that,” said the -tailor heartily. “And personally I thank God for it. I don’t hold with -these masks and gallimaufries and such-like cloaks for wantonness, -saving your presence. Still the Queen does, as I understand, and -although I am much surprised at _her_, that’s a great matter. And that -being the case I am bound to admit that for one who left the Stratford -Free School at the age of thirteen with no more book-knowledge in his -numskull than Daddy Jenkins could put there with his ferrule, and if, -as I say, the Queen approves your interludes, and they are entirely out -of your own head, as Master Burbage swears they are by the beard of the -prophet--why, I am bound to admit that you bring little or no discredit -upon your native parish.” - -“You pay me a high compliment, Master Tidey,” said the actor. “And -fain would I deserve it. But you will grieve to learn, I am sure, -that the Queen has commanded the Lord Chamberlain’s servants to her -palace at Richmond on the tenth of July, and moreover she desires a -new piece from the pen of the least of them all. It would seem that, -for some reason at present obscure, her Grace in her bounty is pleased -to approve the nonsensical comedy of “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” which, -between ourselves, is by no means the brightest of the performances -from the hand of the rustical clown in question.” - -In spite of the strictness of his tenets, Master Tidey could not -forbear to be impressed. “You are indeed coming to great honors now,” -said the tailor, whose worldly wisdom appeared to be in danger of -overriding his high principles. “And it is not for me to deny that you -have a talent--of a kind that is, Master Shakespeare. But at least, as -you are a Stratford man like myself, I am glad to hear that there are -those who think well of it. What will you put into your comedy, Master -Shakespeare? Love, I presume, and all manner of wantonness?” - -“Well, Master Tidey,” said the author, “since you ask the question, you -can no more leave love out of a comedy than you can leave an apple out -of a dumpling. Besides, it is Gloriana’s desire that I should make her -a tale of love, that there should be youth in it and girlhood and high -poesy--that is, if we can rise to poesy in this barren age! And it is -Gloriana’s pleasure that it shall be played before her of a summer’s -afternoon under the greenwood in Richmond Park.” - -“You will be making your fortune one of these days, Master -Shakespeare,” said the tailor, upon the verge of awe. - -“That is as may be, Master Tidey. At least I would ask nothing better -than to quit the stage. A man’s dignity and a player’s calling don’t -ride well together. In the meantime must I tease my five wits to devise -a play for Gloriana. And it must be made, alas! by the tenth of July.” - -“I’d rather you had to do it than had I,” said the tailor, with a sigh -of relief, as he took up the needle and shears. - -By now the player was subdued to the process of thought, and was -twisting his short beard between his thumb and forefinger. The eyes -were veiled almost like those of a man in a trance. “I’ve a mind to put -Robin Hood in it,” he said. “The bold outlaw of Sherwood and his merry -men. Many’s the time they have come from the neighboring greenwood into -this famous old town of Nottingham.” - -Before, however, the actor could pursue this pleasant idea, there arose -a sharp clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones outside the tailor’s door, -and a minute afterwards a personage entered the shop who at once turned -his thoughts into a new direction. - - - - -CHAPTER II - - -THE personage was a young woman of some eighteen years, breathing -youth and its sorcery in every line. She was tall, well grown, of a -beauty that was remarkable. She stepped with a lithe grace, a springing -freedom that Atalanta would not have disdained. Her long quilted -riding-coat was the last cry of the fashion, and on the left hand she -wore a large hawking-gauntlet. But that which at once caught the eye -both of the tailor and of the player, and made the charming figure -still more memorable, was an audacious pair of leather breeches. These -clothed her nether limbs, and below them were a long pair of boots of -untanned leather. - -Now Master Tidey it was who had built this fine pair of -hawking-breeches to the explicit order of the wearer, yet even he could -hardly forbear to be scandalized when he marked its effect. As for the -player--but he had a larger, a more liberal, a more sophisticated mind. -For one thing he had seen the fine ladies of the Court ride out hawking -in this guise. To be sure he had heard some very salutary criticism -of a style of dress that was creeping into vogue among the highest -in the land, but he was not of those who condemned it. Mr. William -Shakespeare, unlike his friend Nicholas Tidey, betrayed not the least -surprise at this young woman’s appearance. Certainly his curiosity was -fully aroused, but perhaps that was less on account of the garment -itself than because of the look of its wearer. - -In point of fact, Mr. William Shakespeare, whose eye was very sure in -such matters, was charmed by the spectacle. Swiftly he moved aside, -in order that this young gentlewoman might proceed to the tailor’s -counter. Moreover, as he performed this polite action he removed his -hat with a touch of gallantry, as became an acquaintance with courts. - -“Good Master Tailor,” said the wearer of the garment, with an air so -fine as to delight Mr. William Shakespeare still more, “I make you my -compliments upon these hawking-breeches you have been so good as to -devise for me. They are a little tight around the left knee, otherwise -they do excellently well. I make you my compliments upon them, Master -Tailor, and have the goodness to devise me a second pair in every -particular as the first.” - -Master Tidey bowed obsequiously. “I attend your pleasure, madam,” he -said. - -The young woman then drew off a glove, and with some little difficulty -was able to produce a purse from the recesses of her attire. “What is -your charge, friend, for this excellent garment, which gives me such -ease in the saddle that from this day I am minded to wear no other -style of habiliment.” - -“Two angels, if it please you, madam.” - -“Here be four, my friend.” - -She opened the purse and counted out in gold pieces twice the sum that -was asked. - -“Good Master Tailor,” she said, “you have right excellent craft and -your garment pleases me. And if I must speak the truth, I had never -learned until this day what ease and freedom comes of the wearing of -galligaskins.” - -She used such a grave air, as of one expressing a most serious and -private thought, that Mr. William Shakespeare, who all this time had -been regarding her covertly, although taking care to appear lost in -contemplation of the coffin-cloth the tailor had now discarded, could -not forbear from giving forth a dry, stealthy chuckle. - -Mistress Anne Feversham half turned for the purpose of visiting such a -presumption with an imperious eye. The clear gaze said as plainly as -woman could express it: “And who, pray, are you, sir? Whoever you are -I’ll thank you to be pretty careful.” - -Howbeit, in the matter of looking down this presumptuous individual, -young Mistress Anne Feversham, it seemed, had undertaken a task a -little beyond her present powers. There was hardly one among the -burgesses of the town who could have sustained that gaze. But with this -quiet and mild-looking individual, whose coat and sword were so modest, -it was a different matter. - -The impact of the proud eyes of Mistress Insolence was met with perfect -composure. Moreover, there was just a suspicion of laughter. In the -opinion of the lady there was no ground for levity. Yet it was almost -as if this person, whose dress was so little pretentious as to be -hardly that of a gentleman, was daring to say in his heart, “Madam, -think not ill of me if I confess that, far from being abashed by your -air, I am rather amused by it.” - -That at least was the quick and sensitive feminine interpretation of -the subtle face whose owner was hardly entitled to such a look of arch -and humorous self-confidence. Mistress Anne Feversham felt a slight -wound in her dignity. Who, pray, was this impertinent? - -By some means best known to himself, Mr. William Shakespeare appeared -to read the thoughts of the lady. At least the sly smile that had crept -into those somber but wonderful eyes had deepened to a look of roguery. -Mistress Anne grew crimson; the disdainful head went up; she bit her -lip; and then realizing that such a display of embarrassment was -wholly unworthy of the daughter of the Constable of Nottingham Castle, -the pride of youth chastened her so sorely that she turned her back -abruptly on the cause of her defeat. - -Soon, however, the ever-abiding sense of place and power came to her -aid and she was able to command herself sufficiently to address the -tailor. - -“I see the town is full of play-acting rogues,” she said. “Whence do -they come?” - -“From London, madam, I believe,” said Master Tidey, without venturing -to look in the direction of his friend. - -“I am afraid they are a saucy-looking crew. My groom”--perhaps it -was well that the voice of Mistress Anne did not reach the ears of -the haughty young falconer who was taking charge of her horse at the -tailor’s door--“my groom pointed them out to me as I passed the Moot -Hall. As soon as I return to the Castle I will inform my father the -Constable, and I will see if they cannot be put in the stocks, which to -my mind is where they belong.” - -As became the shrewd man he was, Master Nicholas Tidey made no reply. -He was content to nod his head gravely, as if he tacitly approved, -while at the same time he contrived to keep a tail of an eye upon his -distinguished friend. There might or there might not have been a ghost -of a smile upon that prim and cautious mouth. - -Indeed, very wisely, Master Tidey left it to the play-actor himself -to try a fall with such a formidable adversary. And this that daring -individual proceeded to do in a manner quite cool and leisurely, and -yet with a vastly considered air. In his eye, it was true, there was -a suspicion of something far other than gravity. That of course was -regrettable; but it was undoubtedly there. - -Mr. William Shakespeare’s first act was to remove his hat with its -single short cock’s feather, and then he bowed very low indeed, in the -manner of one quite well aware of addressing a social superior. - -“Cry you mercy, mistress,” he said, “but as one who is himself a poor -actor may he ask wherein his guild has had the unhappiness to offend -you?” - -Mistress Anne Feversham met this effrontery with a disdain that was -wonderful. Her chief concern at the moment was to show her great -contempt without a descent into downright ill-breeding. But as soon as -she met the somber eyes of this individual, in which a something that -was rare and strange was overlaid by a subtle mockery, this natural -instinct took wings and fled. In those eyes was something that hardly -left her mistress of herself, in spite of her father the Constable, her -young blood-horse and her incomparable pair of galligaskins. - -“My father the Constable would have all play-actors whipped,” said -Mistress Anne Feversham. - -But her voice was not as she had intended it to be. Moreover, her -father the Constable had yet to deliver himself of such an illiberal -sentiment. And this graceless individual seemed to be fully aware that -this was the case. - -“Whipped, mistress!” His look of grave consternation did not deceive -her. “You would whip a poor actor!” - -“All who are actors, sir, my father would.” - -“Is it conceivable?--the gentlest, the humblest, the most industrious, -the most law-abiding of men!” - -“My father cares not for that, sir. He says they are masterless rogues.” - -“Then by my faith, mistress, that is very froward in your father.” - -“He says they are the scum of taverns and alehouses and they corrupt -the public mind.” - -“Ods my life! how comes so crabbed a sire to have a daughter so fair, -so feat, so charming!” - -It began to seem hopeless for Mistress Anne to continue in such a -strain of severity. For a moment she used her will in order to punish -this audacity, but in the next she was trembling upon the verge of open -laughter. Still the consciousness that she was no less a person than -the only daughter and heiress of Sir John Feversham, the Constable of -Nottingham Castle and chief justice of the forest of Sherwood, was just -able to save her from that which could only have been regarded in the -light of a disaster. - -“I would fain inform you, mistress, there are play-actors whom even the -Queen approves.” - -Alas! Mistress Anne had a full share of the cynical irreverence of -youth. - -“I am not at all surprised to learn that, sir. I have even been told -that the Queen dyes her hair.” - -The effect of a speech so daring was to startle Master Tidey quite -visibly. The world looks to one of his craft to have a conventional -mind, and there was no doubt the times were perilous. The shears almost -fell from his hand. If this was not treason, might he never sew another -doublet! - -The play-actor, however, was of a fiber less delicate. It was as much -as Mr. William Shakespeare could do to refrain from open laughter. - -“May I ask, mistress,” he said, “what is your warrant for such a grave -charge against the Queen’s Majesty?” - -“The warrant of my own eyes, sir. Her hair was certainly dyed when she -stayed at the Castle a month since.” - -“But bethink you, mistress, might it not appear less treasonable if -Gloriana’s true subjects presumed her hair to be a wig?” - -“Let them presume nothing, sir, but that which is the truth.” - -“To so pious a resolve even a poor actor may say amen.” - -Mistress Anne realized that she was no match for this man. The -only hope for her dignity lay in a cool scorn of him. Suddenly the -gloriously straight back was turned disdainfully. Let the greatest lady -for ten miles beware how she chopped logic with a strolling actor. - -“Master Tailor, I would have you devise me a second pair of these -right excellent breeches, in every particular as the first, and do you -have them at the Castle against the first of May.” - -Master Tidey bowed low. - -“Good-day to you, Master Tailor.” - -Master Tidey bowed still lower with that clear and proud speech in his -ears. - -With chin held high, and with an arrogant, free-swinging carriage, -Mistress Anne Feversham went forth of the tailor’s shop. But even -then, abrupt as was the manner of her going, she had to submit to the -play-actor’s leaping to the door before she could reach it herself. He -opened it and held it for her with the grace and dignity of a courtier. -She passed imperiously, without yielding him a glance or a “Thank you.” - -A dashing young man in the livery of a falconer was holding the -young blood-horse of Mistress Anne outside the tailor’s door. He was -handsomely mounted on an animal similar to the one he held for his -mistress. On his fist was a small falcon, hoodwinked and fessed. - -Very agile was the lady in finding her way into the saddle. For all -that she was not quite clever enough to defeat this incorrigible -play-actor. He sprang to her stirrup while she had one foot still -on the ground and hoisted her up with an address that enforced her -respect, and with so grave an air of courtesy as tacitly to compel her -own. - -All the same she was angry. And she had sense enough to know that it -was illogical to be so. Yet she swung her horse around sharply in order -to give expression to her state of mind. And as the falconer, John -Markham by name, confided the merlin to the accustomed wrist of his -mistress, he turned back an instant to scowl at the player. It was even -as if he would ask him who the devil he was, and what the devil he did -there. - -The player removed his hat with its single cock’s feather in a manner -that was almost tenderly ironical. It had hardly been a display of -Court manners of which he had been the recipient. But he was too much a -man of the world to look for those everywhere. And above all here was -youth in its glamour, youth in its sorcery. For the sake of a stuff so -precious he would forgive a crudity greater than this. - -With a sigh of delight the player stood at the tailor’s door to watch -this fine pair ride very slowly and haughtily down the street. For -all their air of class consciousness and their open contempt of the -townspeople, which their youth alone saved from being ridiculous, they -made a glorious pair in the eye of the part-proprietor of the Globe -Theatre, London. - -That was an eye to judge men and things as none other since the world -began. Neither Mistress Anne Feversham nor the falconer was aware of -that fact, and had they been aware of it they had not cared a button. -All that they did know and all that they cared was that the worthy -burgesses of Nottingham were stealing glances of awe and admiration -at them. In a word, they were causing a sensation, and were very -pleasantly alive to the fact. - -Yes, undoubtedly a gallant pair. John Markham, in spite of his superior -condition and rising renown, rode behind his mistress at a respectful -distance of ten yards. They sat their horses with great skill and -assurance. First one and then the other, as they walked them slowly -down the street, would touch them gently with the spur, in order to -enjoy the pleasure of showing them off in the sight of the townspeople. - -The player, still standing at the tailor’s door, could not take his -eyes from the spectacle. Almost wistfully, and yet in a kind of -entrancement, he watched them until at last there came a turn in the -street and they were lost to view. Then he went within to rejoin his -scandalized friend, who to compose his mind had had recourse already to -the needle and shears. - -“I never saw the like o’ that,” said Master Nicholas Tidey. “It’s rare -to be the quality. But that’s nothing to you, Master Shakespeare. I -reckon you see it every day o’ the week.” - -“It’s a fine thing, I grant you, when it rides proud in the sight of -heaven,” said the player abstractedly. - -“Aye, Master Shakespeare, and even when it goes afoot!” said the -tailor, whose mind was more pedestrian. “It does a man good, I always -think, to have a sight of the quality now and again. But as I say, -Master Shakespeare, it is nothing to you who go to Court like a -gentleman.” - -But the part-proprietor of the Globe Theatre was not heeding the words -of his friend. The light that never was on sea or land had come into -those somber eyes. Suddenly his hand struck the tailor’s counter a -great blow. “That is an adorable miniard,” he said. “By my soul, if -Gloriana requires a comedy, here is matter for a comedy for Gloriana!” - - - - -CHAPTER III - - -IN the meantime, the unconscious cause of Mr. William Shakespeare’s -enthusiasm was proceeding somewhat arrogantly through the streets of -the town. Mistress Anne Feversham was mightily proud of herself, of -her young blood-horse, of her pied merlin, above all of her brand-new -hawking-breeches, which she had had the audacity to copy from two -particularly dashing ladies of the Court who had accompanied the Queen -on her recent visit to Nottingham. - -As for John Markham, she was proud of him too. He made a fine squire. -But nothing would have induced her to let him know it. None the less -surely was he subdued to her purposes. A wise fellow in all things -else, he was the true knight, the ready slave of his young mistress. -And his young mistress was imperious. - -High temper was in every clean-run line of her. It was in the eye, -a thing of mist and fire, gloriously placed like that of one of -Leonardo’s ladies. It was in the nose, curved like the beak of her -merlin; in the delicate molding of the chin and mouth, in the slender -column of the throat, in the poise of the head, in the supple assurance -of the body which ruled a beast of mettle and goaded it into setting -up its will for the pleasure of subduing it. - -John Markham, with a head beyond his years, was passing wise for his -station. He was no ordinary servant, but one high in the regard of -Sir John Feversham, the Constable of Nottingham Castle, that grim -pile half-a-mile off, rising sheer from its rock in the midst of the -water-meadows. Learned in hawking, he was esteemed by gentle and simple -for many a mile. His skill in the craft of princes had even carried his -fame as far as Belvoir, under whose shadow he had been bred. He was a -shrewd, a skilful, a bold young fellow, wise in all things except that -he worshiped the ground upon which his young mistress trod. - -That was the fault of his youth. He had been less than he was, far -less, could he have attended her pleasure without dreaming of her in -the long watches of the night, or desiring in his hours of madness -that she should plunge into his heart the silver-hilted poniard she -wore at her waist. This was her eighteenth birthday, and he was rising -twenty-five. She was rich, important, beautiful, capricious. For she -was the only child and heiress of the greatest man for ten miles round. - -And he, who was he? Well, if the truth must be told, he was the byblow -of a kitchen-wench and one of great place who had shown him not a spark -of kindness. Yes, if the truth must be told--and John Markham thanked -no man for telling it--born and bred under the shadow of Belvoir, given -the soul and the features of a noble race, but without birth, favor or -education, except that he was learned in hawking. Encased in that fine -livery was a strong, tormented soul. - -His young mistress never allowed him to forget that he was a servant. -In her gentlest moods she would throw her words to him as if he had -been a dog. She knew he was her slave, happy only in his chains, one -barred by fortune from an equality she could never forgive his not -being able to claim. His passive acceptance of the bar seemed to make -her cruel. He was so tall, so brave, so handsome; not a man in all the -county of Notts could cast a main of hawks like him. Only a month ago -the Queen had praised him to his face. Yet was he like a hound that -came to heel at her word, or a horse that took sugar out of her hand -without hurting it. In the presence of others he could be proud enough, -but in hers he was as humble as the meanest of her servants, who asks -only to be allowed to wait upon her will. - -At this moment, be it said, the will of Mistress Anne was making John -Markham decidedly unhappy. It had done so indeed for a fortnight past. -In the Queen’s train during her recent visit to Sir John, his master, -at the Castle, had come the ladies of her household. Among these had -been two who, not to put too fine a point upon the matter, had given -Mistress Anne ideas. Brazenly enough as it had seemed to chaste minds, -yet it was to be feared with the sanction of their august mistress, had -they gone a-hawking in the meadows astride their horses, the nether -woman arrayed in brown leather galligaskins! - -Honest John Markham was not alone in his horror of so sad a spectacle. -More than one graybeard had wagged over it in the buttery; more than -one prim kirtle had lamented it bitterly in the hall. What were the -women of England coming to, if the highest in the land--! The matter -was one scarce fit for persons of delicacy. If such a practice spread, -who should say to what heights ere long the vaunting spirit of woman -would aspire? - -Alas! the matter had not ended here. Mistress Anne, in the very -insolence of daring, had seen the last word in modishness in this most -perilous innovation. Nothing would content her but that she should have -a pair of leather hawking-breeches for her wear. John Markham, that -trusty henchman, was sent at once to Master Nicholas Tidey, the man’s -tailor of Nottingham, with careful instructions from his mistress. - -She was not able herself to visit that worthy, because she had been -expressly forbidden by her father to pass through the town gate. Thus -had the task been laid upon John Markham of haranguing the accomplished -Master Tidey. And in the last resort he summoned that famous craftsman -in person to the Castle, since it presently appeared that there are -subtleties in the design of a pair of hawking-breeches which cannot be -dealt with by third parties. Finally John it was who bore the sinister -parcel into the Castle under cover of night, carrying it with his -own faithful hands into the presence of the lady on the eve of the -eighteenth anniversary of her birth. - -Truly a very perilous innovation. Honest John did not go beyond that. -Whether that other honest John, his master, from whom she derived her -over-riding temper, would be content with such a moderation--well, that -was a matter that the future would soon be called upon to decide. - -Mistress Anne, riding slowly down the street ten yards ahead of the -falconer, checking her blood-horse, Cytherea, with one hand and holding -her pied merlin in the other, was a picture to haunt the young man’s -dreams for many a day to come. Already she had much skill in the art -he had taught her: she could bring down her bird with the best; she -sat her horse like a young goddess; the galligaskins of supple brown -leather--alas! that was a subject to which the honest fellow durst not -lend his mind. - -As they rode through the town, many a sly glance was stolen at the -wearer of the brown leather galligaskins. But the expression on the -face of the falconer said clearly enough: “Be wary of your gaze, my -masters. There is a broken costard for any who are froward of eye.” - -Nevertheless Mistress Anne made a nine days’ wonder in the ancient -borough of Nottingham. Presently the town was behind them. Instead of -returning straight to the Castle, they made for the open meadows all -spread with blue and white and yellow crocuses, which in the spring of -the year weave their vivid carpet by the banks of Trent. Soon they had -come to the narrow wooden bridge that spanned the broad and deep river. -John Markham’s horse, young and half-broken, suddenly took exception to -the quick-flowing torrent under its feet. It swerved so sharply that it -all but threw him. - -Hearing the sound of the fierce scuffle, Mistress Anne looked back. She -was in time to see John struggling to regain the saddle from which he -had so nearly parted company. “Clumsy fellow!” she cried. “You sit your -horse like a----” - -While she was in the act of finding a figure of speech to meet the -case, her own horse realized its opportunity. Nor was it slow to turn -it to account. Cytherea made a thoroughly competent attempt to pitch -her rider into the river. She just failed, it is true, but that was -more because her luck was out than for any lack of honest intention. - -Cytherea’s bold rider was no believer in half measures. She soon had -her in hand, duly admonished her with shrewd jabs of her long spurs and -came a second time within an ace of being flung into the river. Not -brooking cold steel, Cytherea fought for her head like a tigress. She -got her forefeet onto the low rail of the bridge. There was a desperate -moment of uncertainty, in which the issue hung in the balance, and then -Cytherea had to bring her forefeet down again. - -“The fault is yours, John Markham,” said Cytherea’s rider. “You are, I -say, a clumsy fellow. You sit your horse like a--” Again she paused to -find a simile worthy of the occasion. “You sit your horse like a sack -of peas.” - -John did not reply, but hung his diminished head. - -“Here, take the merlin,” said his mistress, and by now there was a -steady light in her eyes. “And give me that whip of yours.” - -But the falconer, fully conscious of his daring, summoned all his -courage. “Wait till we are across the bridge, I pray you, mistress.” - -“Give me your whip, sirrah. If this rude beast gets me into the river -I’ll warrant she comes in herself.” - -“No, mistress,” said the falconer. “I dare not. The rail is too low and -the bridge is too narrow.” - -“Hand it to me at once, I say!” The face of Cytherea’s wilful rider was -full of menace. - -Never before had the falconer dared to oppose her will, but it was -almost certain death if now he obeyed it. - -“Do you not hear me, sirrah?” - -“You shall have it, mistress, as soon as we are across the bridge.” - -There was nothing for it but to wait until they had gained the opposite -bank. Once among the crocuses, the lady reined in the still mutinous -Cytherea with no light hand. She then turned her unruly steed to meet -that of the falconer. - -“Now, sirrah!” - -The gauntleted hand was held out grimly. The eyes were like stars in -their dark luster; and in the center of each cheek burned a glowing -crimson. - -John Markham lifted the merlin from the fist of his mistress. Then he -gave her the whip. There was not a drop of blood in his cheeks. His -fixed, unfearing gaze had not a shade of defiance; but it was as if the -upturned face almost invited that which awaited it. - -“You fool!” - -The whip descended sharply, but without haste, on the lithe and -beautiful flanks of the astonished Cytherea. One, two, three. It was -a hazardous proceeding. For more than one long minute the issue lay -in doubt. But skill and high courage gained the day. The dignity of a -daughter of men was vindicated at the expense of the dignity of the -daughter of goddesses. - -“I thank you, John Markham.” - -She returned the whip to the falconer with almost an air of kindness. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - - -THIS was a brave thing, already out to set up its will against the -world. And of the little world in which she lived her father was the -center of authority. He was an august man, high in the service of the -Queen. His explicit word was not lightly to be disobeyed. And it had -gone forth with no uncertainty. Upon no pretext must Mistress Anne -Feversham enter the town of Nottingham, which nestled close about the -Castle rock. - -But she was eighteen years old this day, of a head-strong blood, -motherless, craving adventure. The fire in her veins was mounting -high. It must have an outlet, it must find escape from within the grim -precincts of that old fortress which had begun to press upon her life. - -Alas! as they returned to the Castle after an hour’s larking among the -crocuses, John Markham’s heart sank. He had been a party to a forbidden -thing. And he knew not what pains, what penalties might overtake the -charming culprit if her naughtiness came to his master’s ear. Moreover, -a share of the consequences was like to fall upon himself. But the -falconer was not the man to care very much about that. He would have -asked nothing better than to be allowed to pay the whole of that -reckoning which he knew very well was bound sooner or later to confront -his young mistress. - -That young woman fully realized her guilt. Yet she was far from being -afraid. Indeed, as they rode back in the glow of the April sunset -to the stern house which kept the old town in awe, she was like a -strong-winged bird that knew already the power of its pinions. The -brief and sharp battle with Cytherea, whose end had been a proper -mending of manners for that unruly beast, had put her in great heart. -She was keen for a further display of her powers. Never had she used -her servant with such a magnanimity, never with such a humorous -indulgence. - -It was as if she would say to all the world: “See what a will I have. -Be it known to all men it is vain for any to oppose it.” - -Nevertheless John Markham was sad at heart. Out of his high devotion -to her she might command him anything, but well he knew there could -only be one end to this overweening mood. The galligaskins were a sore -matter, although the Constable had not seen them yet. As for the visit -to the town, it was neither more nor less than an open flout to his -authority. John had a troubled heart as they passed through the Castle -gate. - -As if to confirm the falconer in his fears, Mistress Anne was informed -by the porter of the lodge as they passed through the gate that the -Constable desired her immediate presence in his own apartment. - -“For what purpose does he seek it?” The question was asked with the -impatience of a spoiled child. - -“I know not, mistress,” said the porter gravely. “I do but know that -when the Constable returned from his ride in the town he asked for you -and left the message I have given.” - -“When did Sir John return?” - -“Not an hour ago, mistress.” - -In the courtyard, with an air of resolute laughter, Mistress Anne -yielded her horse to the falconer’s care. Unabashed, in her amazing -garment, which set off her long-flanked slenderness adorably, she -strode into the great house. The fine, free gait was not without -a suspicion of a manly swagger, which the Queen’s ladies had also -affected. Boldly and fearlessly she entered the presence of the august -Sir John Feversham. - -The Constable was seated alone in his dark-paneled room. It was easy -to see whence came his young daughter’s handsome looks and strength of -will. It was a face that few of that age could have matched for power -and masculine beauty. The gray eyes had a very direct and searching -quality, the forehead was lofty and ascetic; indeed the man’s whole -aspect proclaimed that here was one who had learned many high secrets -not only of the body, but of the soul. - -This was not a man to be trifled with, and none knew that better than -his daughter. But this unhappy day she was a young woman overborne by a -sense of her own consequence. - -“You sent for me, Sir John.” The voice was half defiance, half disdain. - -“Yes, mistress, I did so.” - -The tones of the Constable were a deep, slow growl. They were used in a -way of such reluctance that it seemed a pain to utter them. - -“Wherefore, Sir John, did you send for me?” The half-humorous tones -were all of innocence. - -The Constable’s reply was a grave stroking of the chin. The stern gaze -began very slowly to traverse the culprit as she stood in all her -sauciness, in all her defiance. Not a detail of her manners or of her -attire escaped those grim eyes. “Why did I send for you? Do you venture -to ask the question?” - -In spite of her reckless courage the tones sent little shivers through -Mistress Anne. - -“Yes, Sir John, I do.” She had summoned all that she had of boldness. - -“As you dare to ask the question, I will answer it.” It was as if the -Constable turned over each word very carefully in his stern heart -before it was born upon his grim lips. “First I would say to you, -daughter, there is a long and ever-growing accompt between you and me -which has begun to cry aloud for a settlement. I ask you, is it not so?” - -Mistress Anne was silent. Even her strength of will had begun at last -to fail before this slow-gathering vehemence. Once before, and once -only, had she heard that tone in her father’s voice. Many years had -passed since then, but on hearing it again the occasion suddenly came -back to her, bringing with it a kind of vivid horror. - -“Is it not so, I ask you?” - -The tone was that of a judge. - -“Daily have I marked a growing frowardness, daily have I marked a -higher measure of your impudency.” The careful words had no unkindness. -“It is but a week since these ears heard you mock at the color of the -hair of the Queen’s most gracious majesty. Is it not so?” - -Mistress Anne had no wish to deny that. - -“And now to-day do I find you tricked out in a manner whose wicked -unseemliness passes all belief. Furthermore, in open defiance of my -command, you have entered the town. Is it not so?” - -The culprit had no word now. The imperious valor was routed utterly. - -“I do fear me,” said the Constable, “you are in the toils of a disease -which admits only of the sharpest remedy. Week by week have I remarked -an ever-growing sauciness. It is a malady which in man or woman, horse -or hound, can only be met in one way.” - -The Constable rose slowly from his chair. He was a tall, powerful man, -and very formidable and even terrible he looked. He took down a heavy -hunting-whip which hung from a nail on the wall. His daughter had not -imagination enough to be terrified easily. Moreover for her years she -had a particularly resolute will. It was this that an imminent peril -restored to her. - -“I will not be beaten,” she said, with proud defiance. “This day I am -eighteen years old. This day I am a woman, and being a woman I will do -in all things as it pleases me.” - -The Constable ran the long whip through his fingers. “Oh and soh, -mistress,” said he, “this day you claim the estate of womanhood. And -having come to that high condition you put forth a modest claim to do -in all things as you would. Well, I am bound to say I have heard that a -number of the women of the present age have these froward ideas. But -it is new to me that there are any so vain as to practice them.” - -“Wherefore should they not, Sir John?” The clear and brave eyes of his -daughter were fixed on his own. “Is it not that in all things a woman -is the equal of a man, as the Queen herself has shown, always except in -those wherein she is a man’s superior?” - -Again the Constable caressed the whip as though he loved it. “These be -very perilous ideas,” he said. “I had not thought this canker had bit -so deep. Of all the diseases that afflict our sorry age I believe there -is none so vile as that which leads a young gentlewoman of careful and -modest nurture to speeches of such an idle vanity. As I am a Christian -man I can hardly believe my ears.” - -“Sir John, it is the truth I speak. And has not the Queen herself -approved it?” - -“Nay, mistress, I would have you use that name more modestly,” said the -Constable. But now in his eyes was a light that turned her cold. - -Very gently the great thong was being shaken out. The long and cruel -length was uncoiling itself like that of a serpent, so that now it lay -crouching in wait among the rushes of the floor. - -“I will not be beaten,” was all that Anne could gasp. “I am this day a -woman.” - -With a sudden chill of despair she knew that she was helpless. And -if she had not known, in the very next instant that cruel fact would -have been revealed to her. With a surprising dexterous swiftness for -which she was not prepared, the slender wrist was twisted in a lock so -cunning that to struggle would be to break the arm. - -“As I am a Christian man it is my duty to cut away so damnable a -heresy.” The sharp, hissing words came through shut teeth. - -The defenceless form was held at arm’s length. In the implacable eyes -of the Constable was the sinister fanaticism which is not afraid to -wound itself. - - - - -CHAPTER V - - -“OH, mistress!” - -A voice that had music in it sounded from the top of the high wall. - -Anne had spent a dreadful night of pain and misery in one of the milder -of the Castle dungeons. That is to say, it was above the ground. Also -it was free of vermin, it was tolerably well lit, and was provided -with a small inclosed yard open to the sky, but surrounded by a high -wall garnished with spikes. Her first night of womanhood had been of -a bitterness she had not thought it possible to know. There had only -been a crust of bread, a jug of water and a bare pallet to assuage her -tears. She had crept out of her cell in the darkness, and at last, -quite exhausted, had fallen asleep under the April stars, with but a -slab of icy stone to ease her hurts. - -But now the dawn was come, and from far overhead a charming voice -saluted her waking ears. - -She looked up. A fair head crowned with morning was thrust between the -close-set spikes. A young man with the bravest eyes in the world was -gazing down compassionately upon her. - -“Oh, mistress!” - -Almost involuntarily she drew the cloak which had been given her -the closer about her aches. But it was not possible to conceal her -pathetic, her terrible distress. - -“Oh, mistress!” - -For the third time the charming voice saluted her ears, not mockingly, -not unkindly, not even curiously. In it was a gentleness, a subtle -power of sympathy that, do as she would, started her tears anew. She -drew the cloak closer about her shoulders, as if by so doing she could -conceal the fact that she had been used very grievously. - -“You have been a-weeping, mistress.” - -It was idle to deny a fact so plain. - -Yesterday she would have met this boldness in a very different way. But -that was past. In one long night of intolerable anguish her very nature -had suffered a change. - -“For why do you weep, mistress?” - -Again was the voice like music. She could not forbear to look up into -the dawn, which framed with its golden rose a fair head and a pair of -brave, honest and gentle eyes. - -“Is it for a grievous fault? Nay, but I am sure it is not.” - -The tone was all kindness, all concern. Besides, there was some strange -magic in it that had never sounded in her ears until that hour. - -“Never tell me, mistress, that you are to have your head cut off on -Tuesday by order of the Queen.” - -The words were spoken in a manner almost whimsical. But as, startled -and perhaps a little terrified, she gazed up to meet those eyes she -suddenly saw that unutterable things lay behind their laughter. - -The words, the look seemed almost to sicken her. And then like a -strong wine a thrill of compassion ran in her veins. She rose to her -feet unsteadily. Her body was so weak that she had to lean it against -the wall. A thousand intolerable aches returned. She opened her lips to -speak, but her voice was mute. - -Looking down upon her distress, the eyes of the young man were as full -of compassion as her own. The face of the girl was stained and swollen -with tears; she could hardly check a groan when she moved; the cloak -slipping from her shoulders revealed under the torn bodice the cruel -marks of the whip. - -“Oh, mistress!” The voice was tender as the missel-thrush. “What was -your fault that this should have been done to you? But whatever it was, -sweet mistress, you have had savage payment.” - -Even as she hid her own she knew that the gentle eyes were brimming -with pity. - -But what were these slight aches of hers in the comparison with his own -grim pass? On Tuesday he was to have his head cut off by order of the -Queen. Suddenly a wild flood of anguish surged at her heart. Could such -a thing be under the light of heaven? He so fair, so kind, with the -fire of youth in his eyes, must the rich and glad life be torn from him -in a manner so unspeakable within a space of four short days? - -Again she sought to speak. This time words came; at first few and -fitful, but warm from a heart all broken with pity. “They will kill you -on Tuesday?” she said. - -The horror that ran like ice in her veins thrilled in her voice. - -“Yes, mistress. The Queen has signed the warrant. And I have done as -little to deserve death as this fair April morning that I cannot bear -to lose. But no matter. I have had three-and-twenty years of this -golden life, so I have no ground of complaint.” - -His courage spoke to her like a noble action. - -“For why will they kill you?” Her heart was choking her. - -“They say I was concerned with Money the Papist in the Woodgate House -plot against the Queen’s life. Two subtle knaves have sworn it, but as -I desire to go to heaven I am an entirely innocent man.” - -She never doubted him. It was impossible to doubt such eyes, such a -voice, such a noble bearing. - -“I know not Money nor Woodgate House, and so far from desiring the -life of the Queen I am the faithfullest if I am also the least of her -Majesty’s servants.” - -“Oh, it must not be!” she cried in a kind of passion. - -“There is no means to prevent it,” said the young man. “The judges -would not hear my book oath. But I think my peace is made with God. I -am already composed for the scaffold, as I hope and believe, although -it is bitterly sore to me to leave a world such as this. Yet if I -complain I shall be unworthy of my twenty-three years of glorious life. -But tell me, mistress, of your own case. What have you done that they -should use you so cruelly? It cuts me to the soul to see you like this.” - -But she could give no heed now to her own pains. Her mind was filled -with horror, with a rage of pity. His bearing was so noble, so full of -an instant tenderness, and in four brief days he must die by the ax in -the pride and splendor of his youth. - -“Oh, I cannot bear it,” she cried. “I cannot think of you as at the -point of death.” - -The potent wine of youth in her own veins rendered the thought -intolerable. Such a rush of anguish came upon her young heart as made -even the long miseries of the night seem of no account. - -“No, no, it cannot be. I must speak to my father.” - -“Pray, who is your father, mistress?” - -“My father is Sir John Feversham, the Constable of this Castle.” - -“Alas! mistress, it is he who read to me the Queen’s warrant. He of all -men cannot help me, for it is he who is pledged to do the Queen’s will.” - -She who yesterday had ventured to proclaim herself the equal of all men -was now shaken with a storm of weeping. “I will go myself to the Queen -and swear to her your innocence.” - -“Alas! mistress, there is no time. Besides, she would not heed you. A -subtle enemy has done his work, and I have given up all hope of life. -But by God’s grace on Tuesday I am determined to die well.” - -Her sorrow for this brave man was a thing to see. The proud heart was -wrung with a distress that her own cruel suffering may have rendered -more poignant. Yesterday, in the hour of her shallow arrogance, -compassion for his fate might have irked her less. But since then she -had known the dark night of the soul. Something seemed to have broken -inside her heart. Henceforward in her plastic woman’s nature would be a -subtle kinship with all great suffering, since she herself had known it. - -“Is there naught I may do to save you?” - -“There is nothing, mistress. Yet I love you for your pitiful heart, -and I’ll promise you that on Tuesday I’ll walk the firmer for it. But -do not consider me, I pray you. I do not think I am unhappy. I would -that you were not, sweet mistress. Tell me why you have been used so -cruelly?” - -His voice was grave and beguiling, like one whose soul has deep places -in it. In despite of the slow agony of her tears she had no choice but -to heed it. There was in his tender speech a quality that melted her -resolve as though it had been but a flake of snow. - -“Tell me, sweet mistress, I pray you.” - -How could she tell him of her frowardness? How could she tell him of -the setting up of her stubborn will and of the grievous fashion of its -breaking? How could she tell him that in a single night she was cured -forever of the folly of holding herself other than she was? - -But his gentle insistence was beyond her power to put off. - -“I have been beaten,” she said with utter humility. “And all that has -been done to me is no more than my merit.” - -It was the elemental woman breaking from the soul that yesterday was so -vainglorious. The young man looking upon her from his precarious coign -felt his heart leap to her in her abasement. In the delicacy of her -youth she was the fairest thing upon which ever he had set his eyes. -It hurt him keener than his own fate that a beauty so rare should, -whatever its faults, have been chastened so cruelly. - -All that there was of chivalry in his tender soul went out to her in -her desolation. In his three-and-twenty years of life he had never -known love, but by God’s grace was it given that he would not have to -die without tasting the rarest of all mortal experiences. - -“Mistress”--his heart leaped in his throat so that he could hardly -breathe--“Give me your name, sweet mistress, and I will promise as God -is in His heaven that on Tuesday morning when Gervase Heriot comes to -die by the ax he shall pass with your name upon his lips.” - -Like wells of soft light her eyes shone up to him. “My name is Anne,” -she said, with a simplicity that yesterday had not been hers. - -“Mistress Anne, will you pray for me when I am passing?” - -He could not hear her answer, yet he knew what it was. - -“God keep you, sweet mistress! God keep you forever! I will bear your -name on my lips through all the wide fields of eternity.” - -These high-vaunting words were his last. No longer could he keep his -precarious hold on the top of the wall. The strain on arms and knees -was too much. Suddenly the eyes so full of courage and pity were lost -to her. - -Anne was left to reel against the wall of her prison, shaken with an -anguish more terrible than any the long night had known. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - - -GERVASE HERIOT had entered upon the last hours of his life. It was -arranged that he should die at eight o’clock of the April morning. He -lay in his cell during the watches of the night that was to be his -last upon earth, with every sense a-stretch. Try as he would--and -God only could know how he had fought during these last weeks for -self-mastery--he could not subdue the insurgency of ardent blood, the -intense desire to live. - -He was too young for death. He loved the sun, the blue sky, the green -grass, the birds in the trees, the spring flowers, the abundant, -sweet-smelling earth. He loved his fellow-men. They amused and -interested him. He adored the beauty of women. His ears were attuned to -delicate harmonies of sound, his eyes were ravished by feasts of color. - -The world, that wonderful assemblance of things visible, entranced him -in its glad, mysterious majesty. There was the soul of a poet in a -frame all a-quiver with youth. As he lay in his cell in the darkness, -tossing feverishly upon his pallet through the slow hours, he could not -bear the thought that all too soon he would see the sun rise for the -last time. - -It drove him nearly mad to think that he must leave it all, that -his brief sojourn upon the fair and noble earth which he loved so -passionately was at an end. He was too strong of blood for such a -death. With all the force of his will had he striven to compose -himself. Many prayers had he addressed to God that it might be given -to him to meet his fate with the high dignity that was the due of -his manhood. But as now he lay shuddering in the darkness, do as he -would he could not bring his mind to accept the end. Times and again -he pressed his wild eyes to his pallet with a half-strangled moan of -despair. - -The fact that he was an entirely innocent man did nothing to console -him. Indeed, had he been guilty, death had been less hard to bear. But -coming to him in this arbitrary, unjust guise, its cruel causelessness -set his every fiber in revolt. - -Faint sounds began to creep through the night. All too soon his -quivering senses caught them. Subtle as they were, he knew them at once -for the noise of hammers upon wood. O God! they were setting up the -scaffold in the courtyard. In spite of the strength he had won in these -last few weeks he rolled off the pallet onto his knees and began to -pray wildly. A fever shook his mind. His new-found strength was leaving -him. Death--and such a death!--was a thing he did not know how to meet. -A grim terror took hold of him. - -And then a thing happened to him which shook the central forces of his -being. - -Suddenly he saw the face of Anne. He saw it all wan and swollen with -tears. And as he looked he saw the eyes grow starlike and great with -their compassion. And then he remembered his vaunt to her that he would -walk firmly in his last hour, and that her name should be upon his -lips. Her image was hardly more than that of a mortal daughter of men; -but that which had sprung from her own bruised spirit, which looked out -of her eyes as now he saw them in the darkness, was the only evidence -he had of the Eternal. Some immortal essence had fused her heart as so -humbly and so pitifully she had looked up to him. Through those eyes he -had seen God. - -Such a thought had the power to offer a measure of ease to his -torments. The dreadful tumult began to grow less. Those eyes were as -stars in that gross darkness. No longer was he afraid. A strange peace -had begun to bear him upon its wings. - -No longer had he cause to fear the noise of the hammers. Let the -morning break. Let death come when it would. His fainting spirit had -now a manifestation to which to cling. He would walk to the scaffold -with this noble image in his heart, and it should accompany him forever -in his wanderings through the wide fields of eternity. - -He crept back to his pallet, and stretched out his fever-racked limbs -to their full length. A profound peace was enfolding him. If only death -could come now! - -Long he lay thus, and as he lay he strained his eyes to catch the first -faint light of the dawn. Would it never arrive? All his fear now was -lest this new strength should flee as suddenly as it had been given. -But no!--the ineffable spirit that had entered into him would continue -through all eternity to bear his soul. - -At last and quite suddenly a more instant sound began to mingle with -the distant noise of the hammers. A key was grating in the lock of the -door. Yes, his hour was here at last and he had not known it. With a -feeling akin to relief he sat up on his pallet. - -He heard the door creak gently. It then came open with so little -sound as to thrill him with surprise. A faint thread of light gleamed -fitfully. But whoever was the visitant, he was accompanied by a silence -so profound as to fill Gervase Heriot with wonder. It was not thus that -his jailers had been wont to visit him. - -“Mr. Heriot.” - -The name was breathed rather than spoken. There was a curious -familiarity in the voice as it stole through the darkness. His heart -seemed to stop beating. - -He tried to answer, but could not. - -“Mr. Heriot.” - -Beyond the faint rays of a half-shuttered lantern was the outline of a -dark form. - -“Mr. Heriot.” - -His name was being breathed in his ears. A hand had touched him. - -“Oh, it is you!” were the first words his tongue could find. - -“Do not speak,” whispered Anne Feversham. “Do not make a sound. But if -you would live follow close without a question.” - -He rose from his pallet unsteadily. He was utterly bewildered and very -weak from many vigils. But already the lantern had begun to move away -from him, and it was a talisman that had the power to draw him after it. - -Almost before he was aware of what he did he realized that he was -beyond the door of his cell. - -“Please wait while I lock the door again,” whispered his deliverer, “so -that they may not know too soon.” - -Her deliberation, her calmness filled him with wonder. - -Step by step they groped their way along a very narrow corridor that -smelled close and evil. The damp glistened from the walls in the light -of the lantern. - -With infinite caution they made their way to the end of the long -passage. And as they neared its end there arose the sound of a man -snoring heavily. A jailer was fast asleep on a low stool that had been -placed just within the outer door of the prison. He was a gross-looking -fellow, and his large legs were stretched out to the full, barring -completely the narrow way. - -They used great caution in striding over these legs lest they should -wake their owner. When they had safely cleared this obstacle Anne gave -Gervase the lantern, and also a poniard from a belt which she wore -round her waist. “I am going to replace the keys in his girdle,” she -whispered resolutely. “I do not think he will wake; a powder has been -shaken into his posset. But should you see him rousing himself, plunge -the dagger into his heart. I have not the courage to do it myself.” - -With a delicate deftness, with a cool precision that was remarkable, -Anne reattached the keys to the girdle of the sleeping man. He did not -so much as stir in his sleep. - -“Now!” she whispered. - -In the next moment they had crept noiselessly through the unbarred -outer door. The cool morning air rushed upon them. They felt the -delicious green turf under their feet. - -For all that the shrewd air played about the condemned man’s temples, -for all that the soft grass was under him, for all that a young moon -and a sky of faint stars was over his head, he could hardly believe he -was alive, or if alive could hardly realize he was broad awake. - -Less than a hundred yards away, round an angle of the great building, -the hammers were still mutilating the peace of the night. As Gervase -and Anne stood to listen, not knowing what to do next and uncertain -of the way to go, since peril hemmed them in on every side, they were -greatly startled by a scrunch of feet on the gravel quite close to -them. There was a sudden drone of voices which told them that two men -were quickly approaching the spot on which they stood. Indeed they had -barely time to put out the light of the lantern and to crouch close -under the shadow of the huge wall of the prison before the men passed -them. - -They came so near that they almost touched Anne and Gervase as they -knelt. They heard the men open the door through which they had just -come, and as it swung back, so close were Anne and Gervase to it that -it concealed them behind it. - -The sudden flash of the light that one of the men carried was very -terrifying. - -“Wake up, Nick.” The rough voice the other side of the door was so -loud in the ears of the fugitives that they held their breaths. “Wake -up, Nick.” They heard the man grunt as he gave a vigorous shake to the -turnkey, who was still snoring tremendously. “What a devil you are for -sleeping and drinking! Master Norris the headsman is here and would -have a few words with the condemned.” - -A perfect tornado of shakes accompanied the words, which yielded -presently to a series of kicks. Evidently the business of arousing the -turnkey was to prove no light one. - -“Wake, you drunken fool. Here is Master Norris the headsman, don’t you -hear? Are you going to keep us here all day?” - -Hardly daring to draw breath, Anne and Gervase continued to kneel close -behind the open door. Their terror and their peril suddenly made Anne -desperate. Not daring to speak, she plucked her companion’s sleeve; and -then putting all to the touch and keeping close under the shadow of the -wall, she started to creep away on hands and knees from this position -of imminent danger. Even by the time they had made a distance of fifty -yards in this painful fashion, and had set a buttress of the Castle -between them and the open door, they could still hear the indignant -voice of him who had laid upon himself the task of rousing the sleeping -jailer. - -They could breathe a little now. But their position was still one of -very great peril. The whole place seemed to be astir. Men and lights -were moving in all directions. Voices of soldiers, workmen and servants -of the Castle were all about them. As yet there was not a single fleck -of the dawn to be seen, but already the birds had begun their early -notes. Daybreak must be very near. - -Not for an instant must they stay in the place they were now in. Even -as they knelt close by the wall they expected to hear the startled -outcry that would announce the escape of the condemned man. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - - -THEY had only one hope of getting free. By some means they must cross -the open courtyard, and creep round to the Castle gate before the -coming dawn had time to reveal them. - -On hands and knees they made for the open. With no longer the shadow of -the Castle walls to conceal them, their peril was greatly increased. -More than once they stopped and lay full length on the ground, so near -they were to discovery. It seemed as if they would never be able to get -to the point they had fixed upon, which was the precarious shelter of a -few stunted shrubs growing near to the Castle gate. - -It was a long while before they could reach that security. Not long -perhaps in point of fact but an age in experience. Each time they lay -down on the hard cobblestones to avoid some new danger they expected -the dread proclamation to ring in their ears. It seemed little short of -a miracle, such was their exaggeration of events, that the escape was -not known already. - -At last they were come to the place they sought, hard by the gate. And -here it was that the Providence which thus far had used them so well -seemed now to desert them. To their horror they realized that the east -was already light. The only hope of getting clear had been to slip -unseen through the gate at a moment it might chance to be open for the -admission of others. But from the first they had known that daylight -would make the risk too great to admit of any such expedient. - -They must find some other way. Yet Anne well knew there was no -other way. The Castle was surrounded by walls it was impossible to -scale, except on the south side. Here the parapet was low, and for -a sufficient reason. Beyond the south wall the Castle rock ended -abruptly. A terrible chasm, hundreds of feet in depth, lurked beneath. - -They had soon decided that the gate could not avail them now. Thus they -crept away to the left in the direction of the south wall, taking cover -as they went beneath a row of laurel-bushes. But no sooner had they -reached the wall than they saw, even in the gray twilight, that it was -certain death to climb it and hazard a descent of the sheer precipice -on the farther side. What could they do? Every moment it was growing -lighter. - -By now Gervase had shaken off his lethargy. One who has lain weeks in -a prison and has composed himself for death can hardly be expected to -take occasion by the hand. But the fine and keen air of the morning and -the almost miraculous chance of life that had been given him had done -much to restore his numbed faculties. A resolve had already been born -in his heart to sell his life very dearly. In the last resort he was -determined to attempt the almost impassable face of the cliff. - -But there was his brave companion. She seemed to read his mind. And -reading it she summoned the courage of despair. “If there is no other -way we will crawl down the rock,” she said. - -“It would be death, mistress.” - -The clear eyes that were so unafraid shone like stars through the gray -light. “I do not fear death,” she said in a low voice. “Rather death -than the whip or a dungeon underground.” - -Dismally he realized that there was no answer to this argument. “We -will go together, mistress, wherever it be--unless--” a deadly chill -corroded the young man’s veins--“I walk back to my prison.” - -“No, no,” said his deliverer tensely. “Anything rather than that.” - -Every minute it was growing lighter. They crouched under the scanty -cover of the laurel-bushes, not knowing which way to turn or what to -do. All their senses were strung to catch the alarm they were ever -expecting to hear. But the miracle still endured; the alarm was not yet -given. Yet it was impossible that it could be much longer delayed. - -In despair they crept farther along the wall. They must choose a -place for the grisly descent, yet even as they looked far down over -the parapet of the wall they hardly knew how to face such a hideous -alternative. - -“It is certain death for us both,” said Gervase. “It is better that I -returned to my prison if you are sure there is no other way of escape.” - -“Do you fear the rock?” The firm voice was low and calm. - -“For you I fear it, mistress.” - -The starlike eyes pierced him with their light. “For myself,” said -Anne, “I fear only to be left alive.” Very deliberately she took the -dagger from her belt. “Wherever you go,” she said as she offered it by -the hilt, “I would have you plunge this into my heart rather than you -left me.” - -His cold fingers trembled on the hilt of the dagger, but even as -they touched it he knew that such a deed was far beyond his present -strength. “Better the rock than that,” he said. - -“Yes, better the rock.” - -Such a steadfast courage was like wine in his veins. Suddenly he flung -his arms about her and folded her to him. One slow kiss was pressed -upon the upturned mouth. Certain death awaited them, and they were -young to die, but there was now no way of life. And at least by God’s -mercy they had known one high moment which paid for all. - -It was the man’s part first to mount the parapet. Shuddering in every -vein, he began to climb up to it. He was not a coward, but the desire -of life was running desperately high. The girl followed close after -him. Her will was firmer than his because her imagination was less. - -Gervase had nearly reached the coping of the low stone wall when Anne -caught at his heel and drew him down again. “See,” she cried. “Is not -that a hole in the ground along there by that farthest bush?” - -“It may be so,” said the young man, fearing for his resolve. “But let -us not look back. If this were done let it be done now.” - -But sudden resolution had come upon Anne. Or was it that resolution was -failing her? At least with this new and faint hope she was able to draw -Gervase from the wall. His will had been strung to meet the death he -feared with all his soul, but the passion of life in his pulses heeded -her call in spite of himself. - -There was a void, it seemed, gaping in the ground behind the bushes -but a few yards off. But Gervase could scarce drag his body towards it -as they crept close by the wall to see what it might be. For now he -felt with a dull sense of terror that the great moment was past. His -insurgent nerves told him that not again in cold blood would he climb -to the parapet of the wall. - -From this new errand he looked for no deliverance. But as soon as they -came near they saw that the void, barely visible in the gray light, was -a hole in the ground. It seemed to be a kind of cavern or deep passage -burrowing far down into the very bowels of the earth. As far as they -could discern it was provided with rude steps of stone, and the mouth -of the cavern was protected by an iron grating. - -They did not wait upon one another’s word, but at once and together put -forth all their strength to remove this barrier. It was so heavy that -it scarcely yielded at first. But sheer desperation armed them, so that -at last they were able to move the grating sufficiently to permit first -one of their slender bodies and then the other to squeeze through the -narrow opening into the total darkness that lay beyond. - -By the time they had descended three steps they could see nothing. -Absolute night yawned under their feet. The unknown, terrible and -immeasurable, began slowly to receive them. Whither they were going -they did not know. Where the cavern led, what they would find at the -end of it or what they were likely to encounter by the way were matters -about which it was vain to speculate. All that they knew was that -for the time being they were very precariously delivered from a more -instant peril. - -It might be perhaps that they were going to a doom more terrible, since -the unknown is ever more sinister than the known. For aught they knew -the stone steps might carry them through that appalling darkness to the -verge of a deep well or some abyss that would shatter them in pieces as -surely as a fall from the rock itself. - -Sheer desperation urging, however, they prepared to descend step by -step into the noisome earth. Gripping each other’s hand tightly, they -started very slowly to go down the steps. And now it was that they had -cause to regret bitterly that the lantern which had guided Anne to the -prison had been left under the Castle wall as being a thing that had -already served its turn. At this moment its help would have been beyond -price. - -Holding each other by the hand, their hearts violently beating, they -yielded themselves to the care of Providence. The descent was sheer, -slow and terrifying. Bats, undisturbed for many a long year, began to -hover round them. They could not see anything; a foul miasma hardly -allowed them to breathe; each step they took was likely to be their -last, but not for a moment did they pause in their descent. - -They were like a pair of twin souls in the avernus. The sense of -nameless fear enfolding them was awful, overmastering. - -“Whither does it lead?” said Gervase at last, his whole being now in -revolt. - -“I know not,” said his companion. “But so long as we are like this, -hand in hand together, there is surely no need to care what lies -ahead.” - -Such an answer, spoken with the clear force of a noble resolution, -thrilled in his heart. The courage that was his by nature, which the -bitterness of his recent pass had overthrown, came back to him. If -death must come, let it come to them now as each held the hand of -the other. They began to move more quickly, and now with a sort of -recklessness, far down into the chasm that yawned darker and darker -below them. Minutes passed; step succeeded step, yet still they had not -come to the final one. - -Would this descent never end? Would they never again see the light? -The desire to know what lay ahead grew so intense as to be almost -unendurable. This dreadful suspense through which they were passing was -neither more nor less than torture. - -It began to seem certain that they would find themselves in some pit -or oubliette or forgotten dungeon underground. In that case there was -some hope of concealment, in which they might lie through the day. And -if their pursuers had not the wit to find them, when the darkness came -they might again ascend to the courtyard, and carry out their first -design of escaping through the Castle gate. - -At last, after at least a full hour of this torture by hope, the steep, -narrow, winding stone stairs came suddenly to an end. It was impossible -to go farther ... a wall confronted them. It would appear that the -descent ended in a cul-de-sac. Before accepting this as a fact, -however, Gervase gave the wall a kick in order to attest its nature. To -his surprise he found it to be made of wood. - -That fact served to tell him that here was not the natural end of -those strange stone stairs. Something lay beyond. Conceivably this wall -was a door. But so heavy was the darkness that it was impossible to -tell. - -Gervase set to work with the dagger his companion had given him, in -order to see if he could not pierce this barrier and gain a clue to -these hidden mysteries. But the point of the weapon was delicate and -the wood was tough. It was impossible to make any progress. At last, -realizing the attempt was vain, in a kind of despair he hurled the -whole weight of his strong frame against the door in the faint hope -that it might yield. - -Sometimes it happens that when a man has grown utterly desperate, an -inspired accident shows him the way! Gervase had looked for no result -from that reckless, despairing fling of his shoulders against that dark -wall, but to his surprise an odd creaking and cracking at once arose. -The wood was rotten with age. In the next instant, to the unspeakable -joy of Gervase and his companion, a faint worm of light came creeping -through a rent in a door. - -Daylight lay beyond! So cruelly had their nerves been fretted by the -slow descent into cavernous darkness, that they could have cried out -for joy at the light. Together they hurled their strong young shoulders -against the door. Further rendings and tearings followed. Then came an -ominous crack, and there was a breach in the door wide enough for them -to pass through. - -Their eyes were blinded by a flood of golden light. It was broad day, -and once again were they breathing the air of morning. But where were -they. They had come, it seemed, into a small paved yard. In front of -them was a wall and a line of low buildings. In the middle of the yard -was a large farmer’s wagon containing a number of sacks of corn. To -this vehicle a pair of horses was attached. - -They crept very cautiously out of the door in the rock, and not then -until they had first made sure that the yard was empty. - -“This is the yard of the Castle brewhouse,” said Anne. “There is a door -yonder which opens into a lane that runs down to the river.” - -They ran swiftly across the yard, found the door unbarred, and at once -were free of the Castle precincts. They were now in a long, narrow -lane. It needed but a swift glance to tell them there was not a soul in -sight. Thereupon they took to their heels and started to run down the -lane for dear life. - -It was more than a mile in length and it led straight to the river. It -was narrow, muddy and uneven, winding through swampy marshland over -all manner of rough ground. But in spite of the many difficulties it -presented they dashed so fiercely along the lane that it seemed as if -their hearts must burst. - -Providence was with them still. All the way to the river they did -not meet a soul. Great as was their good fortune, it was yet less -remarkable than it appeared, since the path they had taken was a rude -cart-track rather than a road, with a tall hedge growing on either side. - -At last the Trent in all its morning splendor lay before them. With -sides heaving and breath sobbing, they flung themselves beside it, -burying their faces in the icy grass. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - - -SHUDDERING with fear and gasping for breath, they lay side by side, -their convulsed faces pressed into the grass. Such a nightmare of -terrors as they had endured had for a time overthrown them both -completely. But in their veins was youth, and very soon the courage it -gives began to renew them. - -Yet, as thus they lay in the grass by the bank of the river, fighting -for the strength to go on, there was a grim sense already in each of -their hearts that they were no more than a pair of birds in a snare. -Not for an instant dare they consider how long they might hope to -elude pursuit. Perhaps it might be given to them to enjoy an hour of -freedom--if freedom it could be called with a desperate hue and cry -upon their heels--but it was by no means certain that even so much -grace as this would be vouchsafed. - -They rose presently from the cool grass. Already their strength had -returned. It was still early morning, not more than seven o’clock -perhaps, but the day promised to be glorious. A trembling sheen, like a -curtain of finest gossamer, was falling from the face of the sun; the -mists were receding from the fast-flowing river. Cattle were lowing in -the fields; larks were singing in the upper air. Nature in all her -color and music, in all her pomp, variety and gladness, was spread -before them. Every brake was alive with the song of birds; from every -hedge and tree the tender green was bursting. How was it possible, amid -such a pageant of young life, for either of them to think of death? - -A little chilled by the grass in which they had lain, they began again -to run by the side of the river. Like a pair of colts they shook -their limbs free. For a mile or more they ran their hardest in order -to get warm, and perhaps in order to outstrip the thought that held -their souls in thrall. On and on they ran. The sense of motion, of -untrammeled freedom in their pulses, was like a delicious madness now. -At last they stopped, feeling very hot and breathless, and bathed their -hands and faces in the river. Then they made the discovery that they -were desperately hungry. - -Alas! there was no means at hand of staying their pangs. And even had -food been obtainable they would have been face to face with the fact -that they had not so much as a penny between them. The whole of their -worldly store consisted of the clothes in which they stood and a dagger -whose hilt was curiously wrought in silver. But these were slender -means enough to meet even the most pressing of their needs. Alas! -that Anne, in the obsession of her high resolve, had forgotten the -importance of putting a purse in her pocket. - -It was a bitter discovery. Slowly and very surely the pangs of their -hunger were mounting, so that all too soon their spirits fell. Then -they sat on the grass and rested awhile and dabbled their wrists in the -cool water of the fast-flowing river. Thus they gained new strength -and were put in better heart. And as they now continued their strange -journey at a drooping pace, they walked hand in hand with a kind of -tragic tenderness. - -In a little while, however, Providence again declared itself to them. - -A sudden turn of the riverside path revealed a woman sitting under -a hedge milking a cow. Hand in hand, like a pair of children, they -approached her and humbly craved one drink apiece from her pail. - -The woman was old and ill-seeming, with a very hard face, and there was -nothing about her to suggest that it was her nature to be generous. -But the strange request was made very politely. It was preferred in a -manner not unworthy of persons of condition, but in the shrewd eyes of -Mistress Poll Plackett their appearance had a grave lack of anything of -the kind. - -The man was without a hat, his long fair hair was lank and undressed, -his clothes, though of a good sort, were covered with mud, and his -face might have had considerable beauty had it been less wild, less -pitifully haggard. As for his companion, good Mistress Plackett was -completely at a loss to say who and what she might be. In the first -place it was hard to determine her sex, let alone her degree. The shape -was all slenderness, all long-flanked delicacy; a profusion of charming -curls escaped in clusters from under her velvet cap; the face, full of -a rare and vivid beauty, was lit by two eyes that were like twin stars -of gray light. Yet she too was covered with mud and she bore a look of -wild distress. And far worse even than this, to Mistress Plackett’s -horror the nether limbs were clad in a pair of leather breeches. - -Had it not been for this unlucky garment their good looks and good -manners might have melted the heart of a prudent housewife and fearless -Christian. But such a strange style of dress was a sore tax upon her -forbearance. - -“I don’t know what to say, and that’s the truth,” said Mistress -Plackett very doubtfully indeed. “I don’t like the looks o’ ye. Can ye -pay for a little drink apiece?” - -“By my faith no,” said Gervase, with perfect honesty. “We cannot -do that, good dame. But give us even a very little draught of your -delicious milk and we will bless the day that you were born.” - -“I don’t doubt ye will,” said Mistress Plackett sourly, “if ye get a -drink for nix.” - -Further scrutiny followed hard upon this unblushing confession of -absence of wherewithal. Moreover it seemed to confirm Mistress -Plackett’s unfavorable opinion. - -“Do you see any green in this eye, young man?” said she. “And do you -suppose that Poll Plackett has passed three-score and five winters in -a hard world, and the same amount o’ summers to match ’em, not to have -better wisdom than to give away milk warm from the cow to a gallus pair -o’ strolling Egyptians?” - -“Don’t be hard-hearted, mother, I pray you,” said the young man in his -beguiling speech. “If only you knew how hungry we are! Let us drink -only a very little of your delicious milk, and God will reward you.” - -“Maybe, young man,” said Mistress Plackett, “and maybe He will reward -me doubly for the little ye take not. However, here is the pail. Have -a little drink, you Egyptian, for I am bound to say you have a very -good-looking face.” - -“A thousand thanks,” said Gervase, eagerly seizing the milk-pail. “But -first may I offer it to--to my friend?” - -“No, you may not,” said Mistress Plackett roundly. - -“But why may I not, good mother? We will take but a very little apiece.” - -But Mistress Plackett shook her head sternly. “Be your friend a man or -a woman?” she said. - -“Can you not see that she is a young gentlewoman?” - -“Od burn me if I can!” said Mistress Poll. “A young woman she may be, -but gentle she is not, to appear out of her sex. I will not have my -honest pail go near such a shameless thing. Let her keep off, else you -shall go wanting yourself.” - -“But, good mother----” - -“Let the young doxey keep off, I say. She shall not have a drop as I am -a virtuous woman. And if I did but know where to find Master Tippet the -thirdborough, she should be burned in the hand and whipped out o’ the -county o’ Derby.” - -So shocked was Mistress Poll Plackett when she discovered the sex of -the second Egyptian, that the first, for all his beguiling speech, was -like to go hungry. Gervase and Anne were desperately keen-set, and they -very well knew that it was within their power to take the milk-pail -from the custody of this good lady, and to soften her protests by -applying the milking stool to her head. But fierce as their hunger was, -they yet hesitated to take such extreme measures. Still it was driving -them so hard as sorely to try their forbearance. - -“The shameless hussy shall not touch a drop,” said Mistress Poll. “But -you seem a proper and decent and fair-spoken youth, and ye shall sup a -modest bellyful.” - -“Not a drop will I touch until my sister has drunk,” said Gervase. - -“Ye called her friend just now,” said Mistress Plackett grimly. - -“Sister and friend,” said the young man, with a profound air. “He who -finds a friend in a sister has a sister for a friend.” - -Gervase spoke with much gravity, as if this gem of philosophy was -worthy of the deepest consideration. He had already grasped the truth -that there are occasions in life when it matters little what is said -so long as it be well said. And in that age he would have been a -poor-witted fellow who having been bred as a scholar could not readily -assume the garb of wisdom. - -Yet after all it may have been less Gervase Heriot’s whimsical -readiness that prevailed with the good wife than his charming voice, -his tall, fine person and his gracious, manly air. When all was said -this was no Egyptian. None of the tribe of lawless wanderers could have -shown such a delicacy of manners when hunger drove him hard. - -“Ye can both drink your fill,” said Mistress Poll Plackett. - -They needed no second invitation. Anne drank first of the warm, -delicious draught, that might have been ambrosia straight from heaven. -Then drank Gervase. - -“Good mother,” he said as he gave back the pail, “two wayfardingers -will remember you in their prayers this night. And our prayers, alas! -must be your only guerdon. But from our hearts we thank you.” - -Mistress Poll shook her head. “Let it be so,” she said gruffly. -“Although you can’t cut ice with thank you, still I don’t begrudge the -milk, young man. But my advice to you is this: when you come to a bush -give your young doxey a sound beating, that she may learn not to ape -her betters in such a shameless livery.” - - - - -CHAPTER IX - - -THEY gave good-day to Mistress Poll and passed on their way wonderfully -refreshed in body and spirit. Still they kept by the river. The sun was -now shining clear out of a pure and limpid heaven. Above and all about -the birds were singing. They could almost hear the sap running in the -trees; yellow daffodils shone in the grass; the little green buds were -bursting from brake and thicket. By now a wild sense of freedom was in -their veins and they had a great delight in the company of each other. -Yet behind all things--the glamour of the earth, the golden sky, the -grave majesty of nature--lay a dark, terrifying cloud. - -Not for a moment could they forget that their lives hung by a thread. -They were ever looking back to see if their pursuers were yet in sight. -They raked each bush they came near to see if it held an enemy. At -every bend in the river they made ready to be sprung upon. - -And, as they were soon to learn, there was only too much reason for -these fears. It happened that they had made another two miles or so -when they came to a tall hedgerow running at right angles to the river. -And Gervase, looking along it in his constant vigilance, saw to his -dismay a small party of mounted men, wearing the conspicuous scarlet -livery of Sir John Feversham. They were no more than fifty yards away, -and were coming slowly down the hedgerow on the other side, beating the -bushes as they came and examining them closely. - -Providence for the moment was with Gervase and Anne. The height of the -hedge and an abrupt bend of the river served to hide them from view. -Instantly they took cover by flinging themselves full length in the -grass in which they stood. There was nothing else to be done; their -pursuers were so near that flight was impossible. - -All that remained for them was the hope that they had not been seen -as yet, and that their pursuers would not come over to their place of -concealment. But as thus they lay close in dire suspense, they were not -aware of a more instant danger. Within a few yards of them, on their -own side of the hedge, a man with a dog was approaching. - -As yet the man had not seen them, but alas! the dog had already -discovered them. It ran straight to where they lay concealed in the -grass, and to their horror began to fondle Anne and lick her face. In -the next moment a man on a horse was bending over them. - -Thrusting the dog away from her, Anne looked up and saw the man, and as -she did so her heart died within her. It was John Markham the falconer. -His eyes were fixed upon the prostrate form of Gervase. In the very -fascination of terror she watched his hand stray to the hilt of his -dagger. - -Both the fugitives lay in the grass staring up helplessly into the grim -eyes of the falconer. They could neither move, speak nor act. A chill -of horror was upon their souls. But the dog, Anne’s old friend and -companion, was overjoyed and continued to lick and fondle her. - -Of a sudden John Markham’s hand forsook the hilt of his dagger. And in -the same instant his face changed from the tawny bloom of health to a -hue far otherwise. His rather slow brain had realized who it was that -lay by the side of the escaped prisoner. - -The falconer grew white as death. He was the devoted servant of a good -and honored master. But beyond all things he was the slave of his -young mistress. All was mad turmoil at the Castle. As yet none had had -thought to spare for Mistress Anne. Her absence had not been noted, -perhaps not even by the Constable himself. All that was known was that -the condemned man had made his way out of his prison, in a manner -bordering upon the miraculous, within some two hours of the time fixed -for his execution. - -Here was the explanation of the mystery! In a moment of harrowing -bitterness of soul John Markham read the terrible truth. - -“Oh my mistress!” was wrung from his lips. - -John Markham’s was a slow brain, but now his high devotion lent it -swiftness and subtlety. In that instant he had learned all. She whom -he had adored with a passionate fidelity had given everything that -was hers to one whom by all the terms of his honorable service he was -pledged to retake. - -“Oh my mistress!” A tear sparkled upon the falconer’s cheek. - -The fugitives lying in the grass made no reply. And in his anguish of -mind the falconer seemed as helpless as they. In the next moment came a -shout from the other side of the hedge. - -“Hulloa, Markham, what have you there!” - -The words broke the spell for the man who loved his young mistress -devotedly. “The dog seems to have found a rabbit,” was his answer. - -“Naught better than that!” came in tones of disappointment. “We were -hoping he had found something else.” - -The falconer called off the dog, and then immediately rode away to join -his companions. - -Gervase and Anne lay in the grass until the Constable’s men were out -of sight. For the moment the danger was past. But they were possessed -by fear they could not overcome. More and more they marveled at -the singular Providence that held them in its care. Gervase had no -knowledge of the falconer; thus all that had happened was to him a -mystery. With Anne it was otherwise. Yet over and above a feeling of -gratitude for the man’s fidelity was the sting of remorse and a sharp -pang of regret for the glad, glorious and free life of yesterday. - -Less than a week had gone since she had last ridden in the fields with -the falconer, mounted on her blood horse Cytherea, with her pied merlin -upon her fist. Since then the whole of life had changed. There had -come the terrible breaking of the imperious will, which after all was -not more than the will of a woman. And hard upon that, and doubtless -because of it, there had come this wild and complete surrender to the -impulse of pity which had banished her completely and forever from the -world in which she had dwelt. - -Long after John Markham and his companions had passed out of sight she -lay in the grass sobbing hysterically. Such a wild storm of tears came -upon her as seemed to shake the slender form in pieces. And Gervase was -powerless to comfort her. - -After a time her pitiful distress abated, and then they found the -courage to go on. For some miles they followed the river, yet with a -redoubled wariness. Their adventure had shaken them terribly. They did -not know which way to go or what to do. They wandered aimlessly, but -with every sense a-stretch and with terror gnawing at their hearts. -Soon they were hungry again, yet they had not so much as a penny with -which to buy food. Their spirits drooped. The April sun was still -shining out of a clear sky, the birds were still singing gaily from -every bush, the carpet of spring flowers was still spread vividly -before them, but the world was now a different place. - -At noon they saw a village in the distance away to the right. It was -perilous to enter it, but hunger drove them hard. Thus they turned -their steps towards it in the hope that by some good chance they might -obtain a little food. - -The village proved to be a rather large one. And in the middle of the -main street was the shop of a baker. They felt they were taking their -lives in their hands by showing themselves in a public place, since -they had had such clear evidence that the hue and cry was upon their -heels, but the pangs of hunger rendered them desperate. - -Happily the baker seemed to dwell in complete ignorance of the recent -happenings at Nottingham Castle, which to be sure was fifteen miles -away. But in another respect the fugitives were less fortunate. The man -of flour proved to be a very shrewd and surly fellow. - -He would only part with one of his loaves, even a stale one, on the -express condition that it was paid for in current coin of the realm. -Would he accept a dagger with a hilt wrought curiously in silver in -exchange for twenty pieces of that precious metal? No, he would -not. Would he for ten? No, he would not. He had no use for a dagger, -silver-hilted or otherwise. The only thing he had a use for was an -honest true penny when it came to a matter of a quartern loaf. - -All Gervase’s persuasiveness could do nothing with this sturdy Saxon. -One of his quartern loaves was worth a penny, as had been those of his -father before him; a penny was its price in the open market, and he -would defy the devil himself to get one for less. In such circumstances -there was nothing for Anne and Gervase to do but to return bitterly -hungry to the village street. - -They feared to show themselves in it, but alas; the spur of hunger -is a most instant thing. Sad indeed and footsore already with their -wandering, they walked through the village. Both were tired and thirsty -and also faint for lack of food. They kept close under the houses, -expecting at any moment to be sprung upon by the men in the scarlet -livery. - -In the middle of the road, coming slowly towards them, was a ragged -nut-brown vagabond playing a flageolet for pence. He was very far -from being a skilful performer. Indeed his tunes upon his cracked -instrument were as ragged as himself. But apparently they did not lack -the approval of the public. For while Gervase and Anne stood looking -wistfully at this draggle-tail, a well-dressed man riding a good horse -tossed the fellow a coin as he passed. - -Adversity is a great thing for the mind. Gervase at once took the -idea that he himself could perform quite as villainously if only he -could come by an instrument. If only he might barter the silver-hilted -dagger for a flageolet, even of the most lamentable kind, it might be -possible in the present condition of the public taste to keep body and -soul together. - -He gave the idea to Anne, who approved it heartily, always assuming -that he had some little skill upon the instrument. - -“Why, yes,” said Gervase. “I learned to play on the flageolet when I -was at Paris. ’Tis the only thing I learned there; at least it is the -only thing I learned there that is likely to serve us now.” - -But how were they to come by such a thing? That was a problem indeed. -Under the spur of their necessity they went after the ragged fellow -and were fain to interrupt him in the midst of his discoursing of the -infamous melody of “Jumping Joan.” - -He did not thank them for their interruption. - -“Barter my pipe for a silver-hilted dagger, quotha? I would not barter -my pipe for all the pearls in the head o’ the Virgin Queen. Stand out -o’ my light and let me proceed.” - -He was a rude fellow and a fierce one, and he was like to stride over -them in his haste to get clear of the suggestion. - -“Barter my pipe!” they could hear him mutter as he passed down the -road. It was as though he had been asked to barter his religion. He -poured out a string of curses and then returned to his villainous -melody. - -Feeling almost desperate, they dragged themselves along the street -until they came to a door with a bush hanging over it which showed -it was the village ale-house. Here on a bench outside the door they -flung themselves down. The seat was hard and narrow, yet infinitely -delicious to their weariness. - -Here they sat until the landlord came to them. They marked his -appearance with great trepidation as to what manner of a man he was. -Like that of the baker, his aspect was large and stubborn but not -genial. - -“I give you good morrow, Master Innkeeper,” said Gervase in his frank -and pleasant fashion. - -“Good morrow to you, young man,” said the innkeeper cautiously. - -“Do you care to buy a dagger with a hilt wrought curiously in silver?” - -“That I do not,” said the innkeeper; “I would not care to buy anything -except a halter for my wife.” - -“What will it profit your wife,” asked Gervase, “if you provide her -with a halter? You are not going to hang her, I hope.” - -“Hang her! God bless me, no! It is simply that to-morrow I am going -to lead her in her shift with a halter round her neck as far as Derby -market-place and sell her to the highest bidder. Happen, young man, you -don’t want a wife yourself?” - -“What is the price you ask for her?” - -“A gold angel will buy her, and she’s worth double the money.” - -“But why do you part with her? Has she a fault in her temper, or is it -that she is not as virtuously given as she might be?” - -“No, her temper is excellent; and as for her virtue, the vicar of the -parish will answer for that.” - -“Then in that case,” said Gervase, “a gold angel seems little enough to -pay for her.” - -“Yes, she’s a great bargain,” said the innkeeper; “you can make your -mind easy, young man, on that score.” - -“One might take her for a month on trial, I suppose?” said Gervase. - -“No,” said the landlord decisively; “if you decide to have her you must -pay your gold angel and take her off my hands at once. But as I say, -you will have a bargain. Her virtue and her temper are excellent, and -if you remind her what a rope’s end feels like at every new moon I’ll -warrant that you’ll have no trouble with her at all.” - -“Well, I hope she can cook a meal,” said Gervase. “It is an excellent -thing in a woman if she is able to cook a meal.” - -“I’ll answer for her cooking, young man. You couldn’t find a better -hand at that sort of thing if you tried all over the county o’ Derby.” - -“Skilled in making bread?” - -“Bless my soul, yes!” - -“And in making cheese, I hope?” - -“Ask Master Radlett the bailiff what he thinks of her cream cheeses.” - -“Can she brew ale?” - -“Aye, and cider too and also perry.” - -“Well, she’s a paragon, I’m bound to admit.” - -“Aye, she’s a nonesuch, there’s not the least doubt about that,” said -the innkeeper. “Her bread and her cider are things to remember.” - -“Things to dream upon, in fact?” - -“Yes, young man; and if you doubt me you had better try them for -yourself.” - -Now it was here that Gervase affected a lordly indifference, a lofty -disdain. “Well, Master Innkeeper, I don’t mind very much if I do,” he -said, and his air was almost one of condescension. - -“You shall do so young man,” said the innkeeper proudly. - -And in an exceedingly loud voice he addressed some unseen presence -within the precincts of the inn kitchen. “Marian, bring out at once one -of your newest and largest loaves for a young gentleman in a tarnished -doublet of black velvet.” - -“You have forgotten the cider,” said Gervase, with an air of profound -indifference. “A large pot would be the best, I think.” - -“Also a full pint pot o’ your last year’s cider, Marian.” - -“And perhaps a little of the cream cheese would not be amiss in the -circumstances. It is wise as a rule to make quite sure in a matter of -this kind.” - -“That’s true,” said the innkeeper heartily. “There is nothing betwixt -here and Derby that can hold a candle to her cream cheese. Bring out a -ripe cream cheese, Marian.” - -Anne began to tremble with excitement at the mere mention of these -viands, but Gervase sat as cool and collected as any man could have -done in the circumstances. - -Presently a crone about seventy years of age brought forth a loaf of -bread, a cheese and a jug of cider. She laid them on the bench by the -side of Gervase. - -With much deliberation the young man broke the bread in half and -divided the cheese into two portions with his dagger. He handed -one share to his companion solemnly. “I ought to tell you, Master -Innkeeper,” Gervase explained, “that my sister here is about as good a -judge of food as there is to be found in the Midland Counties. Tell me -what you think of the cheese, my dear Philomela?” - -It was as much as ever Anne could do not to appear ravenous. “I think -the cheese is splendid,” she said. - -“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord. “And what do you think -o’ the bread and the cider, you pretty young doxey?” - -“I have never tasted anything like them,” said Anne. - -“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord, with an air of pride -that was wonderful. - - - - -CHAPTER X - - -BY reason of this odd adventure Anne and Gervase were in good heart all -the afternoon. Providence had surely taken them in its care. Food was -not plenty, their feet were getting very sore, their enemies might be -upon them at the next turn in the road, they knew not where that night -to lay their heads; but trudging ever side by side in the company of -each other they had the spirit of youth to bear them on. - -Again they took to the winding river-bank. It was kindlier traveling -that way. The springing green turf was far easier than the hard stones -of the road. Also the dust was less and there were fewer people to -avoid. - -Towards evening poor Anne began to limp rather sorely. But not a word -of complaint passed those resolute lips. Gervase too was in sad case. -Full many a weary mile had they made since their wild setting forth in -the dawn of the April morning. - -Several times in the late afternoon they were obliged to sit by the -river and seek some little ease by taking off their shoes and stockings -and by bathing their aching feet in the cool water. But their courage -was wonderfully high, for youth was with them, and also Providence, -and also a something rare and strange which each had kindled in the -other’s heart. - -The mists of evening began to steal down the river. As the fugitives -sat on a green bank by the side of the water, their faces aglow with -the sunset, nature spoke to them with a new, a fuller, an intenser -meaning. Bird and beast, herb and tree were thrilling with life. And -yet as Gervase and Anne sat close together they felt a sense of their -tragic destiny overtaking them. The life of one, perhaps of both, was -forfeit. The dark shadow was ever in their minds. All thought of the -morrow must be put away. - -The sun had left them now. Out of the dark valley, a little sinister -with its close-grown gloom of trees, through which the reaches of -the river wound, a faint wind came stealing. Very softly it caressed -the face of the water, making an effect of music, eerie, solemn, yet -enchanting. - -Gervase knitted his brave companion to his heart. The flood-tide of -youth was surging in his veins. The sudden sense of possession, of high -comradeship gave him one of those rare moments to which the mind goes -back when it comes to ask whether life has been worth all that has -been paid for it in blood and tears. To this slender thing, so true, -so resolute, he owed the life which for the moment was raised to this -perilous height of ecstasy. In his arms he held this great gift of God -to man; but a voice spoke to the chivalrous heart of him that he must -hold it reverently. - -One kiss on the lips he yielded and no more. He would have pressed -a thousand there, but let him not forget the awful tragedy of their -present hour. No consummation their love could ever know on earth. -He fixed an iron control upon his will. And yet.... Whatever held the -earthly morrow, were they not twin souls pledged to roam the starry -spaces of eternity together? In the surge of his passion he tore -himself suddenly from the warm embrace and rose wildly from the green -bank of earth. - -The darkness came, and more weary miles they trudged, her cold hand -clasped in his still colder one. The night fell very chill and without -a single star. Soon they left the river and struck inland, through -hedges and over swampy marshland, in the hope of finding a lodging for -the night more hospitable than the open country. - -Of food there was little prospect. But under Providence, which during -the whole of that long and terrible day had been so kind to them, they -might hope to find shelter in a cow-hovel, or a shepherd’s hut, or at -the worst a dry ditch. And at last, when they had grown so faint with -hunger and fatigue that they knew not how they could go another mile, -Providence was moved again to pity them. - -Suddenly they came upon the dark bulk of a line of farm-buildings just -ahead of them. A little groping brought them to a gate which led to a -stackyard. By now the moon was showing, and with the aid of her fitful -light they were able to find a stable. Here was a ladder which led to -a hay-loft; and in spite of the darkness they made their way into it, -whereupon to their unspeakable joy they found bundles of clean hay upon -which they could lie warm and snug until daybreak. - -In utter weariness they burrowed under the hay like moles, and very -soon their cares were laid aside in as sound a sleep as they had ever -known. When they awoke daylight was stealing in through the chinks in -the roof. It was still very early, to judge by the absence of sounds -from below. - -The abundance of the hay had kept them wonderfully warm during the -night, and now they shook their limbs free of it with a feeling of -refreshment and gratitude. But scarcely had they begun to move when -they felt a mighty need of food. Whatever befell, at all costs must -they seek some. - -They came down from the loft and crossed the yard, first making sure, -however, that there was no one about. The morning was cold and misty. -Not far off was a byre, and a number of cows were in it ready for -milking. - -Hunger was pressing them too hard to be put off with a scruple. Eagerly -they searched all about the farmyard for a pail, and at last were able -to find one in the stable out of which they had come. It was not very -clean, but the attentions of the farmyard pump soon made it fit for use. - -However, when it came to a matter of milking the cows they discovered -but little skill at first. Gervase tried his hand with very poor -results. Anne then took a turn, and at last the pail began to fill. - -She it was who drank first this nectar of the gods. Then followed -Gervase; then followed Anne again, and then again Gervase. Never in -their lives had they had so rare a breakfast. But so completely had -they been absorbed in their task that they had paid no heed to the -passing of the time, or to that which was going on around them. The -enjoyment of this illicit repast had taken more than an hour, and the -farmyard was now astir. - -Of this fact they were soon made aware. Indeed their meal was scarce -at an end when a man’s shadow was thrown across the doorway of the -cowhouse, and there was the farmer standing looking at them. - -He was a very powerful man, broad and heavy, and dressed in a suit of -russet leather. His hands were tucked in his jerkin and his chin was -sunk upon his breast as if he were wrapped in profound thought. The -look upon his face was not so much of anger as of amazement. “I trust ye -have had your fill?” he said at last, speaking in a slow, deep voice. - -“That we have,” said Gervase heartily. - -All the same he felt a kind of shame for having debauched himself so -freely upon another’s property. Yet it would be idle to deny that a -sense of well-being was uppermost in his mind at that moment. When all -was said, this feeling outweighed any that he might have had of moral -turpitude. - -“Well, then, having had your fill,” said the farmer, speaking as one -who chooses his words, “you will not object perhaps to make payment?” - -“That I cannot do, I am sorry to say,” said Gervase. - -“It is just as I thought,” growled the farmer. - -“I ask your pardon,” said Gervase, “for taking your milk, but we have -no money to pay for any food and we are starving.” - -The face of the farmer was very ugly now. “Starving, are ye? Well, my -lad, ye shall both come with me to the constable.” - -“I am sorry I cannot oblige you in that,” said Gervase. “I own I have -done you a wrong, but not such a wrong as to allow the law to mend it.” - -“Well, my lad, you shall not go without payment of some kind,” said -the farmer, “and you can lay to that. Either step wi’ me to the -constable, or if you’d rather have it that way, come out into the yard -and have the properest thrashing you’ve had in all your born days.” - -“Well, perhaps that is not unfair--if you can give it me.” Gervase -spoke with the modest readiness of a man of mettle. - -“Oh, I’ll give it you right enough,” said the farmer, “and you can lay -to that.” - -Certainly he was a most formidable-looking fellow, and he spoke with -a truculence sufficient to strike terror into all save the very stout -of heart. But Gervase, having slept soundly and breakfasted well, was -not inclined to quail. He stepped briskly into the yard at the farmer’s -behest. But there a rude shock awaited him. - -“Diggory,” called the farmer to one of his hands at work in the yard, -“you just fetch my horsewhip along. Ask mistress to give it thee. Now -then, step lively.” - -Gervase, however, proceeded to show cause why Diggory should not step -lively. “Oh no, you don’t, Master Giles,” he said to the farmer with a -laugh. “Pray don’t think I am going to take it that way.” - -“Then what way are you going to take it, my lad?” - -“Man to man with the bare knuckles if I take it at all.” - -“Then by God you shall!” The farmer suddenly flung off his coat. “But -you don’t know what you are out for, young fellow. A bit o’ whipcord -will come a lot kinder to you than these ten commandments o’ mine.” - -“I think I’ll risk that,” said Gervase modestly. - -The farmer rolled up his sleeves, disclosing a pair of mighty arms. -“I’m the man,” he said, “who pretty nigh killed Job Nettle in the -fight at Lichfield twenty years ago. They talk about it to this day. -And I reckon, young fellow, I’ll pretty nigh kill you. There was never -none as could stand against Gideon Partlet as ever I heard tell of. Did -you, Diggory, ever hear o’ such?” - -“Naw,” said Diggory, “naw, I niver.” - -And the eyes of Diggory began to start in anticipation. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - - -CERTAINLY the farmer had the look of a bruiser. Moreover he had a -robust confidence in his own powers, and this was expressed by the grin -of satisfaction upon his face. A number of the farm hands soon came up, -attracted by the never-failing charms of a bout of fisticuffs. - -Gervase followed the example of his adversary by discarding his doublet -and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. He was far slighter of build and cast -in a mold altogether more delicate than the farmer. Still he was a very -likely looking fellow. - -As became a gentleman of his time, his education had been liberal. -Martial and manly exercises had played their part in it. Even in such -a simple affair as a set-to with fists he was not without instruction -from professors of the craft. Therefore he had a modest hope that he -would be able to take care of himself, even if his foe was a man of -greater power and experience. - -Gervase gave Anne his doublet to hold. She, alas! was terribly -distressed when she saw what was going to happen. But there was no help -for it. If Gervase did not fight the farmer he must submit to the hands -of the law. - -Her natural woman’s instinct was to run away and hide while the battle -was fought. But her staunchness forbade such a course. She mustered all -her resolution in order to remain where she was. Gervase might have -sore need of her help before he was through with a business so grievous. - -Although the blows turned her sick, she forced herself to stand by the -wall of the cowhouse and with wildly beating heart watched the progress -of the fight. The might of the farmer’s arms was terrific. Happily he -was a man past fifty; he carried far more of flesh than when he was in -his prime as a fighter; and thus was Gervase given an opportunity to -ward or avoid the worst of his blows. Well it was for him that he was -able to do this, for in his prime, which was twenty-five years ago, -Gideon Partlet had been a famous fighter. Even now much of the old -skill remained; but the muscles were not so supple and he could not get -about as craftily as of yore. - -All the same the farmer brought such a zest to his fighting, he -delivered such a rain of blows, and there was such a power behind them, -that had not Gervase been uncommonly quick with his hands and feet it -must have gone hard with him. - -The farmer’s great fists would have dealt out terrible punishment had -the milk-stealer been unable to parry them. Even as it was, and in -spite of all that he could summon of youth, activity and skill, Gervase -did not get off scot free. To the huge delight of the farm hands who -were shouting loud encouragement to their master, the milk-stealer -received one blow on the side of the jaw that shook him terribly, while -another caught the young man on the nose and drew his blood. But this -was slight punishment compared with what might have been, for had -Gervase been wholly without experience he had paid heavy toll for his -felony. - -Now Gervase was enough of a man to accept and perhaps even to desire -punishment for his offence. He could not help feeling that Master -Gideon Partlet had received a deep wrong at his hands, so that he felt -at first no very great animosity toward the farmer. But if the truth -must be told, the crack on the jaw shook considerably this chivalrous -desire to make payment in kind for his felony; the starting of the -blood rendered it in imminent danger; and when presently he was so hard -pressed that his right eye was like to be closed, the noble sense of -equity of which all men do well to be jealous, was thrown to the wind. - -It seemed then to grow clear to the mind of Gervase that Master Gideon -Partlet somehow lacked a sense of proportion. The buffets on jaw and -nose were in his opinion quite as much as the milk was worth. The -assault on the right eye was usury. But the farmer did not share this -view. Once blooded, he fought more furiously than ever. Moreover he -accompanied each blow with a savage grunt and did all he knew to pin -the younger and lighter man against the wall of the byre. - -The distress of poor Anne was dreadful. Brave as she was, after a few -moments she could endure the sight no more. Shuddering, she hid her -eyes in the doublet of her champion. - -Would the fight never cease? She began to fear that the farmer would -kill Gervase. No longer dare she look at the cruel spectacle, but the -ever-recurring sound of the blows chilled and sickened her. At last -there came a loud cry from the onlookers, and then the dread sounds -ceased. When she ventured to look she made the discovery that a very -strange thing had happened. - -The farmer was prone on his back in the mire of his own stackyard. He -lay motionless; and Gervase and one of the hands were bending over him -and were in the act of raising him up. - -“Oh, is he dead?” gasped Anne. - -“Not he,” said Gervase cheerfully. He besought her to bring a little -water from the pump in the milk-pail. - -By the time this had been brought the farmer was sitting up rather -ruefully in the straw of the yard. Gervase supported him with a -shoulder; but soon finding that Gideon Partlet was little the worse for -the blow on the point of the jaw that had leveled him to mother earth, -the young man proceeded to clear the blood from his own face by dipping -it in the bucket. - -The farmer watched the process with an air of grim approval. “Here’s my -hand, young man,” he said when Gervase’s countenance had been put in -some sort of order. “You are a lad of mettle and a pretty fighter. By -God, young fellow, I didn’t think ye kept such a clip as that in your -shirt.” - -The farmer seemed to think it was the finest jest in the world that -one so wise and crafty as himself should have been careless enough to -lay himself open to such a blow. And, as became one who had enjoyed -many triumphs in his youth, he was too good a fellow not to be able to -laugh at his own expense. “Tell me, young man, where did ye learn that -buffet? A thing like that don’t come by nature.” - -“I had it of Christopher Tattersall, the Yorkshire champion,” said -Gervase modestly. - -“Did ye so?” said the farmer, with a kind of enthusiasm. “Well, it’s -the prettiest buffet I’ve smelt this thirty year.” - -“I would not have used it had you not forced me to,” said Gervase. - -“And if I’d known you were keeping it in your sleeve I’d not have held -ye so light, young fellow, and you can lay to that.” - -The farmer spoke with a kind of grim admiration, as became an old -warrior who had dealt many a shrewd knock in his time. He bore no -malice, either for the rape of his milk or for the blow to his pride. -Besides, much was to be forgiven a lad of the true mettle. - -“If you and your young doxey will step as far as the kitchen,” said he, -“perhaps the good wife can find ye a bite o’ breakfast apiece.” - -In spite of the quantity of the new milk they had consumed Gervase and -Anne needed no second invitation. - -The good wife, to be sure, viewed them at first with little in the way -of favor. Certainly neither was very reputable to look upon. Fragments -of straw and flakes of dried mud were clinging to their clothes, and -their faces had not met soap and water for many hours. Also the face of -Gervase was sadly swollen and discolored. - -Still, in spite of the good wife’s misgivings she gave them a delicious -breakfast of collops, hot cakes and ale. Never in their lives had they -had such a repast. And the farmer, for all that they had stolen his -milk, was fain to heap up their platters with the large generosity of -one who has been a first-rate fighter in his youth. - -“I know not who you be, young fellow,” said he. “You have an air of -quality, although you may be none the less a cutthroat for that. -Perhaps you are Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. Still, I care not who -you are, but by God’s life you are a mighty pretty fighter. Wife, give -the young rogue another slice o’ the cake and give some more swipes to -the young doxey. Let it never be said that Gideon Partlet knows not how -to honor a stout and crafty fighter.” - -Thus it was that an hour hence they went forth furnished royally. High -of heart, they took the road again. A night’s rest and a square meal -are wonder-working things. For a time they were no longer the hunted -fugitives of the previous day. Girt by the spirit of youth and braced -by good cheer, they struck across the country into the Derbyshire -woods. Here their path was spread with primroses and all manner of -spring delights. The bursting buds caressed their faces, the odor of -wild flowers was in their nostrils, a thousand golden-throated voices -filled their ears. - -In the high-hearted freedom of the moment they forgot their tragic -peril. This was life in its rapture, life in its fulness. Soon Gervase -began to sing. - - In the merry month of May, - In a morn by break of day, - Forth I walked by the wood-side - When as May was in his pride. - -The green aisles re-echoed his voice. Presently they rested on a -moss-grown bank with the great river flowing far beneath them. - - There I spied all alone - Phillida and Coridon. - -They looked in the ardent eyes of one another utterly heedless of what -was to come. In this joyous morning of spring they were determined to -forget the horror that held them in thrall. Let the morrow bring what -it might, in this glorious hour they were determined to rejoice. For -the moment let the moment suffice! They would give themselves up to the -rapture of this little hour. - -Why have a care? Their pursuers were outrun. They had the whole wide -world in which to hide--the whole wide world, which was full to the -brim with glorious adventure. They asked nothing beyond the comradeship -of each other. Let chance continue to serve them for their modest need. - -For their luncheon they took a young turnip out of a field. But this -did not prove a very satisfying bill of fare. Alas! they soon began to -crave an ampler meal. Nor did this craving grow less when early in the -afternoon the sun went behind a cloud and presently a cool wind arose -accompanied by the threat of rain. - -Turnips are doubtless excellent things, but they are little enough -upon which to maintain the fires of youth. Thus were they driven, at -whatever risk to their lives, to strike out again toward the haunts of -men. Again was Gervase consumed by a desire to barter the silver-hilted -dagger for a flageolet by means of which he reckoned to get pence, or -failing that, he hoped to turn the superfluous weapon into current coin -of the realm. - -They passed through several hamlets, but in none did the opportunity -arise of fulfilling these desires. Moreover charity was lacking, so -that by sundown a bitter hunger took them in its grip. To add to their -woes they were again growing footsore and there had come a change in -the weather. The wind had a sting in it and the heavy gray clouds were -flying low. - -Anne, however, was the bravest companion. She trudged along patiently -by the side of Gervase and nothing would make her admit that she was -hungry or weary or afraid. But had it not been for the solace of each -other’s company they must have given in long before they did. Each was -sustained by the other’s valor. Yet with night at hand, supperless and -without a roof for their heads, heaven knew what would befall them now. - -At last, when the cold twilight had come down on the woods and fields, -they felt no longer able to go on. They rested awhile by the side of -the road. Gervase nestled Anne’s cheek against his coat, and it seemed -like ice. - -“Poor soul,” he whispered, and could hardly restrain his tears. - -It was quite dark by the time they had gathered the strength to -continue their journey. At first their limbs were so stiff that they -could hardly walk. But the bitter wind, the heavy darkness and the -threat of rain spurred them cruelly. Their strides grew shorter and -shorter, they fell sick at heart, yet they did not complain of one -another or of Providence. - -On and on they trudged until they were like to drop. Exactly what they -hoped to find in that inhospitable night was more than they could have -told. Perhaps some hovel or shepherd’s hut or a byre with cows in it -was the bourne of their desire. But the weary miles passed by and none -of these things came to them. - -After a time they turned from the hard and bleak high road, which gave -no protection from the merciless wind, again into the fields. They -felt now that they could not walk another mile. Utterly weary and -dispirited, they still clung to the slender hope of finding shelter -in a wood wherein to pass the remainder of the night. But the country -now was flat and cheerless. It contained little else than low-lying -marsh-land fringed with stunted willow-trees. - -Disappointed of even this small crumb of solace, they crept at last -under a hedge which in the total darkness was the best protection they -could find. And grateful were they for it. At least they were saved -from the wind and rain. But fatigue galled them in every bone and they -were most bitterly hungry. - -They were too miserable to think of sleep. For the sake of warmth they -lay very close together, but little enough there was of it that crept -into their veins. But never for a moment did their courage fail. They -were sustained with a sense of miraculous deliverance from infinite -perils. In body they were fainting, but in ardor of spirit they were -unconquered still. God who had given them so much would continue to -hold them in His care. - -Almost as if in answer to their faith they saw suddenly a light -quite near. It seemed to be no more than a couple of fields away. -Yet again, tortured by hope, they painfully gathered their weariness -and dragged their worn-out bodies toward this fitful and unexpected -beacon. Alas! the two fields became four and yet the light seemed to -be no nearer. But once afoot in its quest, they stumbled on miserably -through the driving rain, in the teeth of the icy wind, over wet -furrows and through close-set hedges. On and on they stumbled, till at -last a moment came when they were like to fall in sheer fatigue. But -Providence was with them still. For in this last dire extremity they -were rewarded by the sight of that which they had come so far to find. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - - -THE light proved to be a fire which had been made by a band of gypsies -in a corner of a field. As Gervase and Anne approached, hope revived -them again, since a most exquisite scent of food began to pervade their -nostrils. Suspended above the fire was an enormous cauldron from which -this most delicious savor proceeded. - -Gervase staggered toward a very ancient crone who was stirring the -contents of the cauldron with a long-handled iron spoon. “For love of -God, good mother,” he said, “give us leave to lie by your fire a bit. -And if we may have a share of your supper, by my soul we will remember -you in our prayers.” - -The old woman looked at them both very doubtfully. “Who be ye?” she -asked suspiciously. “Whence come ye?” - -“That I cannot tell you, mother,” said Gervase, and his tone was -pleading hard. “But we are a-cold and we are famishing. Do but grant us -this and you shall never have cause to rue your kindness.” - -“Ye have the trick of fair speaking at any rate,” said the crone. “I -like the sound of your voice, young chal. Yes, you shall eat and lie by -the fire a bit.” - -The contents of the pot proved to be not less delectable than the smell -that came out of it. The crone made free use of the large iron spoon -and gave Gervase and Anne each a huge platterful. They did not inquire -of what the savory mess consisted. It was enough that it was good. - -While they ate thus dim figures emerged continually from the shadows -beyond the fire. Soon these were stretched before the pot and fell to -eating also. They were a rough, ill-kempt company. Their table manners -were none of the nicest. But they were a hearty, friendly, genial -people. They asked no questions of the guests who lay before their -fire, but rather seemed glad to find them there. Moreover they handed -about freely a flagon of excellent ale. - -A dozen or more of these cheerful, dark-visaged wanderers were soon -about the fire. And after supper, as the night was still young, one -of their number produced a flageolet and began to play upon it not -unpleasantly. It was a well-toned instrument, far superior to the one -out of which the draggle-tailed wanderer of the village street had -wrung such doubtful music. Indeed Gervase, who had the ear of the true -amateur, was delighted with the whole performance. - -He was fain to compliment the musician upon his melody. And in such -a wonderful manner had warmth and good cheer revived the young man’s -spirits, which less than an hour ago were at their lowest ebb, that now -he begged to be allowed to discourse a little on the gypsy’s pipe--a -request that was readily granted. - -Now it chanced that Gervase, for all that he had a very humble estimate -of his own powers, had a certain skill in this, the most charming -of the arts. Upon a natural and refined taste was grafted years of -delighted study. Moreover the instrument was rather a choice one. - -The gypsies had a real love of music; and when cunning strains began -to rise from their midst as they lay round the warm fire, they were -spell-bound. First Gervase played a soft, refined piece he had learned -in Italy. Its delicacy composed the ear even while it ravished it. Then -followed bolder harmonies, less exquisite perhaps, but none the less -delightful. Finally he passed into a couple of ranting pieces known and -admired over all the countryside. - -When they heard these famous tunes some began to sing and others rose -and danced round the fire. They would not hear of Gervase ceasing to -play. For long enough was he kept at his task; all kinds of revelry -accompanied the cheerful strains of the pipe, and when at last the -accomplished musician was so weary that he could play no more it was -gravely whispered about the fire that this soft-spoken wanderer with -the wonderful gift was none other than Tat Barcey, the gentleman prig. - -All went well that evening with Gervase and Anne. An almost -superstitious respect was paid to them. The old woman gave them a good -place beside the fire in which to pass the night, and when the morning -came they had another good meal. - -The gypsies showed them so much kindness that they were in no hurry -to go forth. And before they left these friends, so heedful were they -of present opportunity, that two things of consequence befell. In -the first place a great desire had been kindled in Gervase to get -possession of the gypsy’s flute. Again was the dagger with the silver -hilt produced. Devoutly he hoped it would be deemed a full equivalent -for the thing he coveted. - -The owner of the flute examined the weapon closely. Gervase’s heart -began to beat excitedly. At that moment he desired the flute beyond -anything else in the world. The value of the dagger tempted the gypsy -to make the exchange. “Why, yes,” said he, “certainly I will.” - -When Gervase was given the pipe he felt a thrill of joy, for here was a -means of life. - -But this was not the end of their good luck. - -It was most necessary that Anne should disguise her sex at the first -opportunity. The hawking-breeches and long boots of untanned leather -surmounted by a woman’s bodice and feminine canopy of curls had already -excited remark. Therefore was the crone persuaded to cut off the long -tresses with a pair of shears, and out of the gypsies’ wardrobe she -provided a boy’s leather jerkin and a cap to match it in exchange for -the woman’s gear that Anne was wearing. - -A great change was wrought thereby in her appearance. She was no more -a maid. Her thin, tall figure, graceful as a willow, did remarkably -well for that of a very slender boy. Charming she looked; her form was -of a singular delicacy, but it passed very well for that of a boy. -Awkward questions need no longer be feared along the road. Both were -now unmistakably of the sterner sex in the sight of all men. - -They went forth in good heart. Armed with this blessed pipe no longer -need they fear for a modest sustenance by the way, unless they should -fall in with a singularly barren land or one notoriously averse from -music. - -All the same they must use great caution. It had been proved to them -already that the chase was like to be hot at their heels. Still if they -kept to little frequented places, there was for the present a chance of -eluding their pursuers. But beyond that they did not dare to hope. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - - -FROM this time forth, as far as it was possible, Gervase and Anne kept -to the woods and the fields. For several weeks they yielded themselves -to a free life in the open. Drenched by the rains, combed by the winds, -baked by the sun, they soon became as brown as berries. - -All day would they wander hand in hand. But this was a state of things -that could not last. A clear conviction had grown up in the heart of -Gervase that a term had been set to his days. At any moment he might be -taken. Therefore would he have his taste of life. - -He welcomed nature in all her moods. He basked in her sunlight, he -turned his face to her winds, he rejoiced when her sudden plumps of -rain drenched him to the skin. And the brave thing, ever beside him, to -whom he owed the life which was still his, she too in her courage and -devotion was in a mood of highest fortitude. - -Come what might, they would live their hour. Already Anne had made a -vow that when the call came to Gervase she would obey it too. When that -dread hour came in which they could no longer put off their captors -they were resolved to die together. Soon or late a tragic fate must -overtake them. But in the meantime let them taste of life in its -abundance, let them rejoice in the ever-mounting passion of their love. - -Often a barn or a byre sufficed for their night’s lodging, but they -seldom lacked food. Even in the most rural places Gervase’s skill upon -the flute, blended occasionally with the fresh and charming voice of -Anne, hardly ever failed to bring a few pence which served to buy them -a meal. - -It was a good life and yet a very hard one. They dared not venture into -the larger places where pence might have been more plentiful. Thus for -the most part the fare was coarse and scanty, and often were their -bones a mass of aches from the unkindness of their couches. They were -tanned like gypsies, fine-drawn as greyhounds; and all too soon their -clothes began to display holes and tatters in spite of the care with -which they tended them. - -Small wonder was it that as the days passed this severe life of the -road began to pall. Greatly as they exulted in their freedom, they -began to long intensely for gentler fare. Besides, they were inclined -to view their perils more lightly. Nerved by hardship, very hungry -and also grown a little desperate after a long succession of most -uncomfortable days and nights, they found themselves on a glorious -morning in the streets of the famous town of Oxford. And here a thing -befell that was to change the current of their lives. - -It was hardly more than eight o’clock by the time they came into the -Cornmarket, where stood the Crown Tavern, which was the principal inn -in the city. The season was June, and young as was the day the sun was -already hot in a sky that was without a cloud. - -A man dressed neatly in a doublet of black velvet, and with a short -cock’s feather in his hat, sat on a bench in the sun by the tavern -door. On his knees was a mass of papers which he was studying intently. -The expression upon his face was a little dubious at times, and more -than a little pensive at others. Now and again as he read he indulged -in a trick of brushing back his rather long hair with the palm of his -hand, and to this he had free recourse when he came to a passage in the -close-written folio that particularly engaged his attention. - -As the strains of Gervase’s flute, mingled with the notes of Anne’s -rather plaintive treble, caught the man’s ear he paused suddenly in his -task. With an eager, inquiring eye that was singularly searching he -looked up; and as it fell upon the pair of vagabonds who were coming -slowly across the Cornmarket toward where he sat, there was something -in their aspect which seemed to arouse his curiosity. At any rate he -laid his papers down on the bench, and regarded the musician and the -singer with an air of great candor and interest. - -It may have been that the performance on the flute struck him as -possessing a merit beyond the common, or it may have been that the -sweetly plaintive voice touched a chord in his heart, or again it -may have been that some subtle quality in the aspect of these ragged -robins spoke to him. For at least his scrutiny was grave, direct, very -regardful. It was as if he saw, beyond the tawny skins, the unkempt -locks, the tattered clothes, an underlying strangeness as of something -far other than was as yet revealed. - -So oddly was this man taken by the appearance of these wanderers that -when they halted, rather timidly as it seemed, some twenty paces from -where he sat, he was fain to beckon to them to come nearer. Yes, here -were youth and grace indeed, and beneath their tan was an unmistakable -beauty. Very slowly and very gravely the man on the tavern bench looked -them up and down from top to toe. - -“Playing for a breakfast, young sir?” he said in a tone of amused -friendliness, when at last this scrutiny was at an end. - -“Yes, sir, we be,” said Gervase. - -Of late the young man had affected a kind of Doric in his speech, the -better to accord with an appearance that grew more and more rustical. -But as soon as the man heard the tone of his voice a smile played -furtively upon his lips. - -Again were those observing eyes directed upon Gervase and Anne. There -was neither unkindness nor impertinence in that whimsical gaze. It was -hardly more than the sympathetic curiosity of a subtle mind in the -presence of a mystery it is tempted to solve. But to Gervase at least -it brought a sense of discomfort. The man’s whole aspect made him feel -that here was a mental power, a faculty of divination far beyond the -common. - -“My friend,” said the man, with a disarming air of courtesy, “if I may -say so, you perform so choicely upon the flute that you should seldom -go wanting a meal.” - -“Ah, sir, we lack one sometimes,” said Gervase. - -“There should be no occasion to do so this morning at least. Persons of -taste abound in this old university town.” - -“That is good news, sir,” said Gervase guardedly. - -“And had I been bred at this ancient seat of learning I myself might -have claimed to be of their number.” So soft and gentle was the tone of -the man’s voice that Gervase was set more than ever upon his guard. - -The young man tried to show by a gesture that the conversation was -being carried above the plane on which his bucolic wits were accustomed -to move. But unhappily its very politeness defeated the object in -view. No rustic since the world began had ever been able to convey a -deprecation so delicate in a manner so urbane. - -The man could not forbear to be amused. “Well, sir,” said he, “let me -make myself clearer. May I, as a humble lover of the arts, offer a -breakfast to you and your friend in order to celebrate your genius upon -the flute?” - -“Certainly, sir, you may,” said Gervase, with grateful alacrity, and -casting all prudence to the wind. - -The man bowed as if aware that an honor had been done him. “Is there -any particular dish, sir, you crave for your breakfast?” - -Instead of replying to the question Gervase looked at Anne, as if -he desired that in a matter of such importance hers should be the -responsibility of choosing. - -Quick to follow the glance, as he was quick to follow all things, the -man was fain to take it for his guide. “What do you desire for your -breakfast, young sir?” he said to Anne. - -“A dish of sweetbreads, if it please you,” said Anne, without an -instant’s hesitation. - -“The devil you do!” The man broke into a cry of laughter. “You eat -delicate, young sir. Is a dish of sweetbreads your usual fare of a -morning?” - -“No,” said Anne. “But you asked me what I would like for my breakfast.” - -“Well, young gypsy, you shall have ’em, confound me if you shall not, -if good Mistress Davenant can rise to such fare. I will go and inquire.” - -The man gathered his papers, rose from the bench and entered the tavern. - -Anne and Gervase were left on the threshold to speculate, perhaps a -little dubiously, upon this new turn in their fortunes. Gervase was -already spurring his memory to recall who this man might be. He had the -clearest recollection of having seen him before. But where he had seen -him and in what circumstances he could not remember just then. Still, -he felt not the least distrust of him. The countenance was subtle -enough, and wholly unlike that of any other man, but it had also a -frankness, a candor, a large geniality which wholly forbade the idea of -treachery. - -Soon the man returned with a roguish light in his eye and the assurance -that Mistress Davenant would furnish a dish of sweetbreads in twenty -minutes. - -These were glad tidings. Gervase rendered his thanks in his best Doric -and begged to be allowed the use of the pump in the courtyard of the -inn. Surely such a noble repast called for some amenity on the part of -those who would yield to its delights. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - - -WHEN a few minutes later Gervase and Anne, as wholesome as the pump in -the courtyard could make them, were ushered by their new friend into -the breakfast parlor of the Crown, they learned without surprise that -his calling was that of a play-actor. Several of his colleagues were -seated at a long table that ran along the center of the room. - -This man’s entrance with two nut-brown vagabonds, whose clothes were in -tatters and had the appearance of having been drawn through a hedge, -gave rise to not a little curiosity. And when he led them to a small -table spread for three persons that was set in an embrasure of the -window looking on to the street, and sat down to eat with them, covert -glances were stolen at so singular a spectacle by more than one member -of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. - -Still, even in that age there was a certain indulgence among the elect -for a man of acknowledged genius. And of such persons whom nature and -fortune had favored there was a number round the table in the center -of the room. At the foot of it, immediately opposite the vacant place -of his slightly eccentric co-manager, was Richard Burbage, who had -recently built the fine new playhouse on the Bankside in Southwark, -and who was held by all whose opinion was of weight to be the first -tragic actor of the time. Near to him was William Kemp, the famous -comedian, a burly, rubicund fellow, whose rolling, unctuous tones had -been nourished upon many an honest quart of sack. Farther along the -board were such excellent mimes as Taylor and Lowin and Heming and -Harrison, men highly accomplished in their calling, and of whom any -body of players had a right to be proud. - -The Lord Chamberlain’s servants were on the floodside of success. At -this time they were going from strength to strength and outdistancing -all competitors. Even the Lord Admiral’s men had grown to envy -them. These were no unworthy rivals; men of wit and parts from the -universities were writing plays for them, but they had not the good -fortune to be inspired by a man of very brilliant and remarkable genius. - -Richard Burbage’s co-director and part-proprietor of the new theater on -the Bankside was William Shakespeare, like all of these men an actor, -and perhaps a rather mediocre one. Yet wild horses would not have -dragged any such admission from his more accomplished brethren. For -these well knew that this man, whose air was so modest, so charming and -so friendly, was one whose own special gift was beyond all price. Times -and again, at the shortest notice, had he taken the lifeless corpse of -a forgotten play and with a few magic touches had made the dry bones -live. - -More than once had Richard Burbage gone to him with a demand for -“something new for Twelfth Night.” And as sure as Burbage had done so -something new had been forthcoming; a piece such as to make the town -ring, and cause the Admiral’s men to bite their nails with envy. Plays -of all kinds, running through the whole gamut of the emotions, had -William Shakespeare devised. All sorts and conditions of men had been -enthralled by his remarkable talent. - -“What new maggot has Will got in his brain?” inquired the famous Kemp -of the still more famous Burbage as he rolled a large and rather -bloodshot eye in the direction of the window. - -“Nay,” said the tragedian, with an indulgent shake of the head, “I -know not, except that, as he would say, he is studying the great human -comedy.” - -“Well, Dick,” said the comedian, “if you and I did not know that he had -rarer wit than any man alive we should think he was as mad as a March -hare.” - -“It is a form of madness, friend William, that will never trouble you -and me,” said the tragedian, fetching a deep sigh in which there was -more than a suspicion of the idolater. - -Richard Burbage in particular was sealed of the tribe. In those -reverent eyes the true prince had no peer. The tragedian was not only a -magnificent actor; he was also an uncommonly shrewd and practical man -of the world. He of all men was able to appraise the merit of William -Shakespeare. Burbage knew that his touch had an astonishing mastery. -He knew Shakespeare to be an incomparable craftsman who had already -furnished him with wonderful parts in which to display his own genius. -Moreover the tragedian firmly believed that this wonderful man carried -many another fine play as yet unborn in his brain. - -It mattered not what the theme was. It might be as old as the moon or -it might be invented expressly for the Globe Theatre, but as soon as -William Shakespeare took the pen in his hand the realms of gold were -unlocked. An incommunicable thrill was given to the stale old plot; the -light that never was on sea or land glowed over it; every line acquired -a cadence, a fire, a magic that Richard Burbage, acknowledged monarch -of its interpreters, knew to be incomparable. - -In the presence of the other members of the company, and particularly -in that of the younger ones, Burbage would often allude to the -playwright in terms of awe. His attitude of whimsical adoration was apt -to amuse his brethren not a little at times. Whenever the playwright -expressed an opinion on things and men--and an uncommonly shrewd one -it was as a rule--it could count invariably on the approval of Richard -Burbage. Furthermore all that he was moved to say or do had some high -sanction in the sight of the tragedian. - -There might be those at that table less prone to idolatry. Some of -the younger men, having much to learn, were tempted to smile at the -spectacle of their chief sitting apart with a pair of nondescript -vagabonds, who to judge by their clothes were no more than a couple of -strolling Egyptians. But with Burbage and Kemp this was by no means an -occasion for levity. Their implicit faith in their colleague enabled -them to see method in his madness. - -“Another of his discoveries, I trow, Dick,” said William Kemp, with a -sly glance in the direction of the window. - -“You can lay your sweet life upon that,” said the tragedian, fixing -a stern eye upon a somewhat froward junior a little farther down the -table. “Do you mind how he found Edgcumbe and where he found him?” - -“That I do, and Crosby too and Parflete also if it comes to that. There -is not a man in all England has such an eye for a youth of likelihood.” - -Nor had this view to wait long for confirmation. Presently the -playwright rose from his seat by the window and came over to the long -table. There was an expression of keen pleasure upon his face. He laid -an affectionate hand upon Burbage’s shoulder. “Dick,” he said, “we are -in luck. I’ve found two of the prettiest boys I have seen this many -a moon. Well-mannered, gentle-spoke, right excellent in address. One -plays the flute in the manner of a musician; and the other is straight -and limber, soft-voiced and neat-legged. There is the making of such a -_Rosalind_ there as Parflete himself could not better. Give your old -nose one more dip i’ th’ tankard, Dickon, and then come over and pass -the time o’ the day with my dainty young Egyptians.” - -The tragedian needed no second invitation, but with a -“There-what-did-I-tell-you!” expression of countenance accompanied -William Shakespeare to the table by the window. - -“This is my friend Burbage,” said the playwright to the brown and -handsome Egyptians. “Not of much account as an actor, I am afraid, but -without a superior in the handling of a tankard with a toast in it or -in tossing off a cup of sack either before or after supper.” - -Gervase and Anne rose from the table and bowed respectfully to the -tall, grave and dignified tragedian who yet had a subtle light of humor -in his eye. - -Now the name of William Shakespeare was already familiar to Gervase. He -had heard his kinsman speak of him with high approval. Moreover Gervase -had sat on the stage at the theater and seen him perform in a number -of his own plays. To be sure he was nothing great as an actor, but -those who could judge of such things, his cousin Harry to wit, were of -opinion that he was without a peer as a deviser of plays. - -But whatever the man was or whatever he was not, in the estimation -of Gervase he was undoubtedly a very agreeable follow. He had given -them a delightful breakfast. He had regaled them with free and lively -discourse. Also he had depicted the life of an actor--particularly of -one who had the good fortune to be taken into the Lord Chamberlain’s -Company--in most glowing colors. Nor had even this contented him. He -had ended by making them a formal offer to join that famous band. - -They should have clothes of a good style and quality; their cheer -should be abundant; they should be comfortably housed and cared for; -and during the first year of their apprenticeship they should receive -a tester a day. The whole craft of the theater should be taught them; -they should tread the boards of the Globe; and, with due diligence, -upon a day they might hope to play before the Queen at Richmond or -Greenwich. - -It was an alluring prospect that the actor had painted with a lively -and glowing fancy. And now that Burbage had seen these singularly -attractive youths and had learned that Shakespeare had set his heart -on securing them for the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, they had the -tragedian’s wiles of speech to combat. - -Gervase was tempted sorely. The hard life of the road was growing -intolerable. Food was scarce, beds hard and often to seek; they were -continually exposed to the weather in all its inclemency; they were -haunted by a constant sense of peril. Should they exchange all this -discomfort for the happier prospect that was now dangled before them? - -It was a grave problem and one that called for much hard thought. - -“’Tis the finest profession in the world,” said the tragedian, with the -light of enthusiasm in his eyes, “and you, with your looks and address, -are bound to rise in it. Twenty years ago I was by trade a carpenter, -and as for Will here he was even less than that.” - -It was not, however, the worldly advantages of a player’s calling that -were making their appeal to Gervase. No doubt they were considerable, -for both of these men had prosperity written upon them. It was not for -these things that he cared, however, nor overmuch for his own ease and -security. But for Anne, poor brave Anne who was already beginning to -fail from sheer fatigue, it would mean a far gentler way of life. - -When, however, Gervase came to consider the alternative that was -offered he could not be blind to its perils. It was bound to mean a -life of publicity, in places moreover in which he was likely to be -known. No; the more thought he gave to the matter, the clearer his -conviction grew that it would add tenfold to their dangers if they -threw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s men. - -Gervase liked so well these honest, genial and courteous fellows and -the gay, free and pleasant life they offered that it went to his heart -that he could not answer in the way he would have chosen. What a boon -such a life would have been, what a relief from the hard road and the -open sky! Day by day their case was growing worse. But they must not -yield to these beguilements so long as they set any value on their -lives. - -It was with much reluctance that in the end Gervase informed the -players that he and his companion could not throw in their lot with the -Lord Chamberlain’s servants. They were sensible of the liberal offer -that had been made to them; they expressed all proper gratitude for it, -but their business lay otherwhere. - -The playwright in particular was much disappointed. Already he had -begun to count upon a couple of most promising recruits. The shy grace, -the light-flanked slenderness of the younger gypsy had especially -intrigued that perceiving eye. But it was in vain that Shakespeare -pointed out the advantages such a mode of life afforded over their -present one. It was in vain that he assembled all the glowing colors of -his fancy to depict it. - -“I would, sir, that we might do as you wish,” said Gervase, with a deep -sigh. - -The keen-witted player was quick to notice the wistful tone of the -voice, the look of pain in the eyes. All at once it came into his mind -that this young man was not what he appeared to be. - -Surely he had seen this young man before. For the life of him he could -not then say when it was or where, but he had not the least doubt that -he had met him in very different circumstances. Yet his delicacy of -mind was such that the knowledge that he had come to the threshold of a -mystery made him less insistent than he would have been otherwise. - -Presently with many sincere expressions of gratitude Anne and -Gervase took the road again. As Shakespeare watched them depart his -professional feelings got the better of him. “Dick,” he said to his -faithful henchman, “I am sore to see them go. No two such springalds as -those, so fair, sweet and likely, have I seen for a month o’ Sundays.” - -“It may be so,” said Richard Burbage sagely. - -“Still, things are not always what they seem, Dickon,” said the -playwright. - -“How mean you, you old wiseacre?” The tragedian linked his arm -affectionately within that of his friend. “What new hare is started in -that wild demesne which you are pleased to call your mind?” - -“I mean, dear shrew, that those are no more gypsies than Richard -Burbage is Emperor of Cathay.” - -“Then who the plague be they?” - -“Ha! you have me there. But I’ll wager there is far more in this matter -than meets the eye.” - -“So be it, then,” said the tragedian, rolling his rich voice. “But -in the meantime let us see if a large cup of sack will sharpen your -recollection, you subtle-minded maker of plays.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV - - -ALAS! a large cup of sack did little to sharpen the remembrance of Mr. -William Shakespeare. It was in vain that he brought his mind to bear -upon the problem that now engaged it. He felt sure he had seen both the -gypsies before, and in very different circumstances; slight threads of -recollection were alive in his memory, but for the life of him he could -not piece them together into any hopeful clue. - -The playwright spent the rest of the morning on a bench in the sun -before the door of the Crown, conning diligently the close-written -sheets of the latest heir of his invention. - -Art is long, time fleeting. He read with mingled feelings: relief that -the thing was done at last; regret of the true artist that it was -not to be done all over again, so far it was from those first blithe -runnings of the fancy which had peopled his mind with such glad shapes -as no eye of mortal could ever look upon. Even now it wanted a title, -this pleasant conceited comedy. And how was it possible to find a -name for this absurd, sweetly foolish fantasy of the greenwood and a -banished duke, of love and girlhood and high poesy? - -Art is long, time fleeting. It was a poor thing, but it would have -to serve, since the Queen had called for it to be played before her -next Thursday se’nnight in her palace at Richmond. And it made the -playwright sigh to think that there was only young Parflete to play -_Rosalind_, that fair emblem of victorious girlhood, upon which he -had feasted and quickened his imagination. The prosperity of the play -depended on a single character, and Parflete, with all his grace and -talent, came not near the poet’s ideal of the part. Perhaps no mortal -youth could ever hope to do that, and yet what a glorious _Rosalind_ -had walked up that street but an hour ago! - -It was a stroke of perverse fate that his eyes had been ravished by -that charming gypsy boy. But for that sight, Parflete, for whom the -part had been designed from the first, would have contented him. But -now having seen the true _Rosalind_, for all that he was so fine-drawn -and shy, so ill-kempt and rustical, it made the poet sad to think of -Parflete in the rôle, youth of breeding and talent as he was. - -The playwright sighed heavily as he turned the last page. Alas! he felt -already that he had leaned too heavily on his chief female character. -Oh, if--! But such a speculation was idle ... he must dismiss it. Let -him spend his mind more profitably in seeking a name for the plaguy -piece. But how was it possible to find a name for such a patched coat -of fantasy? - -While William Shakespeare was in this mental travail, his friend -Richard Burbage came out of the tavern. “Dick,” said he, “of your -charity give me a name for this curst piece. I know no more what to -christen it than does a blind tinker his dog.” - -Richard Burbage removed from his mouth his pipe of tobacco, -a fashionable action which seemed to call for a slight air of -magniloqence. “A name, my William, for the curst piece?” The tragedian -shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands nonchalantly, while the -light of a large good-humor shone in his shrewd face. “Oh, call it as -you like it or what you will.” - -The fist of the playwright descended upon the bench in front of him. -“Dick, you’ve hit it at the first shot!” he cried. “As You Like -It!--you’ve hit the target right in the middle.” - -“Why take two bites at a cherry, my son?” said the tragedian, with -another amused shrug. “In fact, the matter merely amounts to this: If -William Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon in Warwickshire, would engage -one Richard Burbage, an honest good fellow, to write his plaguy pieces -for him, it would save him a vast deal of trouble and inconvenience and -the world would never be able to tell the difference.” - -Thereupon Mr. Richard Burbage sauntered back into the Crown Tavern with -that large air of benevolent tolerance which should be the attitude of -a superior mind toward all men and all things. - -“As You Like It,” said the playwright. “The name is as good as a -better, confound me if it is not!” - -He dipped his quill into the horn of ink that was on the bench beside -him, and, with the never-failing instinct of the true craftsman, wrote -the title on the first page of his new comedy. - -Scarce had he time to do this, however, when that swift, alert and -curious mind was engaged by an entirely new affair. There was the sound -of a horse’s hoofs on the cobbles leading to the tavern door. And the -playwright’s quick uplooking glance was met by the sight of a singular -traveler. - -The newcomer was a man about twenty-five years old, riding a -useful-looking horse. But that which particularly drew the notice of -William Shakespeare was the hapless plight of man and beast. Both were -greatly distressed. The horse had evidently traveled far and swiftly: -it was caked with mud up to its withers; it was lame of a foreleg; it -was covered with sweat, and seemed hardly able to do another yard. - -The case of the rider was in keeping with the horse’s unhappy state. -The man looked so limp and wretched that he could scarce sit in the -saddle. Moreover, he was wild-eyed and haggard; and his leather -riding-suit which seemed to denote a servant of a superior sort was in -sad disorder. - -The man rode into the courtyard of the inn and handed over his weary -horse to an ostler. Then the rider, no less weary than his steed, -staggered painfully to the inn door. In a hoarse voice he called for -a tankard of ale and then flung himself heavily on the bench near to -where the player sat. - -Shakespeare eyed the traveler with deep curiosity. The man was in such -a sorry plight that he could not refrain from pitying him. “You appear -to have traveled far, friend,” he said. - -The man looked at the speaker in a manner to suggest that he might be -strongly averse from the delights of promiscuous conversation with a -total stranger. “Yes, I have traveled far,” he said, with a weary sigh. - -He buried his head in his hands as if he were in despair. And even -after refreshment had been brought to him he did not heed it, but -continued in this attitude for some little time. Then suddenly he shook -off his lethargy and drank the ale. Feeling a little renewed, he called -for a second tankard. - -“You don’t happen to have seen a couple o’ young gypsies traveling -through Oxford?” he asked suddenly. - -Immediately the player grew very alert. “What kind of gypsies do you -mean?” he asked in a casual but wary tone. - -“The taller of the two might be playing on the flute, I reckon, and the -younger one, who has the voice and look of a girl, might doubtless be -singing.” - -William Shakespeare, as became a thoroughgoing man of the world, was -far too acute to blurt out on the spur of the moment the full measure -of his information. Rather he preferred to parry the question of this -singular traveler by putting a few of his own. “What might you be -wanting with them?” he asked cautiously. - -The traveler drank copiously of his second pot of ale before he -answered. And when answer he did it was in the rather surly manner -of one who strongly desires to keep his own counsel and yet is not -well enough trained in the art of politeness to be able to keep it -gracefully. “That’s my affair,” he said bluntly. - -The player was too wise a man to pursue his inquiry at the moment. But -by now his curiosity was fully engaged. There was a mystery here. And -mystery of any sort was apt to engage that subtle mind. When he had -first set eyes on that picturesque pair of young vagabonds he had been -strongly inclined to believe that they were other than they seemed. Now -this man’s coming, his agitation and his secrecy confirmed him in that -theory. - -Clearly there was a good deal more in this matter than met the eye. The -player was convinced that he had seen both these ragged robbins before. -And in some vague way he felt he had seen them in circumstances and -surroundings wholly different from those in which they were at present. - -He knew how to keep his own counsel, however. It was left to the -traveler himself to renew the topic. And this the man presently did, -and in the manner of one who against his natural judgment is driven by -some remorseless, some irresistible force. - -“Did you say you _had_ seen a pair o’ gypsies pass along the road?” he -asked. - -“I say neither that I have nor that I have not,” said the player. -“Still, if you care to tell me more it is possible that I may be able -to help you. But,” he added, with well-assumed indifference, “after -all, it is hardly likely that the persons I have in mind are those whom -you are seeking.” - -The man hesitated as one impaled on the horns of a dilemma. Evidently -he was very loath to tell all he knew. Yet at the same time he realized -that the information he sought could only be won by a measure of -frankness on his own part. After a careful weighing of the pros and -cons of the matter he seemed reluctantly to conclude that his silence -might lose him more than it would gain. - -“I know not who you are,” he said at last. “But you have a fair-seeming -air and the face of an honest man. And God send you are all of what -you appear, for it is a very strange and grievous story that I have to -tell.” - -The traveler spoke in the manner of one who is entirely desperate. He -seemed to have been driven to the limit of his mental as well as his -physical endurance. - -In the face of the player was that beacon of true sympathy which is as -a talisman in the sight of all men. He had the power to put himself in -the place of others. And here was a kindness, a candor, an openness for -all men to read, and reading for all men to trust implicitly. - -“My story is one you will find very hard to believe,” said the young -man. “But there is no reason why it should not be told. It is in the -power of no man to make things in a worse coil than they are. And while -I do not think aught is to be gained by making others a party to them, -after all it can do no harm, and I may even gain a certain ease of -mind.” - -The player showed very clearly that he was following every word with -the closest and most sympathetic attention. - -“To begin at the beginning of my story,” said the young man, “my -name is John Markham. My calling is that of a falconer. I have been -eight years in the service of Sir John Feversham, who is Constable of -Nottingham Castle, and chief justice of the Forest of Sherwood. He has -the reputation of being a hard man. But I have always found him a very -just one. Moreover I say to you, whoever you be, that no man could -desire a better master. - -“Well, to come at once to this dreadful story, which it hurts me to -tell, some months ago, six perhaps or more--at least it was in the -fall of the year--the Queen caused to be imprisoned privily in the -Castle a Mr. Gervase Heriot. He was a highly placed young man. But he -had mixed with the Papists, and after a trial which had been held in -secret before the Court of Star Chamber, he had been found guilty of -complicity in the Round House Plot, which you may know had for its -object the taking the Queen’s life. By a good providence the plot was -discovered in time, but the conspirators were able to fly the country, -except Mr. Heriot, who alone was taken. - -“Mr. Heriot, as I say, was tried in secret, because the Queen’s -advisers were anxious not to inflame the public mind, and they wished -as little as possible to be made of so ugly a matter. Mr. Heriot was -proved guilty of conspiring against the life of the Queen, and he was -committed to the Castle of Nottingham to be held there by Sir John -Feversham, my master, until such time as her pleasure concerning him -should be further known. - -“Some two months ago the Queen signed the warrant for Mr. Heriot’s -death. The day for the execution was fixed. And now I come to the -strange, the grievous, the incredible part of the story.” In the sudden -flood of his emotion the falconer’s voice almost failed. “On the very -morning that Mr. Heriot was to die by the ax on the block, within three -hours of the time appointed, he escaped from his durance.” - -The young man could not go on. But the unspoken sympathy of his auditor -nerved him to continue. Yet as he did so a kind of tragic horror -entered his voice. - -“At first nothing was known of the circumstances of Mr. Heriot’s -escape. Yet without loss of time all of us of the Constable’s household -who were able of body mounted our horses and rode off in all directions -in order that the prisoner might be retaken. And it fell to me as I -rode that same morning in the meadows beside the Trent to come upon Mr. -Heriot hiding in the grass.” - -For a moment the unhappy young man covered his face with his hands. -It was as if he was wholly unable to proceed with his story or to -contemplate that which was coming. - -With an ever-mounting interest William Shakespeare waited in silence -for this emotion to pass. - -“I had but to speak,” the young man was able to continue at last. “I -had but to cry out to my comrades, who were less than fifty yards off, -and the prisoner would have been ta’en. But I did not do this.” - -Again came a dire threat from an overwrought mind, but with a powerful -effort of will the falconer was able to proceed with his story. - -“But I did not do this, for beside him in the grass was Mistress Anne -Feversham, the daughter of the Constable my master.” - -A sharp cry broke from the lips of William Shakespeare. He rose from -the bench in the stress of his excitement. - -“You let them go free!” said the player. - -“Yes,” said the falconer. “I had it not in my heart to take them when -she, for whom I would have given my life, had given hers for the man -she loved better than her own soul.” - -The face of the player was all melted with compassion. His eyes of -strange somberness grew fixed and dark. - -“But this is not the end of what I have to tell,” said the falconer. -“I let Mr. Heriot and my young mistress go free; yet before that day -was out the truth came to the Constable my master, that it was his own -daughter who had contrived the prisoner’s escape and that she was away -with him over the country-side. And my master, being one to whom honor -is a jewel, posted at once to the Queen to her palace at Greenwich. -With his own lips he told her that Mr. Heriot was broken free. And not -a word did he speak of the part his daughter had borne in the affair, -but took the whole blame of the matter upon himself. - -“They say that when Sir John told the news to the Queen her displeasure -was terrible. They say that his story--as in faith it must with the -chief part of it left out--carried so little credence to her mind that -she at once suspected him of treachery, old and loyal servant as he -was. She had him straightway committed to the Tower. He is to stand -immediate trial before the Court of the Star Chamber on a charge of -aiding and abetting the escape of a prisoner of state. And as I learn -from those best able to judge of such a grievous matter, my master, -unless the prisoner is retaken at once, will without a doubt be -condemned to the block.” - -Shakespeare had followed with a growing excitement as strange a story -as he had ever heard in his life. There were elements in it which -appealed intensely to his dramatic sense. Besides, he did not doubt -that two of the chief actors in the tragedy were very close at hand. He -did not doubt that they were that fascinating pair of vagabonds who had -wrought upon his curiosity so short a time ago. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - - -SELDOM had the mind of William Shakespeare been exercised more severely -than in this hour. No story could have been more poignant. Yet was it -the duty even of a true subject and of an honest man to confide to the -distraught John Markham his knowledge of the nearness of those whom he -sought? - -Anxiously he considered this problem; but the more thought he gave to -it, the more baffling and complex seemed to be the difficulties it -presented. - -Shakespeare talked long and earnestly with the falconer as they sat -out in the sun on the tavern bench. And the result of this intimate -conversation was that he came to form a high regard for the character -of this unhappy man. - -The mind of the poor fellow was grievously tormented. On the one side -was worship of his young mistress; on the other his fealty to a good -and honored master. He was as one rent in twain. A high adoration had -divorced him from his duty, and now, in horror of an action that was to -cost his master his life, he was determined to do all that lay in his -power to repair his crime. - -Up hill and down dale, in all weathers, at all hours of the day and -night, had he journeyed for more than a fortnight past. Far over the -country-side by little-frequented ways had he ridden in his quest of -the fugitives. Now did he hear of them from one of whom a few days -before they had obtained a night’s lodging; now from a masterless man -upon the road; now from a tribe of wandering gypsies; now from the -keeper of an alehouse. He was ever upon the point of coming up with -them, yet ever by the interposition of some strange providence had they -eluded him. - -As Shakespeare listened to the tale of John Markham’s wanderings the -sore problem was ever posed before his mind. Should he discover to the -distraught falconer the whereabouts of the fugitives? Must he set him -upon the road they had taken but a brief two hours ago? - -It was not at once that the player could come to a resolve. Indeed an -extension of time was unexpectedly granted to him, for as John Markham -sat on the bench in the sun a great fatigue suddenly overcame the young -man and he fell asleep. - -Thereupon the player retired to the pleasant garden at the back of the -inn. Here he paced up and down the box-bordered paths with his hands -tucked deep in his doublet. - -To him presently came Richard Burbage. - -“Oho, my William,” said the tragedian. “Piecing out, I presume, a -further parcel of neat verses for the fair Rosalind?” - -“No, Dick, a greater affair than that is toward.” - -The tone banished all levity from Burbage’s lips. “Why, what is the -matter?” he said. - -“Must I tell it or must I not?” The playwright seemed to be thinking -aloud. Then he broke out with a kind of petulance. “I would to heaven I -was not curst with this fell disease!” - -“Which of your fell diseases is that, dear coz?” - -“The bitterest of them all--the disease of not being able to know your -own mind.” - -“The penalty of high imagination, my friend,” said Richard Burbage, -with an air of understanding and sympathy. - -“You are right, Dickon. The penalty of imagination, as you say. One of -these days I will take a revenge upon myself and make a play of it. It -is the bitterest thing in the world. There’s no peace in this life for -those who suffer it. But I have here a matter in which I crave your -help. Sit ye there, by the yew-tree yonder, and I will unfold the most -tragical tale that ever came from the lips of man.” - -Burbage sat as his friend desired. In spite of his colleague’s -perplexed face he was prepared for one of those odd, fantastic, -whimsical inventions that often enough had been poured into his ear. -But this was to prove another kind of matter altogether. - -The story did not take long in the telling. The tragedian was thrilled -by it. He listened with fascinated attention. - -“And now, Dick,” said the playwright when he had come to the end of the -tragic story, “I ask you what is to be done?” - -“Aye, what indeed!” said Burbage in his deep voice. - -“God help them, poor souls!” said the poet tenderly. - -“Amen to that!” said Burbage. - -These were wise men. There were few of the coils that fate weaves for -her children with which they were unacquainted. But here was a matter -which in its sinister and tragic complexity seemed to lie beyond their -grasp. - -The problem was indeed a sore one. They were true subjects of the -Queen. As loyal, chivalrous and honorable men they could appreciate -the cruel pass of the unfortunate Sir John Feversham, and also of the -ill-starred falconer. But how was it possible to deliver up two such -fugitives, two who were little more than children, who had dared and -done so much, to the vengeance of the law? - -“I ask you, Dick, what is to be done?” said the playwright. - -The tragedian sat with his head in his hands, the picture of desolation. - -“Nay, Will,” he said haplessly, “you would do better to consult God and -your own conscience.” - -“An’ I do that,” said the playwright, “a curse will lie on my soul for -ever-more.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - - -AFTER their fine repast at the Crown, Gervase and Anne left Oxford at -once. Soon they were in the pleasant meadows that lay all about that -famous city. It was a really glorious morning of the early summer, with -the sun, which day by day had scorched them, more powerful than ever. - -All the forenoon they wandered idly in the fields. Anne shamed her -boy’s apparel by plucking the wild flowers, gathering a great posy. -There seemed hardly need for a care just then. They had money enough -to carry them through the day and even provide a modest lodging at -nightfall. The grass in which they lay for long hours was soft, dry, -delicious. - -Every day that passed strengthened the sense of comradeship that -sustained them. They were all to one another now. Yet enraptured as -they were with their love, they were never able to forget that they -were proscribed. This glimpse of happiness could only be a transient -thing. Any day, at any hour, Gervase was likely to fall into the hands -of his enemies. But whenever that dread accident befell them, as sooner -or later it must, they had made their pledge that they would die -together. - -Was there no way of ultimate escape? Each day that passed had seemed -to minister to their love of life. As they lay in the grass, gazing -afar into a heaven so gorgeous that it filled them with wonder, this -longing to live took hold of them both with a still greater intensity. -Was there no way by which an entirely innocent man could escape the -scaffold? - -If only they had a little money to buy a passage on board ship they -might hope to escape across the seas. Instead of wandering aimlessly -from place to place, void of purpose or design, there was no reason why -they should not make for the coast. Unhappily it was likely to profit -them little when they came there unless they could provide themselves -with some money. - -The whole of Gervase’s property had passed into the hands of the wicked -man who had borne false testimony against him. This man was his uncle, -Simon Heriot, who had succeeded to his personal effects and his estate -in the west of England. These had been confiscated by the Crown. -And in that age it was customary to bestow the spoils of successful -prosecution upon the person or persons who had procured the conviction -of the offender! - -Gervase knew that he was the victim of a very wicked conspiracy. Simon -Heriot, cunning, covetous, unspeakably vile, had laid his plans only -too well. So deftly woven the plot, so wisely chosen its instruments -and so skilful their use of forged proofs and false evidence that from -the first the unlucky Gervase had had little chance of escape. - -He had been caught securely in a trap. The charges had been laid -against him with such diabolical skill that it was almost impossible -to disprove them. It was in vain that he had cast himself upon the -mercy of the Queen. Simon Heriot, ignoble as he was at heart, was a -person of some place, and not without consideration at Court; and he -had always been able to mask his cunning well enough to pass for a -high-minded and honorable man. - -It chanced, however, that as thus Anne and Gervase lay together in this -golden afternoon, whiling away the sweet hours that were likely to be -so few, this intense desire for life suddenly found expression in a -desperate resolve. Gervase remembered that the house of Simon Heriot -was but a matter of ten miles or so from the city of Oxford. And no -sooner did this fact occur to him than he was taken with the idea that -it might be possible to go there and force his uncle to disgorge enough -of his ill-gotten gains to enable Anne and himself to fly the country. - -This bold scheme began to exert a strange fascination over him. The -more thought he gave to it the stronger grew its hold upon him. -Certainly it must prove very hazardous; it was the wild design of a -desperate man, but it appealed to his mood. - -When he came to confide the plan to his comrade she too approved it. To -Anne it opened up a new world of possibility. The spirit of desperation -urging her, she could see no reason why they should not break into the -house of Simon Heriot in the middle of that night and seek the means to -carry them into safety across the seas. - -Yes, let that be their project! Both saw, however, that one fatal -drawback confronted them. To put such a design into execution it was -of vital importance that they should go armed. Thus they now regretted -bitterly that the silver-hilted dagger was no longer in their keeping. - -It would be sheer folly to present themselves unarmed at the house of -Simon Heriot. A weapon of some kind must be procured if the project was -to have any chance of success. Gervase hoped that, with a little luck, -he might be able to barter his flute for a pistol but, unhappily, by so -doing he was likely to deprive them of their sole means of getting food. - -This question of arms was a sore problem. However, they decided to take -a night’s rest before coming to grips with it in earnest. And they may -have been moved to this wise course by the fact that the house of Simon -Heriot lay out upon the Banbury road, and that in order to come to it, -it would be necessary to retrace their steps and pass through the town -of Oxford. - -They bought a bowl apiece of bread and milk of a kindly farmer’s wife, -and this made them a delicious supper. And for the sum of twopence they -were allowed to lie snug in the barn during the night. And as they lay -thus, discussing the prospects of the strange hazard upon which they -were determined to embark on the morrow, a new expedient came into the -mind of Gervase. - -Ever since their meeting that morning with the man at the Crown, the -thoughts of Gervase strayed continually toward him. He was not a man to -forget. And now as Gervase lay in the straw in the darkness considering -what must be done, his mind reverted to him again. - -All his instincts seemed to tell him that this was an honest man; -moreover a man capable of rare kindness and instant sympathy; a man -whom it would seem possible for even a couple of hard-pressed fugitives -to trust implicitly. - -Yes, let them return to Oxford to the Crown. Let them seek out this man -Shakespeare and tell him as much of their story as might serve to win -his help. As Gervase lay that night he took a resolve to do this. He -would confide in the man as far as might be necessary. Perchance this -friendly player might approve sufficiently this hazardous excursion to -the house of Simon Heriot to provide him with a weapon to serve the -occasion. - -When the morning came, however, this plan seemed to err a good deal on -the side of boldness. In broad daylight it appeared very far from wise -to put such trust in a man, who, after all, was no more than a total -stranger. Might he not prove, when their story was told to him, one of -those zealots whose devotion to the Queen would cause him to betray -these fugitives from justice? - -Still, in spite of all misgiving, Gervase finally determined to take -the risk. Even when every argument had been urged on the other side of -the question, he still felt that if only they dared to put their faith -in this man who had already shown them such kindness, they would not -appeal in vain for his friendship. - -They were about seven miles from Oxford. Having laid out their -remaining store of pence on a frugal breakfast they trudged forth and -in less than two hours had re-entered the city. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - - -MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE had had a bad night. Indeed he had hardly slept -at all. For the life of him he could not rid his mind of that tragic -matter in which by fate’s unkindness he had come to be an unwilling -actor. - -His thoughts reverted continually to those hapless children of destiny -begging their bread in the hamlets round Oxford, while their lives hung -by a thread; and to the luckless falconer, man of high instincts and -strong tormented soul, pursuing them relentlessly from place to place. -To this man, moreover, whatever his God and his conscience might have -to say to him, he had been tempted to lie. - -It was now eight o’clock of another glorious summer morning, and the -playwright, looking rather wild-eyed and haggard, sat on the bench -before the door of the Crown Tavern as he had done the previous day. -But now, instead of holding a mass of papers on his knee he was seeking -solace from a thick brown folio lately from the press, North’s noble -translation of the Lives of Plutarch. - -It is strange how events repeat themselves. As on the previous day at -that hour, the player suddenly looked up from the page and beheld the -identical sight upon which his eyes had then rested. Two nut-brown -wanderers were coming towards him, without a noise of music this time, -but walking hand in hand as if each desired the sustenance of the -other’s courage. - -Clearly the player was more than a little startled by the sight of -them. A curious look flitted across his face. It was almost that of one -who has seen a phantom in the daylight. - -The fugitives were quick to notice that the player’s manner towards -them had changed. For all their raggedness his address was far more -considered than it had been the previous day. In lieu of the air of -light, graceful badinage that had charmed them then was a grave tone -which was not without a note of respectfulness. It was as if he had -learned since last he had seen them that they were not as they appeared. - -“I give you good morrow, sir,” said Gervase. - -He kept the humble tone he was wont to use in his present condition. -But now a look of pity came into the face of the play-actor. - -Somehow this entire change in Shakespeare’s manner, together with -the nature of the errand on which they had come, served to embarrass -discourse. On the side of neither was the lightness and ease of the -day before. The few lame sentences they exchanged seemed further to -increase the difficulty. - -But at last said the player suddenly, fixing them both with his gentle -but somber eyes: “Sit here, my friends, on the bench beside me and tell -me a little of yourselves.” - -The look of the man was so gravely beguiling that they were fain to do -as he desired. - -How to begin his strange, his incredible story was now the problem for -Gervase. How much should he tell? He would take this man fully into his -confidence in all that concerned himself, but in regard to Anne it was -another affair. Indeed, so little did the part she had borne relate to -their present need of this man’s kindness that Gervase was determined -not to mention her unless circumstances forced him to do so. - -It was not easy to begin the story. But, after a moment of awkwardness -in which there was a slow gathering of all he had of resolution, the -young man took the plunge. “First,” he said, turning his own candid -eyes full upon those of the player, “I would have you to know that I am -about to intrust my life to your hands.” - -The player did not speak except that which his eyes spoke for him. - -“My name is Gervase Heriot,” said the young man. “I am being hunted for -my life. I broke out of my prison three hours before I was to die by -the ax.” - -“You say you were to die by the ax,” said the player in a tone so low -as hardly to be audible. “For what reason had you to meet a death so -sharp and so shameful?” - -“For the reason,” said Gervase, “that a wicked, covetous man has -plotted away my life.” - -“Why has he done this?” - -“It is merely because he would succeed to that to which he is not -entitled.” - -“He has sworn away your life, you say?” - -“Yes, he has himself borne false testimony. And he has suborned others -as vile as himself to swear a tissue of lies in order to prove me -guilty of a crime of which I am incapable.” - -“Who, pray, is this infamous man?” - -“He is my uncle, Simon Heriot.” - -“And have you no means of disproving this black conspiracy?” - -“None, alas. My Uncle Simon has a very cunning and subtle mind. His -design has been laid very deep. It is a matter of my unsupported oath -against those of specious knaves who are well found in the trade of -swearing away men’s lives.” - -The play-actor grew silent. Not for a moment could he doubt that -Gervase Heriot was innocent of the crime alleged against him. - -It was a grievous story. And one-half of it had not been told. And he -knew it to be all compact of those elements of which his own mind was -formed. It was such a tale of passion, of poetry, of high romance as -the imagination could not surpass, and the living evidence of it was -before him. - -A great desire to help these hapless wanderers surged in this man’s -soul. There were those who were seeking them far and near; a price was -on the head of Heriot; yet if he were allowed to get clear it might be -that a cruel and shameful penalty would be paid by a man of stainless -honor. All these swift thoughts were thrown into the alembic of that -wonderful mind. But the call of nature was too strong; his heart went -out to these fugitives in their tragic need. Cost what it may, he must -render any help that lay in his power. - -“Mr. Heriot,” said the player after a long interval of silence had -passed, “I would fain save your life?” - -The young man shook his head gravely. “There’s little chance of that -unless I fly the country.” - -“I was thinking so,” said the player. - -“But in order to do that I must have some money. And I will now tell -you, sir--” Gervase sank his voice very low--“the manner in which I -propose to get it.” - -Thereupon the young man divulged the plan he had formed of visiting his -uncle that night. - -“Simon Heriot lives in solitude in his gloomy old manor-house but ten -miles off, with only a few decrepit old servants to take care of him. -And my design is to break into his house in the middle of this very -night, to frighten the wits out of the old knave and make him disgorge -money enough for mine and my brother’s journey across the seas.” - -This hasty and ill-considered scheme, however, did not appeal to the -player. It was too clearly the expedient of a thoroughly desperate man. -There were many reasons which seemed to make it impracticable. “No, Mr. -Heriot,” he said, “I do not think that way is to be commended. Let us -try to find a better. I will go and think upon this matter. And in the -meantime do you and your friend remain here and I will send you out -some food, which I have no doubt will come not amiss to you.” - -For that surmise at least the player had good warrant. Soon a stately -pigeon pie and a noble flagon of October ale were laid on the bench -before them. And they were able to eat without misgiving. They had -given this man all their trust, and they had staked their lives on the -fact that he was incapable of betraying it. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - - -MEANWHILE William Shakespeare had gone in quest of Richard Burbage, -that _fidus Achates_ whose counsel was often invoked by this eager, -but, at times, irresolute spirit. Now, however, Shakespeare was fully -determined to help these ill-starred fugitives to the utmost of his -power. - -To render aid that should be in any way effective was likely to prove -a supremely difficult matter. The most obvious thing to be done was to -give them money enough to enable them to fly the country. Such a course -offered a strong temptation at the moment. But when Shakespeare came to -consider all the consequences that would follow upon it he put it out -of his mind. At the back of his thoughts was ever the distraught figure -of the falconer, the unhappy man whom he had been compelled to deceive. -If Heriot fled the country Sir John Feversham would lose his life. No, -the hour was not yet for such an irrevocable step. “But, my friend,” -whispered a sinister voice, too often heard in that overwrought brain, -“you of all men have reason to know that delays are dangerous!” - -Alas he was face to face once more with the old sore problem--the -problem of how to make up his mind. Once more he began to see too much -of this grievous matter, as he saw too much of all things. He owed it -to himself that he should do all in his power to help this unlucky -pair. But no hurt must be done to the falconer, or to the honorable man -his master, who lay in the Tower in such tragic case. - -The playwright, in the toils of an irresolution as great as he had ever -known, went to seek the tragedian in his favorite place, which was the -pleasant garden at the back of the inn. Fortune favored him, inasmuch -that Richard Burbage was found to be seated on a bench in the ample -shade of a yew tree. - -The manager was alone, and with the aid of a pipeful of the new Indian -weed which seldom failed to excite the wit of his peers, was diligently -conning the acting parts of the new comedy to be given a fortnight -hence in the Queen’s presence. - -“William Shakespeare,” said Burbage, looking up as the shadow of the -playwright was cast across the page, “let these young fools say what -they please, but my belief is you have never written anything choicer.” - -“I am glad to hear you say that, Dick,” said the playwright, who spoke, -however, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “If I could have taken -another fortnight to it perhaps it might have been tolerable, but as it -is I am afraid it is a poor thing.” - -“The thing is good enough,” said Burbage robustly. “It is full of most -excellent fantasy. The fact is, some of these fools have not wit enough -for a thing of such delicacy.” - -The playwright shook his head. “Yes, Dick,” he said, “but a man makes a -great mistake when he gets above the crowd. There should be something -for all the world and his wife in a comedy.” - -Richard Burbage, one of the intellectuals of his day, was a little -shocked by such a banal observation. Had it been possible for the god -of his idolatry to seem less than himself, he had never been in such -imminent danger. But the true prince must ever be allowed to speak as -it seemed good to him. - -“We will thank God that Gloriana has at any rate a shrewd and seizing -mind,” said Richard Burbage, with enthusiasm. “At least, it will not be -above _her_.” - -The playwright smiled the little sad smile that was so often his when -others chose to refer to his writings in his presence. None had ever -been able to interpret that gesture; none ever would, but it was a -smile of pain rather than of happiness. - -With a sudden effort of the will the playwright cast these trivialities -out of his thoughts. “Dick,” he said, “I am come to talk of a matter -of more account than this. I would have you know that our poor young -Egyptians are returned.” - -“Oh, a murrain on them!” The face of the tragedian grew startled and -discomposed. “Plague take them,” he said, “I had hoped we had seen the -last of them.” - -“Poor souls!” said the playwright. - -Never had Burbage seen his too-sensitive comrade--to whom he had come -to stand in the relation of a protective elder brother--in such a state -of distress. The tragic story had torn his heart. But the counsel of -the tragedian was sadly discouraging. - -“If you will be ruled by me, my friend,” said that sage and practical -man of the world, “you will take precious care to keep out of this -matter. Let them go their ways. The times are perilous. And he who -touches affairs of state generally finds it easier to lose his head -than to keep it.” - -“You are right there, Dick,” said the playwright, with an odd light -in his eyes. “But better a man should lose his head than forswear his -soul.” - -Burbage knew that it was vain to argue with William Shakespeare in a -matter of this kind. There were certain things in which he was not as -other men. For all his childlike simplicity of character, he had yet -the power, as he had proved many times, to take a line of his own when -occasion called. - -“Dick, we must help them,” he said. - -“The surest way to do that is to give them money enough to quit the -country,” said the tragedian. - -“But what of Sir John Feversham?” - -Burbage threw up his hands impatiently. “He concerns us not,” he said. -“And I beseech you, my dear Will, to give not another thought to him.” - -The playwright shook his head. “Nay, my friend,” he said, “let us not -leave a brave and honorable man to die.” - -“To that I would say amen if in any sort we could avail him.” - -“The Queen should learn the truth, I think.” - -“How, pray, is she to learn it?” - -“On Thursday se’nnight, if this unlucky man still lives, we must find a -way to tell her.” - -But Burbage dissented strongly. “It would be madness, Will, sheer -madness for us to breathe a word on the subject. You know what the -times are. And when it comes to treason it takes but a very slight -thing to undo the best man alive.” - -The playwright had sadly to admit that that was true enough. But his -face showed clearly that he could never be the slave of mere worldly -wisdom. And Burbage knew it. He might do his best to dissuade his -friend from touching this ill-starred affair, yet from the outset he -had little hope of success. William Shakespeare’s mind was made up -already. - -“Come what may, Dick, we must help these poor souls to the utmost of -our capacity.” - -“Yes, but how will you do it, my master?” - -But now that the sympathy of the playwright was fully engaged he was -proof against all scepticism. “First I would have you give me the key -of the tiring-room,” he said. - -“For what purpose, you mad fellow?” - -“An uncivil question breeds an uncivil answer. Whatever the purpose it -is nothing to it.” - -With many misgivings and great reluctance, Burbage gave Shakespeare the -key of the tiring-room. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - - -WHEN Shakespeare returned to the fugitives, they had finished their -meal. They were still sitting on the bench by the tavern door. - -“Mr. Heriot,” said the player, “I have been thinking very deeply upon -your pass. First let me say that I have a great desire to help you--and -your friend--to help you as far as lies in my capacity.” - -Gervase thanked him simply. - -“But in order to do that,” said the player, “I have to ask you to yield -yourselves entirely into my care. I would have you do in all things as -I desire. It is not that I can promise your deliverance. It may be that -your pass is beyond my aid or beyond the aid of any man. But if it is -possible for help to be given, that will I do my utmost to render--that -is, if you are prepared to trust me to the full.” - -Gervase knew that it was his life he was giving into the care of this -man, but not for an instant did he hesitate. - -“I trust you to the full,” he said. “And may God requite you for all -that you may do.” - -“Alas, it may be but little. But no failure on my part can make -your case more unhappy than it is now. And one matter at least is -imperative. You must find a better disguise than your present one. -Happily, there is the means at hand. Perhaps you and your friend will -come with me to the players’ tiring-room, which is across the inn yard?” - -Gervase and Anne rose from the bench in order to accompany the actor. - -As they did so, however, their attention was for a moment diverted. A -man, attended by two servants and whose style was that of a gentleman, -rode up to the inn door. He dismounted within three yards of where the -fugitives stood, and as he was about to enter the tavern, he turned his -bold eyes upon them. - -It was hardly more than a glance in passing, and not more than he would -have bestowed on any other pair of picturesque vagabonds, but brief as -it was, there yet seemed in it a kind of subconscious recognition. The -glance was withdrawn instantly to alight on Shakespeare, on whom it -dwelt long enough for the recognition openly to declare itself. In this -case it was followed by a shrug of insolent contempt. The newcomer then -entered the inn. - -In the meantime, Gervase had grown as pale as if he had seen a ghost. -But it was not until he was half-way across the inn courtyard that he -revealed the cause of his emotion. - -“Did you, by any chance, recognize that fellow?” he asked. - -“Yes, I did,” said Shakespeare. “He is a man well known about the -Court, a certain Sir Robert Grisewood.” - -“Yes, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Gervase. “And it was he, at the -instance of my Uncle Simon, who swore away my life.” - -The player stopped abruptly in the middle of the inn yard, an -exclamation upon his lips. - -“That’s undoubtedly the man,” said Gervase, “by all that’s unlucky. Or -may be it is not unlucky, since Providence works in ways so dark and -strange.” - -“Wherein I fully agree,” said the player. “And it may be that even in -this Providence is working for us in a mysterious way. But I hope this -man did not know you.” - -“I think he did not,” said Gervase. “His eye would have dwelt longer if -he had. But you he certainly recognized; moreover, he did not seem to -approve you.” - -Shakespeare smiled. - -“He is one of a hundred bullies who ruffle it about the Court. When -they are not cringing before their betters, they are generally -browbeating those whom they are pleased to consider their inferiors.” - -“He is a very dangerous man,” said Gervase, “And if I cross his path, -my life will not be worth an hour’s purchase.” - -“Well, the tiring-room is not far away,” said the player. “And there, I -think, we can find you a disguise that will tax the wit of Sir Robert -to penetrate.” - -The inn was a large, rectangular building, provided with galleries -which overlooked the spacious courtyard. It was in this that the -Lord Chamberlain’s servants had arranged to give the first of their -performances that afternoon. The room to which the actor now led Anne -and Gervase opened on to one of these galleries, at the extreme end of -the yard. - -Here were all sorts of stage properties. Not only was there a number -of costumes, but also there were wigs, powder and cosmetics and -other trappings of the theater. Much searching among this apparel -was necessary before clothes could be found which Shakespeare deemed -suitable for Gervase and Anne. Many of these costumes were very rich; -and at last an elegant suit of boy’s clothes was found for Anne. She -went into a room adjoining to put it on. And, in the meantime, Gervase -was provided with a much more elaborate disguise. - -First, he was put into a suit of plain black velvet, modest in -appearance, but excellent in quality, very similar to the player’s own. -Then his eyes were carefully darkened and lines painted under them to -add to his years. A pair of fine moustachios was fixed to his upper -lip and a short beard to his chin. Finally, he was accommodated with a -hat with a plume, a ruff for the neck, and at his own request, a very -serviceable sword, which he buckled to his waist with a feeling of keen -satisfaction. - -The transformation Gervase had undergone was so complete, that when -Anne returned wearing her own excellent suit, which fitted her -admirably except that it was a little loose in the shoulders, she did -not know him. - -“Allow me to present Signor Bandinello,” said the player. “A famous -music master from Italy.” - -Anne, in the surprise of the moment, so far forgot her own disguise -as to curtsy. Whereupon, greatly to her discomfiture, Gervase and the -player fairly shouted with laughter. - -Anne’s clothes really became her very well indeed. They could hardly -have fitted her slender form better had they been made for her. She, -too, was given a ruff for her neck, a hat with a plume and a dagger to -wear at her waist. Thus accomplished, she made a particularly handsome -and modish boy. - -Gervase’s disguise, which had added at least thirty years to his -age, was so complete, that the player had no fear that he would be -recognized. Accordingly, he led him boldly into the inn and duly -presented him to Burbage, Kemp and one or two other members of the -company as a celebrated musician who had consented to take charge of -the music at Richmond on Tuesday week. Anne was introduced as his -son. And it was suggested that Arrigo, a name bestowed upon her by -the playwright on the spur of the moment, should understudy Parflete -for the character of _Rosalind_. Indeed, the author of the new comedy -seemed to be clearly of opinion that the young Signor Arrigo had been -designed expressly by nature to play that delicate and exacting rôle. - -Burbage guessed at once who Signor Bandinello and Arrigo his son really -were. But he was far too loyal, even if he had not been too astute, to -share his knowledge with the other members of the company. These, to be -sure, were a little surprised at such an unexpected addition to their -number. Yet not for a moment did they suspect the truth. - -Thus, for the time being, a very remarkable change was wrought in the -fortunes of Gervase and Anne. No longer need they seek a roof or a -meal. No longer need they go footsore and hungry. Providence once more -had taken them into its care. It was true that, in some ways, they had -added threefold to their dangers. They had given their lives into the -keeping of a man of whom they knew little or nothing. But having burnt -their boats, they had the courage wholeheartedly to embrace this new -way of life. - -They entered into the doings of these new friends with spirit and -amenity. And Shakespeare sustained the deception with great tact and -wit. Moreover, Gervase and Anne were ever ready to second him in all -his inventions and contrivances. Indeed, Gervase, who was familiar with -Italy, was able to counterfeit a slight accent, which heightened the -illusion of his broken English; while Anne, although not a little shy, -bore herself with a modest grace, that made the young Signor Arrigo -extremely popular with all the members of the Company. - -It chanced, besides, that when these two Italians had made their -appearance but a few hours among the Lord Chamberlain’s servants, an -incident occurred which added greatly to their prestige. - -It had been arranged that the chief members of the Company, who were -lodged at the Crown Tavern, which was reckoned much the best in Oxford, -should dine together at noon in the large parlor. This would allow -plenty of time against the performance of “The Merchant of Venice,” -which was to be given in the inn courtyard at two o’clock that -afternoon. - -The players had sat down to their meal. Shakespeare, at the head of -the long table in the center of the room, was carving a sirloin with -the dexterity of one who had been a butcher’s apprentice in his youth. -Burbage, at the foot of the table, was dealing with a couple of roast -fowls with an air of manly conviction. Anne had already been given a -wing, and William Kemp, that famous comedian, was cutting a piece of -ham to accompany it, with a flourish of wit as well as of knife, when -the door of the dining-parlor was flung open suddenly. A man entered -rudely and roughly with a clank of sword and spur. He had not even the -grace to remove his hat. - -One glance he cast round the room, saw no place was set for him, and -then called loudly for the landlord. - -“The place is full of these stinking play-actors!” he cried out. “The -best inn in Oxford is now the worst. These mimes have taken all the -best rooms, they infest the place like vermin. They are sticking up -a filthy stage upon filthy trestles in the middle of the courtyard, -so that a man hasn’t even room to water his horse, and now, by God’s -blood, they crowd their betters out of the dining-parlor!” - -The man was Sir Robert Grisewood, whom Shakespeare and Gervase had seen -already. He was an insolent bully, of a type common in that day; a man -of brutal and dangerous character, who lived by his wits and his sword, -with just enough surface manners when it suited him to pass muster with -those with whom he wished to consort, but whose chief pleasure was to -ruffle it through the world and take the wall of those less well placed -than himself. - -This morning, however, Sir Robert was a little out of his reckoning. -The man with the mild face who was carving the sirloin paused to -look at him. And if ever a high scorn was expressed in the human -countenance, it was here to be seen. - -“Yes, I mean you as well as the rest, you paper-faced potboy,” said -Grisewood, having failed to stare him down. “Go back to your filthy -playhouse in the stews, and don’t come among your betters until they -send for you, unless you want to get your nose pulled.” - -The coarse bully had drunk a cup of wine too much already that morning. -He was bitterly angry, besides, that his favorite chamber overlooking -the garden was in the occupation of this mean fellow, who lived by the -public favor instead of by cheating at cards. With a string of oaths, -he advanced upon Shakespeare and shook a fist in his face. - -In an instant, several of the players had risen to their feet. But -foremost was Burbage. He laid down his knife, and then, white with -anger, he came over very deliberately to where the man stood and -touched him on the shoulder. - -“Have a care, my friend,” he said. “Keep a civil tongue in your head. -And lay but a finger on that man, and you go into the horse-trough.” - -“But you go to perdition first, you calf-livered merry-andrew.” - -Grisewood had swung round with a face of fury. He drew his sword. But -in almost the same moment Heriot, who had risen with the rest, had -drawn his. - -Grisewood had not meant to make use of his weapon. Yet in the next -instant, and quite without expecting it, he was having to use it for -dear life. - -Gervase at once struck up the weapon with his own and then engaged it. -Grisewood was a man of formidable reputation. More than one good life -had paid the toll of his exceptional skill. His adversary was aware of -this. But he also was an accomplished swordsman. Moreover, an intense -and furious hatred had armed him suddenly. This was the man who had -sworn away his life. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - - -THE sound of the clashing steel, of chairs overturning, of shouting and -scuffling, brought John Davenant into the room. The sight that met him -turned him sick. A man of whom he went in mortal fear was defending -himself as best he could from the furious lunges of a tall, elderly -foreigner, who yet used his sword with all a young man’s address and -agility. - -“Oh, stop ’em, for the love of God!” cried John Davenant. - -But the players knew better than to intervene. The bully was being -pressed so close and with such a bitter animosity, that for any man -to have attempted such a task had been highly dangerous. Also they -knew the man for what he was. And now was as fair a chance as was ever -likely to offer for him to pay his dues. - -The Italian music master was pressing Grisewood at the point of his -weapon all over the room. But only one of those present was aware that -he had murder in his heart. And this was the man who knew what was the -real issue between them. That agile mind, moreover, had the power to -look swiftly ahead. In an instant, it had grasped the full significance -of that which was happening and of the grave danger that threatened. - -In the stress of the moment, Shakespeare threw discretion to the wind. -He approached far nearer than was wise to the combatants. Their breaths -were coming in fierce, low grunts. Sweat was on their white faces. -Murder was in the eyes of both. - -Utterly heedless of his peril, Shakespeare went to the side of Gervase. - -“Have a care,” he said. “For God’s sake don’t kill him.” - -Well it was that Gervase was of those who can keep a hold upon -themselves, even when a savage blood-lust has them in its toils. -Desperately as he was fighting, he heard the words of his friend, and -well he understood them. But he was out to kill. With a contained rage -that was terrible, he meant to pierce that strong and resourceful -guard, and then should the man pay the penalty of his crimes. - -Grisewood was not a coward. He was among the coarsest and most brutal -of his kind in a coarse and brutal age. His life had been ignoble, but -he was a man, in any circumstances, to sell it dearly. Yet as this tall -and furious fellow drove him all over the room, he felt that now his -hour was come. - -This would have been the case without a doubt, had not Gervase realized -the importance of the player’s warning. He must lay aside his revenge -for a season. This man was a link in the slender chain that one day -might save him. But he was determined that the ruffian should not go -scot free. By sheer vigor, he drove Grisewood finally against the wall. -And once there, he broke down the man’s guard and drove the point of -his sword through his arm. - -It was the end of the fight. Grisewood was totally disabled. Suffering -great pain and bleeding fiercely and streaming curses, he was glad -enough to have his hurt attended to and then, under a chirurgeon’s -advice, to be put to bed by John Davenant. - -From that hour, the Italian music master was a hero in the sight of the -Lord Chamberlain’s servants. To be sure, his son, Arrigo, disgraced -himself utterly by going off into a dead faint as soon as the fight was -over, and although such behavior was felt perhaps to be ultra-Italian, -it did not lessen his popularity among his new comrades. - -Two o’clock that afternoon was the hour fixed for the Lord -Chamberlain’s players to give their first performance in Oxford. Much -of the morning had been spent in erecting a stage in the center of -the spacious courtyard of the Crown. It seemed that the visit of this -famous company had given rise to grave controversy. Shakespeare had -applied for leave to play three pieces in the large hall of Balliol -College, or of some other convenient place within the precincts of the -University. The question was referred to the Vice Chancellor. “Yes,” -said that worthy, “after giving the matter anxious consideration, as we -have a favorable report from London touching your band of comedians, -and we learn that her Grace the Queen has approved them on divers -occasions, the University will accede to your request, provided the -pieces are given in their original Greek or Latin.” - -Upon this, the playwright made the modest rejoinder that, much as he -regretted the circumstances, it was, in point of fact, impossible -to play the three pieces in either of those chaste tongues, since -he himself had written them in the vulgar English language, which -unfortunately was the only tongue with which he could claim an -acquaintance, and that a very imperfect one. Such a statement was very -shocking to the University. The permission was at once withheld, but in -language of great politeness and dignity. “We do not well understand,” -it said in effect, “how one who is not even a member of this University -or of the sister foundation of Cambridge, who, we are credibly -informed, is a mere hackney writer for the theaters, and who, we are -further informed, is a little better than one of the illiterate, can -prefer such a request.” - -After this rebuff, the playwright, quite undaunted, applied to the -city authorities for permission to use the Town Hall. In the meantime, -however, the news had been carried to the bench of aldermen that the -University had rebuked this importunate fellow. And if the vulgar -English tongue was beneath the dignity of the Gown, how much more was -it beneath the dignity of the Town, which had a reputation to maintain -and so much less upon which to maintain it. “No, sir,” said the bench -of aldermen, “we would have you to know that that which is not deemed -worthy for only a part or moiety of this fair city, is deemed still -less so for the whole of it.” - -Thus there was nothing left for the poor playwright to do but to seek -permission of honest John Davenant, mine host of the Crown, to set up -trestles and boards and rig up a curtain in the middle of his large inn -yard. And John Davenant, having less in the way of learning than the -Gown and less in the way of dignity than the Town, and being promised, -moreover, a full ten percentum of the takings at each performance, was -nowise averse from such a proceeding. - -The play to be given that afternoon was “The Merchant of Venice,” a -pleasant comedy that had already been played several times with success -in Shoreditch. The author of the piece had not to play in it himself, -a contingency for which he expressed himself devoutly thankful. “A bad -play is doubly damned,” he said, “if the author himself has to preen -and strut in it.” - -That afternoon, the more congenial and not less onerous rôle was to -be his of sitting at the receipt of custom. But his friend, Richard -Burbage, had for his sins to play the Jew. And the famous tragedian -was fain to declare that the playwright as usual had got the best of -the bargain, inasmuch that it was far easier to play the Jew in the -box-office than it was upon the boards. - -These players were a high-spirited, light-hearted, genial crew. The -incident in which they had been concerned in nowise affected their -gaiety. They lived in and for the moment; they took life as it came -to them; theirs was the sovereign faculty of being able to lay care -aside. They were prone to set all sorts of tricks upon one another, and -to crack jokes and tell tales at one another’s expense. They seemed -to have no particular respect for anybody, not even for Shakespeare -himself, but Anne and Gervase noticed that only one man in all that -merry, careless company ever ventured to break a lance with him. - -Richard Burbage was the man in question. The tragedian was a short, -powerfully-made man, with a solemn face of much good-humor and an -organ-like voice that was both rich and deep. When the playwright and -his friend crossed swords, which they did pretty frequently, the whole -table would cease to ply knife and spoon in order that it might attend -the combat. These duellos, to be sure, were carried off in the highest -style of pleasantry, but the play was very keen while it lasted. - -The dramatist sat at one end of the long table, and his trusty henchman -at the other. - -“They do tell me,” said the tragedian, in his slow, rolling speech, and -bestowing a wink on those that were near him, “that this plaguy piece -we have all got to play in for our sins this plaguy afternoon is the -work of a certain court gallant by the name of William Shakespeare.” - -At this, the dramatist at the other end of the table laid down his -knife very deliberately, and after gazing around as if in search of a -thing he could not see, said, “I wonder whence that growl proceeds. I -do believe there is a dog in the room. Young Parflete”--this to the -youngest and smallest member of the company--“young Parflete, I will -thank you to pitch it out with your foot behind it.” - -“A friend,” proceeded the tragedian, in a very audible whisper for all -that he spoke behind his hand, “of the Queen’s most gracious majesty. -This is no reflection upon the Queen, still it must have been a sore -trial to her friendship when such a burden was laid upon it.” - -“Yes, it is a dog,” said the dramatist, very gravely. “One of those -brindled, flop-eared, yellow-coated, squab-bellied mongrels by the -sound of it. It is the kind of dog that is only fit for a blind pedlar -to trundle at the end of a string. Hi, Thomas!”--addressing a servant -who had entered with a dish--“there is a dog in the room.” - -“I don’t see it, sir,” said the servant, looking round. - -“Oh, but there is, I tell you. One of those squat brutes all body and -no legs. One of those half-begotten starvelings that lies all day by -the hob and whines all night to the moon.” - -“I see no dog, sir.” - -“Have you looked under the table, Thomas?” - -Thomas looked under the table, but still could see no dog. - -“But I heard it, man, I tell you. There is no mistaking such a voice as -that.” - -“There is no dog here, sir,” the servant assured him, solemnly. - -“Upon your oath, there is no dog?” - -“No dog, sir, upon my oath.” - -“Then the sound must proceed,” said the playwright, “from that queer, -rude fellow who sits at the foot of the table there, of whom I am -credibly informed that, since he retired from the theater, he gains a -precarious livelihood by training bloodhounds to sing like canaries.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - - -THE inn courtyard was seething with excitement long before the play -began. Handbills had been distributed in the town for some days past, -and notices of the performance had been set up in prominent places. - -A love of the drama, amounting almost to a passion, had taken hold -of all classes. From the Queen in her palace to the village idler in -his hedge alehouse, provided he could raise a penny to buy standing -room in the yard of the Crown Tavern, all took the keenest delight -in the new and wonderful drama that was rising in their midst. Every -phase of these strong and moving plays was followed with a breathless -excitement. They were given without scenery or the thousand and one -devices that help to sustain illusion in a modern theater. There was -literally nothing between the play and the audience, not even the -lure of sex, since all the women’s parts were played by boys, but the -success of these performances was extraordinary. - -The Lord Chamberlain’s men were known to be a famous company. Their -headquarters were the Globe Theatre, the playhouse that had been built -recently on the Bankside in Southwark. But as their provincial tours -were numerous, their reputation had spread up and down the country. -They were already known as the best players of the time, and the plays -in which they appeared were held to be the strongest. - -The stage had been set up at the end of the inn yard. Standing room -could be had for a penny on the cobblestones of the yard itself, but -the best and most comfortable places were those in the galleries, which -ran round three sides of it and commanded a full view of the stage. A -shilling was the charge for places here. But the most coveted place of -all was a stool on the stage, which was reserved for a few persons of -distinction. - -Among those who had been given a seat on the stage this afternoon, -were three who had come in a spirit of scepticism. They were men of -dignified and authoritative bearing, keenly alive, no doubt, to their -condescension in gracing the proceedings with their presence. Much -discussion had taken place among these personages as to the importunity -which had sought to gain the sanction of the university for the play -about to be given, also for two others by the same uneducated hand. - -There is little doubt that the subject would not have been thought -worthy of discussion in such exalted circles, would in fact have been -dismissed as a matter of not the least consequence, had it not been -that quite recently that august man, the Dean of Christ Church College, -had enjoyed the privilege of eating with Gloriana in her palace at -Greenwich. And she had spoken in his hearing with high approval of -the man Shakespeare, and was even pleasantly anticipating his new -interlude, which was to be given for the first time in her presence on -some fine summer’s afternoon in Richmond Park. - -In Ascalon they never referred to the fact that Gloriana, with all her -merits, was an unlettered woman, whose taste was robust. For a queen -is a queen even in the eyes of a Dean of Christ Church College; and -when this curious, little bald man in a furred gown confided to the -Master of Balliol, his distinguished coadjutor, that this mime whose -name he forgot was undoubtedly _persona gratissima_ in royal palaces, -they agreed that while such clowning could receive no sanction from the -University, it would hardly be seemly in the circumstances to drive the -mummers out of the town. - -It happened, at that time, that the Master of Balliol had staying with -him in college a young man of promise, Mr. Francis Bacon by name, who -knew his way about the Court. And when the Dean chanced to mention that -this man, whose name he had forgotten, desired to perform three of his -interludes within the precincts of that ancient home of learning and -that the Queen approved him mightily, Mr. Francis Bacon, who even at -that time had taken all knowledge for his province, exclaimed, “By God, -it must be that plaguy fellow, Shakescene, that all the Court is mad -about!” - -“Shakescene is the man’s name, undoubtedly,” said the eminent divine, -gravely. “An importunate Shakescene, moreover, who would play three of -his rustical interludes within the precincts of this old foundation.” - -“Importunate enough, I grant you,” said Mr. Francis, taking snuff -with a great air. “Wat Raleigh tells me the numskull comes to Court -in a barred cloak and affects the style of a gentleman. However--fine -feathers make not fine birds. But why not let the rogue play his -interludes, eh, Master? How say you, Mr. Dean? And we will go -ourselves and witness ’em. I have long sought the opportunity to watch -one of the performances of this ripe scholar.” - -“The rogue shall perform in the town, Mr. Francis,” said the Dean of -Christ Church, “if perform he must, but not, I promise you, within the -precincts of this old and honorable foundation.” - -“I doubt not he would perform still better at the whipping post, where -such knaves more truly belong,” said the Master of Balliol, taking a -prodigious pinch of snuff from the box of the Dean. “But as you say, -Francis, let the rogue set up his booth in the city, and thither we -will repair of an afternoon. We can then judge for ourselves what it is -that the taste of Gloriana the peerless approves.” - -Thus it happened that Gervase and Anne, who had been stowed away in a -corner of the gallery out of the sight of the multitude, were able to -gaze directly down upon these three grave and serious gentlemen, who -were seated upon the stage itself. - -Grave and serious they might be. Yet as they decked the proscenium, -their demeanor was spiced with not a little levity. Not only their -surroundings, but the whole of that which was taking place, seemed to -provide food for their sly mirth. - -Gervase had marked one of the three in particular immediately upon his -entrance. - -“I know that man,” he whispered to Anne. “Yes, the fellow in the -feathered bonnet and the blue cloak. He is always about the Court. Sit -close, dear soul. He’s got the eye of a hawk, but, thank God, he won’t -look to see me like this.” - -Indeed, Mr. Francis Bacon had eyes for nothing save the comedy that -was being performed for his benefit. Greatly condescending, the future -Lord Chancellor had come in the company of two learned pundits with no -better intention than to deride the piece and its author. - -Now there never was yet a critic since the world began who accosts an -author in such a mood who has the least difficulty in making good his -intention. If the man has wit, he lacks propriety. If he has invention, -he lacks art. If his writing is marvelously alive, it is of course -barbarous. If it is poetical, it is not true to nature. If it should -happen to be true to nature, the whole performance is so flat, stale -and mediocre as to be unworthy of the pains spent upon it. Whichever -way the author turns, the critic is ready for him. Every merit he -possesses serves as a fresh weapon to assail him. - -Had these gentlemen had the good fortune to live two hundred years -later, when the reputation of the author was already secure, they would -have been among the first to make him the standard of comparison. -It would have then been quite legitimate to admire “The Merchant of -Venice,” and even to have taken credit for doing so. But how was it -possible for men of polite learning to treat seriously the production -of a shabby fellow who took your half-crown at the entrance to the inn -yard? - -Yet, in spite of themselves, Mr. Francis Bacon and his two august -friends were not a little diverted by the briskness of the piece. But -any entertainment there was to be derived from it had, of course, to be -laid to the door of the actors. The acting was undoubtedly excellent, -but the less said of the play, the better. - -Still, notwithstanding the fact that the opinion of the critics who -graced the proscenium was not very favorable, all the rest of the house -appeared mightily to approve the play. The afternoon had turned wet and -there was no roof to the inn yard, but those who were packed in it so -closely that they could hardly breathe, followed the whole of the piece -with ever-growing excitement. They roared with delight at its humors. -_Portia_, who was played by young Parflete, enchanted them. They -execrated the Jew, yet Richard Burbage, as became the great actor he -was, invested his defeat with a pathetic dignity that almost drew their -tears. - -“Ha! now, that is the man,” said Mr. Francis Bacon. “I ask you, what -had the play been without such incomparable acting?” - -“What, indeed!” said the learned doctors. - -“I must make that fellow my compliments upon his performance,” said the -Master of Balliol College. - -And a few minutes afterwards, when the delighted audience was streaming -out of the yard, these great men condescended to approach the tragedian -and express their approval. - -“Fain would I make you my compliments, sir,” said Mr. Francis Bacon, in -his highest style, in order to impress the person he addressed, “upon -the inimitable art you have used this afternoon. The performance would -have been barren enough without it. Never have I seen acting so choice -lavished on a play so inferior.” - -The tragedian looked very doubtfully at Mr. Francis Bacon. - -“By your leave, sir,” he said, “I would not have you exalt me at the -expense o’ the piece.” - -“To be sure, sir, your modesty does you honor,” said the Master of -Balliol College. “But your genius, if I may so express myself, is -deserving of something far better than the clumsy work of this rude -journeyman.” - -The tragedian shook his head. - -“Nor would I have you exalt me at the expense of the writer,” he said. - -“Ah, my friend, you are too modest,” interposed the Dean of Christ -Church in an amiable manner. - -“If it is the part of modesty,” said the tragedian bluntly, “to decline -to be praised by the ignorant, then I grant you that modest I may be. -Because I would have you to know, you learned doctors in your furred -gowns, that the play you have just witnessed is by the first dramatic -author of this age or of any other.” - -The three gentlemen were unable to repress a polite snigger. - -“What!” said the Master of Balliol College, “that _odd_-looking fellow -with the beard who sat in the pay box and bit my half-crown as if he -feared it was a counterfeit?” - -“The same, sir,” said Burbage. “And if you can put a counterfeit upon -him, you are an abler man than I have yet cause to consider you.” - -“No doubt, sir,” said the Master of Balliol College, with an air of -pained dignity. “But, pray, convey my compliments to your Johannes -Factotum, and inform him that if he will give his days and nights -diligently to the study of Aristotle, he may, by the time he is a -very old man, be able to produce a passable play without doing grave -violence to the dramatic unities.” - -“Perhaps you will be kind enough, sir,” said the tragedian, “to pay -William Shakespeare your own compliments, for here he comes staggering -under the receipts of the performance.” - -The playwright, his face beaming with satisfaction, came towards them. - -“We had near ten pound in the yard, Dick,” he said, with a frank -disregard of all things except the business in hand. “That is, unless -a half-crown that a little half-faced, chapt-shot, under-hung mouse of -a fellow in a furred gown put upon me is a counterfeit. And I am sore -afraid it is, unless my pooh old teeth have lost their integrity. Do -you try it, Dick.” - -The playwright handed the dubious coin to the tragedian. - -“I presume you refer to my half-crown, sir?” said the Master of Balliol -College, with great dignity. - -“I hope, sir, I may presume to refer to it as your half-crown,” said -Mr. William Shakespeare, “if my friend Shylock here adjudges it to be -one. How now, Usurer, what say you?” - -“If that is a half-crown,” said the tragedian, who had already bitten -the coin nearly through, “I’ll never be paid in anything but five -shilling pieces as long as I live.” - -“But I protest, sir,” said the Master of Balliol College, warmly, “that -coin was paid to me last evening by my much-honored friend here, Mr. -Francis Bacon, over a game of primero.” - -“The more shame to Mr. Francis Bacon, then,” said the tragedian, “that -he should use such a coin for such a purpose in such a company.” - -Mr. Francis Bacon examined for himself the dubious currency. - -“It cannot be the one I gave you, Master,” he said, as soon as he was -able to assure himself that the coin was false. - -“Certainly it is, Francis,” said the Master of Balliol College, with a -pained air. - -“I cannot believe it, Master. However--” Mr. Francis put the coin in -his pocket with the quiet dignity of one who realizes the force of the -old adage, _noblesse oblige_: which, in plain English, may be taken -to mean that it ill becomes gentlemen to argue among themselves in -the presence of the commonalty. “However, as I was saying, Master, to -return to Aristotle, that much-overrated sciolist, I do most cordially -approve your critical acumen when you say that if our friend Master -Shakescene----” - -“Master Shakespeare,” interposed the tragedian, solemnly. - -“I beg his pardon. If our friend, Master Shakespeare, here would study -the drama _ad hoc_, and give his days and nights to that matchless -work, the “Ars Poetica,” of Aristotle, there is indeed no reason why, -in the process of nature and always under the courtesy of providence, -he should not one day produce a work of the imagination that pays some -little regard to the laws that govern such quaint abortions of the -human mind.” - -Mr. William Shakespeare listened with an air of grave courtesy to this -sage counsel. Like all men of parts, he was at heart a very humble man, -with a deep reverence for true learning. It was too late in the day for -him to hope to acquire it. He had never known the want of wit, yet in -his mind was ever the thought of how much better his plays would have -been could he have fashioned his rude verses after the manner of the -ancients. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - - -THE Lord Chamberlain’s servants were in the highest spirits. The -remarkable success of their first performance in the famous city of -Oxford had pleased them greatly. They had been put upon their mettle -by their cold reception at the hands of town and gown. Seldom had -they acted even one of their most effective plays with such force and -sincerity. - -Long before the play was at an end, a triumph was assured. They had a -proud sense of having struck a shrewd blow to prejudice. Those in the -thronged galleries and the close-packed press all about the stage had -shouted themselves hoarse. The author of the play, who had a share in -the profits of the company, lost no time in turning the flood tide of -popular favor to account. His mind was a remarkable blend of business -acumen and high poetic genius. He arranged at once that the Lord -Chamberlain’s servants should extend their visit by three days, in -order that other of his pieces might be given. And among these was to -be a first performance of the new, pleasant, conceited comedy of “As -You Like It,” which in the following week was to be given at Richmond -Palace in the Queen’s presence. - -There is nothing like a sense of success to uplift the heart. When -a man goes from triumph to triumph, his wit becomes more nimble, -his fancy expands, his talent runs the more free. And at this time, -all these happy conditions were fulfilled in the career of William -Shakespeare. He was at the zenith of his mental and physical power. All -things to which he turned his hand ministered to his fame and affluence. - -The unlucky Gervase Heriot, lying in the shadow of a peril that would -have wrecked the strongest will, had come upon this man in an hour when -nothing seemed beyond the scope of his invention. The tragic history of -this young man, and of the noble girl who had forfeited all in order to -save his life, had wrought deeply upon the player’s pity. - -Shakespeare had resolved to help the fugitives to the utmost of his -power. Such a decision in circumstances of such grave peril and -difficulty could only have sprung from the large generosity of a great -nature. He had all to lose by mingling in the affairs of one in this -grim pass. Nothing could be more perilous than to help a convicted -traitor to escape his doom, but in spite of the solemn warnings -and even the earnest prayers of his devoted friend, Burbage, the -playwright’s mind was now set upon this task. - -It was easier, however, to form this resolve than to give it practical -expression. But the outcome of much anxious thought upon the matter was -to make one fact clear. If the life of Heriot was not to be spared at -the expense of a man as blameless as himself, an appeal must be made to -the Queen. And in order to do that with the smallest hope of success, -the young man must be able to adduce a strong proof of his innocence -and, at the same time, engage the Queen’s sympathy. - -There lay the crux of the whole matter. And as soon as this conclusion -had been reached, the keenly practical mind of the playwright began -to grapple with this sore problem. At first, it seemed hopeless to do -anything. There appeared to be no means of obtaining the all-important -proof of Gervase Heriot’s innocence, without which it would be the -height of imprudence to bring the matter to the notice of the Queen. -For none knew better than William Shakespeare, that she was a woman of -harsh and imperious temper. - -Thus was it beyond all things necessary that a proof of Heriot’s -innocence should be found. The playwright sat late that evening in a -secluded corner of the inn parlor, anxiously discussing with “Signor -Bandinello” every aspect of his unhappy case. It was true that he -deemed it wise to withhold all mention of the falconer’s visit and -the sinister news he had brought. Shakespeare was convinced that such -information had only to come to the ears of Gervase Heriot for the -fugitive to give himself up at once. This was not the kind of man to -allow another to suffer in his place. - -Many were the questions with which the player plied Gervase, in the -hope of finding some way out of this tragic coil. The natural starting -point of this search for a means of escape was the presence in that inn -of the man Grisewood. In a sense, it would almost seem that the hand of -providence lurked in such a coincidence. But how to turn it to account, -that was the problem. - -Would it be possible to make him play false his ignoble partner, the -man Simon Heriot? A very little reflection convinced Shakespeare -that any such hope was vain. To begin with, nothing was less likely -than that Grisewood would run the risk of putting his neck in a noose -by confessing the truth; again, having very recently experienced the -thrust of the sword of “the Italian music master,” he had now the best -of reasons for nursing an implacable hatred against the man whose life -he had sworn away. - -From a consideration of the man lying upstairs sick with the pain of an -ugly wound, it was a natural transition to the sole author and inspirer -of the whole tragic business. The house of Simon Heriot was but ten -miles away. And if hope of any kind was to be derived from the nearness -of the chief actors in the sordid drama, it seemed to lie in this fact. - -Quite apart from the pass of Sir John Feversham, the playwright was too -wise a man to approve the wild scheme that Gervase had formed, which -indeed was the cause of his return to Oxford. The risk would be great, -the gain slight and uncertain. But indirectly, it was Gervase’s crude -plan which now set the subtle brain to work. Many were the questions -Shakespeare asked touching the character, the habits, the mode of life -of Simon Heriot. - -Among other things he learned was that this man was of a morbid -imagination, holding himself aloof from his kind. Of late, he had mixed -but little in the world. It was even thought by some that his mind had -at last turned against itself, and that it had begun to show signs of a -failing sanity. - -It was not at first that the significance of these things revealed -themselves to the playwright. It was not at first that he realized the -use to which they might be put. Unconsciously, however, they were -stored in his brain against the time they should be cast into the -crucible of its invention. - -Shakespeare learned much that evening from his talk with Gervase -Heriot. Keen as had been his pity for him from the moment he had first -heard his tragic history, their present intercourse deepened it rather -than made it less. He was quick to recognize the depth and the valor of -this young man’s soul, and that of the great-hearted girl who had dared -all to save him from the scaffold. Theirs was a wonderful story, all -compact of the very life-blood of drama. And when Shakespeare was told -very simply that upon the arrival of that hour in which they could no -longer hope to put off their foes, they had a plan whereby they might -die together, such a declaration had the power to thrill the heart of -one who spent his life in the devising of plays. - -Long they talked together. On the one side was an intense sympathy, a -fervent pity; on the other, a clear and manful courage that was not -afraid to trust its instincts. And in this case those instincts were to -put implicit faith in this stranger by the wayside, the power of whose -personality was so compelling. - -It happened about midnight, while Gervase and the player still talked -together, that a traveler came into the inn parlor. Shakespeare saw at -once that it was the falconer returned weary and despondent from his -quest. The man came over to where they sat. His face and bearing were -very tragic. - -“You don’t happen to have seen anything of those gypsies I spoke to you -about?” he said to the player. - -Shakespeare shook his head. - -“I have lost all track of them now,” said the falconer. “My belief is, -they are somewhere in Oxford. At least, they were last seen outside -this inn. And, in any case, I can go no farther to-night.” - -“What gypsies are you seeking, friend?” asked Gervase. - -The falconer and he had only seen each other once, and then only for a -moment. Thus neither knew who the other was. The falconer gave a brief -description of those whom he sought, but it was explicit enough to tell -Gervase that Anne and himself were the objects of his quest. - -“What might you be wanting with them?” asked Gervase. - -“It is a long story,” said the falconer. “I am too weary to tell it -to-night. But to-morrow, perhaps.” - -Thereupon, he went out of the room. Shakespeare was much relieved to -see him go. But the man’s inopportune return had much increased the -difficulties of the situation. - -“I have seen that man before,” said Gervase, “yet, for my life, I -cannot think where. And I have not the least doubt that it is my -brother and I he is seeking. To-morrow, I must have a talk with him.” - -“Might it not be well,” said the player, “first to find out whether he -is a friend or an enemy.” - -“In any case, he is not likely to recognize me in this guise,” said -Gervase. - -“It would be wise to take no chances, my friend,” said the player. - -The task he had set himself was now beginning to press very heavily -upon William Shakespeare. He well knew it would be fatal to any plans -he might evolve if the fugitives learned what the business was that -had sent the falconer scouring the country-side. He must do all that -lay in his power to prevent the man conversing with Gervase Heriot. And -he must also contrive a means to keep Anne Feversham out of his sight, -lest he recognize her in spite of her boy’s dress. - -Thus it was in a state of dire perplexity that the player sought his -bed that night. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - - -MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE rose early, after a troubled night. Throughout -its interminable watches his mind had been dominated by the necessity -of keeping the falconer and the fugitives apart. It was almost certain -that the man would recognize his young mistress. And if this came to -pass, she would learn at once her father’s tragic peril. - -Soon or late, the news would have to be told her. At least, that -was the view Shakespeare had now come to hold. But this was not the -season for the Constable’s daughter to learn what had happened. As the -playwright had lain sleepless that night in his bed, with the eager -brain racing courser-like over the whole matter, the core of a plan had -come to him. It was little more than a shadow at present. It had yet -to take shape, yet to acquire a hue of reality, but it might be that -under providence it would develop into a scheme that could offer some -hope of their deliverance. Yet he must have time in which to mature it; -and if by a mischance the fugitives learned at this moment Sir John -Feversham’s peril, nothing was more likely than that a self-sacrificing -impulse would cause them to give themselves up to justice before -anything could be done to help them. - -All that day the falconer hung disconsolate about the Crown Tavern. -There was reason to believe that the fugitives were still in the -vicinity of Oxford, but for the time being all further trace of them -had failed. A number of persons in and about the town appeared to have -seen the young gypsies. Among others, John Davenant, the landlord of -the Crown, had a clear recollection of having seen them early the -previous day on the bench outside the tavern door. They could not be -far away, yet for the present the falconer’s inquiries yielded no -result. - -Shakespeare was careful to keep Gervase and Anne out of the man’s way. -He hardly let them out of his sight, and during the performance that -afternoon they were given a secluded corner in one of the galleries -where they could enjoy the play without being seen by the audience. - -The piece was “Romeo and Juliet,” and its success was as great as that -which had been gained on the previous day by “The Merchant of Venice.” -News of that brilliant performance had spread, so that the press in -the inn yard was greater than ever, there being hardly room to squeeze -another soul inside. This play was finely acted, and it was received -with bursts of rapturous applause. - -It was part of the scheme that was being formed in Shakespeare’s mind -that Anne should play _Rosalind_ before the Queen. He knew that such an -innovation would be perilous, and he foresaw that it would arouse the -opposition of his colleagues. But that shy and slender grace was the -ideal of his fancy. He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking -dress in the tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the forest of -Arden. Parflete was an efficient actor, but no member of the company -could have the charm and delicacy of this gracious thing, if only she -could be taught to play the part at so short a notice. - -The playwright was too astute even to tell Burbage of the fantastic -scheme that had come to lurk in his mind. But he lost no time in giving -Anne a copy of the play to read. She declared herself enchanted by it. -It was not then, however, that he ventured to reveal to her his design. -And, in the meantime, perils were multiplying. - -The man Grisewood remained three days in the privacy of his chamber, -suffering much pain during that time in his disabled arm. And when at -last he emerged with his wound dressed in bandages, he hovered about -the tavern like a brooding and vengeful presence. If ever a man might -be said to be biding his hour in order to work mischief, this was he. -Yet for the present, it was little he could accomplish. Moreover, he -was constrained to keep a civil tongue in his head, since Richard -Burbage, who was no respecter of persons, was fain to inform him that -the horse-trough was still likely to be his academy of manners. - -Grisewood, it appeared, had come to Oxford for a particular purpose. -That purpose was to seek out Simon Heriot, his partner in infamy. He -wished to inform him of the prisoner’s escape, which was not generally -known to the world, and incidentally to learn what prospect there was -of being able to replenish a depleted exchequer. This indeed was its -permanent condition, so far as Sir Robert Grisewood was concerned. But -now that his foul work was accomplished he looked to it to provide a -source of revenue for many years to come. - -In the course of the day Grisewood chanced to inquire of John Davenant, -in the falconer’s hearing, whether he could direct him to Greenfield -Manor, the house of Simon Heriot The falconer’s attention was -attracted, and presently he entered into conversation with Grisewood. -Both men, at first, were not a little wary of each other. The business -of neither enabled them to open their hearts to a chance acquaintance, -but a few cautious questions judiciously answered were enough to prove -their common interest in a matter which concerned them both very deeply. - -Grisewood had more cunning, and therefore less frankness, than the -falconer. Thus he asked questions rather than answered them. And it was -not long before he had learned the nature of the falconer’s mission. - -Markham, to be sure, was very loth to tell his story. But once upon the -track of it, Grisewood was not a man to be gainsaid. On a pretence of -being able to tell far more than he knew, he drew the main particulars, -word by word, out of the reluctant falconer. Thus he learned the manner -of Gervase Heriot’s escape, and how the fugitive was roaming the -country-side in the company of Sir John Feversham’s daughter. - -This was high and strange news for Grisewood. Indeed, Markham was one -of the very few who knew this fact. Not even the Queen herself was -aware of it. - -Had Markham been in a mood less desperate, he would not have divulged -the share of his young mistress in the prisoner’s escape. But this man -had affected to know far more of the matter than, in point of fact, he -did know; besides, the falconer did not see how any words or any act -of his could make the affair more terrible than it was. His one desire -was to overtake the fugitives in order that he might inform his young -mistress of her father’s dire peril. This was neither more nor less -than the morbid craving of an overburdened conscience. It would not be -at his instance even if Gervase Heriot was given up to justice. His -wish was merely to make known to the prisoner all that had occurred, -and then leave any further action in his hands. By this means the -falconer hoped to rid himself of the stain of his master’s blood. - -As soon as Grisewood had heard the falconer’s story he brought the -whole force of his cunning mind to bear upon the matter. - -“You say, my friend, this traitor and Sir John’s young daughter in a -boy’s dress are roaming the country in the guise of gypsies?” - -“That I do,” said Markham. - -Grisewood strove to amplify in his mind a picture the falconer’s story -had conjured up in it. At last he was able to do this. - -“By God’s life!” he said, “that was the pair of vagabonds I saw in the -company of that accursed play-actor at the tavern door on the morning I -came here.” - -“Why do you call him accursed?” said Markham, remembering with a pang -that this player was a man in whom he had already confided. - -“Why do I call him accursed?” said Grisewood. “All the world knows him -for a notorious rogue, as are all men of his sort. And I’ll wager a -golden angel he is concealing these fugitives in order to serve some -purpose of his own.” - -“But why should he conceal them,” said the falconer, “when there is a -large sum on the head of Mr. Heriot?” - -“A large sum, eh! The rogue may not know that.” - -It was more to the purpose, perhaps, that the rogue who spoke had -not known it. He grew silent. In this business he must go cautiously -indeed. It might be possible for one who lived by his wits to take -profit from this strange business. At least, in his own mind, he was -reasonably sure of two things. The first was that the fugitives were -near at hand, the other that the play-actor was in a position to throw -light on their whereabouts. - -The effect of this conversation was to keep Sir Robert Grisewood very -wideawake, and also to implant the seed of distrust in the mind of -Markham. It might be, after all, that the player was not so open and -honest as he seemed. At any rate, the falconer determined to watch him -narrowly. With that end in view he marked all that Shakespeare did. And -he soon found more food for his suspicions. - -Close observation of the player’s comings and goings enabled Markham to -learn that there was a certain room in the upper part of the inn, which -claimed a large share of his attention. Much of Shakespeare’s time -was spent in it. Another person who had recourse to it was a certain -tall man profusely endowed with a beard and moustachios, said to be a -foreigner, who had lately joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. He -was reputed to be a swordsman of much skill, and in proof of it he had -lately given Grisewood a thrust through the arm. - -The falconer was able to learn that this man, an Italian who went by -the name of Bandinello, had a son. And although he, too, had joined -the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, and was staying at the Crown, Markham -found it impossible to get a sight of him. For one thing, neither of -these Italians took their meals with the rest of the players in the -dining-parlor, but as the falconer contrived to learn, these were -served to them in this upper chamber. - -This fact deepened Markham’s suspicions. He did not think, well, -however, to confide them to Grisewood. Inquiry of the landlord had been -sufficient to fix a very evil reputation upon the man. And it had also -served, in a measure, to reassure Markham in respect of the player. -The landlord, who seemed a shrewd and honest fellow enough, had no -hesitation in affirming that William Shakespeare was a very upright man. - -Markham kept to himself his growing belief that the player, for -purposes of his own, was concealing the fugitives. But the falconer, -once engaged by this train of thought, began to grow more and more -certain that he had good ground for his suspicion. A close scrutiny, -moreover, convinced him that Signor Bandinello was by no means the -individual he gave himself out to be. - -Upon reaching this conclusion, Markham determined on a bold course. -By hook or by crook, he would get a sight of this boy who was kept so -close. Yet only one means seemed to offer of doing this. He must choose -a favorable moment, and boldly invade this private room. Doubtless the -best time would be when the players were assembled at supper in the -dining-parlor. - -In accordance with this plan he watched a servant ascend with a tray of -food, and then a few minutes later he walked fearlessly into the room. - -As John Markham had surmised would be the case, he found two persons -seated at supper. One was the so-called Italian music master, and the -other was doubtless the person who had passed as his son. But, with -a single glance of an almost terrified swiftness, the falconer was -able to pierce the disguise. For all her close-clipt curls and her -boy’s dress, the second occupant of the room was undoubtedly his young -mistress. - -In spite of the fact that the falconer was fully prepared for the -discovery he had made, he uttered a cry. - -Signor Bandinello sprang to his feet. - -“What is your pleasure?” he asked sharply, and in an English as pure as -any man need wish to use. - -For an instant, the two men stood looking at one another blankly, while -Anne’s dismay was so great that she could neither speak nor move. But -each of these men had recognized the other already. - -Beyond a doubt this was the man the falconer sought. Also this was the -servant of Sir John Feversham, whom Gervase had encountered in the -meadow. - -Gervase laid his hand to his sword. - -“Nay, sir,” said Markham, simply. “I am here as your friend, and -as--and as the humble servant of my mistress.” - -The sound of the falconer’s voice broke the spell that had been laid -upon Anne. She rose from the table, and in spite of all that she had -undergone of suffering, something of the old imperiousness was in her -tone. - -“What do you here, John Markham?” - -“I bring news, mistress.” - -“Of whom?” - -“I bring news of your father, mistress.” - -“Of my father!” - -It seemed almost too great an effort for Anne to cast back her mind to -the stern man whose very existence she had nearly forgotten. In the -stress of those terrible weeks, which had called for all that she had -of endurance, her former life had grown so vague, so remote that it -was almost as if it had never been. - -“What of my father?” - -Tragedy unspeakable was in the falconer’s face. For the moment, a power -outside himself forbade his answering the question. Days and nights had -he given to this quest, that a load of misery might be taken from his -heart. But now that at last his tireless wanderings had achieved their -purpose, a force beyond his own will held him captive. - -The falconer knew as he gazed at his young mistress that it was her -life he was about to sacrifice in order to save his master’s. It was -her youth and her high devotion in the scale, against one who had lived -the flower of his years. Surely it behoved him to have a care. - -“What of my father?” - -The man shook his head impotently. - -“Is he dead?” - -“No, mistress, he is not dead.” - -But in the falconer’s tone was that which sent a chill to the heart of -Sir John Feversham’s daughter. In spite of himself, Markham had told -her that which he would now have concealed. - -“My father is in peril?” - -Again there was silence. But the woman’s swift instinct all too soon -divined its meaning. - -“In peril. And it is because--because----!” - -A shudder went through her veins. She buried her face in her hands. - -A dreadful anguish came upon the falconer. Any words he would have -spoken died on his lips. - -In the midst of this unhappy scene Shakespeare entered the room. His -eye fell on the somber figure of the falconer. And then he saw the -piteous face of Anne. - -“Oh, what have you done!” The player’s bitterly reproachful words were -heard only by the falconer. - -Markham shook his head dismally. - -Gervase turned a distracted face upon the player. - -“This man is concealing something,” he said. “What it is, I do not -know. Perhaps you can tell us.” - -In spite of the fact that Markham’s presence in the room had taken -Shakespeare altogether by surprise, he seemed to realize the situation -almost at once. Gervase Heriot’s air of bewilderment and the falconer’s -look of pitiful irresolution served to make it clear that the man’s -will had failed when it came to the telling of his story. - -But it was equally clear to that powerful intelligence that Anne had -come very near to divining the grim truth. She was the picture of woe. -And her distress could only proceed from one cause. - -“You say my father is in peril!” Heedless of the player’s presence her -words were addressed to John Markham. “And it is because of me.” - -The falconer did not answer. But his white face answered for him. - -“Tell me all, John Markham. I must, I will know all.” - -In the presence of that instancy of will which now as ever held the -falconer in thrall, he could not do less than obey. It was in vain that -the player sought to check him. - -In a few broken, brief words, the dismal story was told. - -“Sir John lies in the Tower, mistress, in peril of his life. He is -accused of complicity in his prisoner’s escape. On Monday next, as I -understand, he is to be brought to his trial. And it is likely to go -hard with him if he makes no effort to clear himself. And that, I am -sure, he will not do.” - -Gervase interposed sharply. - -“Why do you say Sir John Feversham will not attempt to clear himself?” - -“For the reason, sir,” said the falconer, gravely and simply, “that in -such a case as this, it would not be my master’s character.” - -“How can you possibly know that?” asked Gervase. - -The falconer shook his head sadly. - -“You are not acquainted with my master,” he said. “Even to save his -life, he is not the man to tell all that he knows of this matter.” - -“That is to say,” said Gervase, “he has withheld a certain fact from -the Queen?” - -“Yes.” - -Despair closed upon Gervase and Anne. They did not need to be told that -Sir John Feversham had taken upon himself the whole responsibility for -his prisoner’s escape, and that not a word had crossed his lips in -regard to the share his daughter had in it. - -One thought sprang at once to the minds of the fugitives. It was -impossible in such circumstances to leave Sir John to his fate. All the -laws of honor, of filial duty forbade such a course. - -“Oh, why did you tell them!” said the player to John Markham. The too -sensitive soul felt the stab of tragedy in its inmost fiber. - -“It was right that he should,” said Gervase. “It was his bounden duty.” - -Gervase had grown as pale as death, but already resolve had braced his -will. He saw at once that only one course was open to him, and that was -the one the player himself had foreseen. - -Yet no issue could have been more tragic. It was death for Gervase, and -in the circumstances of the case, it was also death for Anne. All this -the player understood, and even the thrice unhappy falconer seemed to -realize it. - -Gervase’s mind was soon made up. He would go at once to London and -surrender himself to the Queen. He would start that night or at dawn at -the latest, since it seemed to him there was not an hour to be lost. - -The player, however, had only to learn this impetuous resolve, in order -to declare himself strongly averse from it. A plan which promised some -hope of deliverance, a very slender one, it was true, had been taking -shape in his mind for three days past. Any such precipitancy of action -would destroy it. Therefore, he entreated Gervase to defer a step that -must prove irretrievably fatal until such time as his scheme might have -a chance to mature. - -Shakespeare well knew how hazardous, indeed how fantastic his plan was. -And he was far too honest a man to promise more than its desperate -character warranted. But he did all that he could to dissuade Gervase -from his intention. He implored the young man not to act until that day -week, at which time the Lord Chamberlain’s men had to appear before the -Queen. It might then be possible to gain her ear. Gervase, however, -would not consent to this. His thoughts were dominated completely by -the peril of a brave and chivalrous man. Indeed, it was as much as the -player could do to persuade him to defer his departure for London until -the next day. - -Finally, Shakespeare was able to wring a reluctant promise from Gervase -that he would not act upon his resolve the following morning, until -such time as they had met to discuss it again. And for the time being, -at any rate, that was the utmost the play-actor could contrive. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - - -THERE was little sleep that night either for William Shakespeare or -for Gervase Heriot. The early morning found them together in the inn -garden. And as they walked up and down its box-bordered alleys, they -talked long and very earnestly and in a manner utterly heedless of -their surroundings. - -In this last matter, they were unlucky. Several of the tavern windows -overlooked the garden, and one at least was open wide. This belonged -to the room which was occupied by the man Grisewood, who lay sleepless -on a comfortless pillow, still tormented by his wound. Unable to rest, -he chanced to rise from his couch in the early hours, and thrust his -aching head out of the window in order to get a breath of fresh air. - -His attention was caught at once by the sound of voices and of -footsteps on the gravel path below. Then it was he saw the play-actor -in deep conversation with the man who had run him through the arm. The -sight was enough to summon all that Grisewood had of cunning, and in -his case, as it happened, this was a commodity of which nature had been -lavish. - -At once, he knelt down by the casement, in order that he might see -without being seen. Then he listened very intently. The process was -irritatingly difficult He was only able to hear brief, disjointed -fragments of the conversation that was passing below. But it was -continued long enough to enable the listener to weave into some kind of -a context the few scraps of talk which he was able to glean. - -Without any sort of doubt, the man who had run him through the arm -was Gervase Heriot in a cunning disguise. Such a thrill of joy passed -through the heart of the listener as almost to compensate for the pain -and indignity he had recently undergone. It would appear that the -fugitive was bent upon a course of action from which the play-actor was -doing all in his power to dissuade him. Exactly what it was that was -passing between them, Grisewood could not for the life of him make out. -Long they talked together as they slowly paced the garden, yet even -when they left it at last, the listener was unable to gather the full -gist of their conversation. - -Nevertheless, he returned to his bed a very well satisfied man. -Opportunity for revenge lay under his hand. Moreover, he hoped to be -able to pay off his score with the player. And even beyond this doubly -welcome prospect, there was the further consolation of the high price -that had been set on the head of a condemned traitor. - -These prospects were very dazzling in the sight of Sir Robert -Grisewood. And such scope did they offer that gentleman for the -exercise of his peculiar faculties, that he was almost afraid he would -not be able to grasp them to the full. He must not act hastily. Let him -give the whole force of his mind to the great possibilities of revenge -that were spread before it. Let him strike at his leisure, and only -after ample consideration of the case in all its bearings. Justice, -full and complete, must be done to the really wonderful opportunity -that had been given him. - -In the meantime, Shakespeare’s long conversation with the fugitive in -the inn garden had borne fruit. With infinite difficulty had he been -able to persuade the young man to forego his surrender to the law for -that day, at least. And with even this small concession, the player was -not dissatisfied, for it seemed that during the watches of the night -the scheme in his mind had developed considerably. - -Its nature was certainly very complex and hazardous. And the player -asked of Gervase that he would trust him to carry it out without -calling upon him to furnish details. Shakespeare desired the young man -to await the issue of his plan with an open mind. And as there was all -for Gervase to gain, and there was nothing he could lose, and as he had -already learned to have faith in this man who had certainly played the -part of a friend, he consented to do the will of the actor, and at the -same time to ask as few questions as need be. - -It was a strange situation. And if Gervase had not an implicit faith in -the player, it could never have arisen. But the man’s intense sympathy -wrought upon him. And, after all, it was not a matter of his own life -alone, or even of the life of Sir John Feversham. He had to consider -that of the girl who had dared and done so much. - -Thus, for one day more, he was willing to defer his surrender to the -Queen. And to this he was impelled by the knowledge that whatever -course he took, it would not now be possible to avoid bringing Sir John -Feversham to his trial. The law must inevitably take its course, but -there would still be time and opportunity to save the Constable even -after he was condemned. - -It had been Grisewood’s intention to pay his visit to Greenfield Manor -that day. But the discovery he had made caused him to alter his plan of -action. He felt he must take time to consider the new position which -had arisen. Therefore, he decided not to see Simon Heriot at once. It -would be well, he thought, to stay where he was in order that he might -watch affairs closely and gain a further knowledge of that which was -taking place. - -Delays, however, are dangerous. Grisewood was not aware of the fact -that his change of plan was very welcome to the play-actor. Indeed, -nothing could have better suited Shakespeare’s design. From the many -inquiries he had recently made in regard to Simon Heriot, there was -good reason to suppose that the man believed his nephew to be dead. And -as this belief was essential to the fantastic design that was maturing -in the subtle brain of this maker of plays, it was beyond all things -necessary that, for the present, it should not be disturbed. - -Thus when, in the course of that morning, Shakespeare learned from the -landlord that Grisewood had decided not to visit Greenfield Manor until -the next day a weight of anxiety was taken from his mind. Nothing could -have accorded better with his purpose. Moreover, it put him in great -heart for his enterprise, and provided a further reason for its being -carried through without delay. - -To be sure, the scheme was whimsical, extravagant, fantastic. It was of -a kind that could only have sprung from a daringly original invention. -And perhaps only the optimism of one whose life was largely that of -the fancy could have expected it to yield any material result. But it -was with the zest of a schoolboy that the playwright drew his friend, -Burbage, aside before that morning was out, and over a tankard of -October ale with a toast in it, inquired “whether he was ripe for a -midnight frolic?” - -“Ripe as a medlar, my old lad of Stratford-on-Avon in Warwickshire,” -said the tragedian, heartily. - -“Then we will give what we are pleased to call our minds to a -stratagem, dear shrew, which I hope we may be able this night to put on -a dark knave.” - -“I care not so long as there is mirth in it,” said the tragedian. - -“Mirth enough in it, I promise you, if we can but draw this badger out -of his hole. But we must go well armed, in case of trouble, and we must -have horses for a journey ten miles out and home.” - -“What! more Charlecote adventures?” - -“Nay, you egregious mime, a thing of more account than a coney or two. -It is to save the life of an innocent man and, as we will hope, to lose -a foul knave his head.” - -The tragedian, in accordance with a cautious, practical and sagacious -disposition, began to look dubious. - -“I am by no means clear,” he said, “that Richard Burbage was designed -by nature for knight errantry.” - -“No harm shall come of this adventure, I promise you. But all I ask is, -that your dove’s voice shall roar a little like the Nubian lion; and -that your large assemblance shall make us look valiant in the light of -the moon.” - -“That will I promise, if I have but a flask of canary within me.” - -“It is a choicely pretty stratagem. And if there is no miscarriage, I -think we may obtain a night’s honest amusement at the expense of one -who looks not to provide it.” - -“What is your plan, you mad maker of plays? And what is its aim and -object?” - -“All in a good season you shall be told. But first, we must prick our -band for the wars. I name myself captain generalissimo, and I name -Richard Burbage, a large man, frowardly given, for my ancient. And for -my squire, I name young Parflete, whose light limbs and smooth face and -gentle air make innocence herself seem a baggage. And then I will name -Lowin, an honest, good fellow with wit enough not to ask questions, and -stout Kemp who is a wag but not a fool, and of course Heriot, this poor -ill-used young man whose life I will save, I am determined upon it.” - -“All the same, my William, I would learn the nature of your stratagem,” -said Burbage, tenaciously. - -“Nay, Richard, possess your soul in patience for the nonce. The -stratagem is a good stratagem, else may I never drink sack out of a -bombard again. But I must now seek young Mr. Heriot and assemble horses -for our troop.” - -It was part of the man’s character, and a strong part, that when once -the mind was fully aroused, it could combine the power of action with -an infinite faculty of invention. It was not always easy for him to see -his way at the beginning of an enterprise. Like so many upon whom the -heavy burden of imagination has been laid, the will was apt to be weak -at times. But if only the occasion called imperiously, he had a power -of concentration that enabled him to overcome the indecision which is -the cruel curse that nature has laid upon the thinker. - -Now that William Shakespeare had conceived the high project of saving -the life of an innocent man, mind and will were working in full harmony -to compass this end. He saw clearly what had to be done; and a blend of -many high qualities lent him the power to conceive and to carry out a -scheme which few men would have had the audacity to undertake. - -He bade Gervase and Anne be of good heart. Yet he withheld the main -particulars of his design. He told them merely that his purpose was to -ride at sundown to the house of Simon Heriot, that was some ten miles -off, in the company of Burbage, Kemp and other of the players. It would -be necessary for Gervase to accompany them. With a light of humor in -his eye, the playwright assured him that if fortune was kind he had a -plan that might prove very pleasant, whimsical and diverting to all -except him against whom it was to be directed. - -“But, tell me, what it is, I pray you?” said Gervase. - -Shakespeare shook his head. - -“The hour is not yet,” he said. “I’ faith, it is one of those whimsical -matters which endure the performance better than the description. I -only ask that you trust me to the full and do my will, whatever it be; -and, for my part, I will promise that your case shall not be made in -anywise worse than it now is, and under Providence shall be made a good -deal better.” - -Knowing so little of the plan, Gervase found it hard not to be -sceptical. But this man had already gained his confidence. He was -hardly likely to promise that which he had no prospect of being -able to perform. Moreover, there was no reason in the world why he -should put a trick upon one in so sorry a plight as Gervase, unless he -was an emissary of his enemies. And this the fugitive had no reason -to suppose. For had he not treated Anne and himself with unfailing -kindness, nay, with something beyond kindness--with a tenderness, a -delicacy of compassion which no gratitude could ever repay? - -Shakespeare presently delivered a solemn charge to the -melancholy-visaged John Davenant, of whom there was a tradition -that he had never been known to smile. - -“Right excellent host,” said the player, with a whimsical air, “I would -have you place at our disposal about the hour friend Phoebus enters -his cradle, the eight trustiest and lustiest steeds to be found in -this city. John Davenant, on your honor as a licensed victualler, do I -charge you to give the whole of your mind to this matter. An affair of -great pith and moment is toward as soon as the sun has gone down.” - -“Is it that you are leaving us to-night, Will?” said the host of the -Crown Tavern, in some alarm. - -“Nay, mine host. But a choice little pleasantry is afoot, and it -demands that all who bear a share in it should be well horsed.” - -“Well, you are ever a mad faggot,” said John Davenant. “And a man never -knows what whimsey you will take next.” - -“Peace, honest vintner. And upon your life as a famous Christian man, -do I charge you to do my behest.” - -Thoroughly mystified, John Davenant went to carry out these -instructions, perhaps a trifle unwillingly. But he was an old friend -of William Shakespeare, and although a somber fellow enough on the -outside, there was a light of humor within. Besides, he had a very real -respect for the moving spirit of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - - -GREENFIELD MANOR was a very old house about ten miles out of Oxford. It -lay in a secluded spot, but the road to London ran past the high walls -of its park. A heavy growth of trees surrounded the house itself, which -was in a state of neglect and disrepair. - -A gloomy and forbidding place enough. The very atmosphere which -invested this mass of decaying stonework seemed to invite ghosts to -walk. Its chimneys rocked continually; its windows rattled. When the -vane over the decrepit stables swung in the wind of the summer night, -it was as if some lost soul was seeking to escape out of Hades. - -As a fact, the house was certainly inhabited by a lost soul. Simon -Heriot, its master, lay in the belief that he had done his nephew to -death by a subtle, mean and cruel device. And no worthier purpose -than greed had been in his heart. It had been his life-long passion -to hold the fair manor and the broad lands in the west country, which -generations of his name had held before him. These, however, had -descended to the son of his elder brother. And the knowledge that there -was only one life intervening between him and his great ambition, in -the end, became too much for him. - -The means to do ill deeds oft makes ill deeds done. It was by chance -that the design was unfolded to Simon Heriot of swearing away his -nephew’s life. But when occasion came to him he did not resist the -call. The pent-up forces of his covetous envy rose up and slew him. - -If ever a man might be said to have sold himself to the devil, that -man was Simon Heriot. He had a cunning and subtle mind; moreover, he -was very well acquainted with the world in which he lived. He was -clever enough to make the entail of his nephew’s estates the price of -his testimony. And, indeed, it was no uncommon thing in that day to -reward those who brought and proved charges of high treason with the -property of the people they had hounded to the scaffold. The times -were very perilous for all men. The life of no man was safe. Black -hatred and superstitious fear of the Pope, and his emissaries were rife -throughout the land. In such circumstances, it was easy for a cunning -and unscrupulous man to remove a rival from his path by some form of -legal process. The character of the evidence was seldom tested. It was -enough if it served the purpose it had in view. Gervase Heriot was not -the first by many who had been done to death under the ready sanctions -of the law. - -Howbeit, Simon Heriot, with all his knowledge of men and of the world, -was without knowledge of the power of God. As soon as the news was -brought to him that his nephew was condemned to the block, a singular -change came over his life. The success of his design gave him not -a crumb of satisfaction; indeed he took a morbid, an overmastering -distaste for the society of his fellows. He shut himself up in his -gloomy manor house with his old and stupid servants. He shunned the -light of day. His one desire was to avert his face from all men and -from the sight of Heaven. - -A brooding lethargy fixed itself upon his soul. A kind of slow horror -stole into his brain. He could not settle his mind to anything. Asleep -or awake, he knew no peace. He would have undone his deed could he have -found the courage that such an act demanded. - -This night was as many others. After a solitary meal in a large, dim, -comfortless room, Simon Heriot sat long at the table, staring straight -before him at the huge open fireplace, whose emptiness was like a -yawning chasm. At his elbow had been set a large flagon of wine, of -which he drank continually. - -There was not a sound in the old house, save that made by an occasional -mouse behind the paneling. The servants had gone to bed; it was near -eleven o’clock of a perfectly still and moonless summer’s evening; and -Simon Heriot was alone with his thoughts. - -Wine, it is true, did a little to soften their sting. But when the hand -of God has been laid upon a man, it is not amenable to human resources. -Behind that dull lethargy of spirit was a never-ceasing pressure. -Strange phantoms had begun to lurk on the edge of the outer darkness, -away beyond the flickering half-light of the candles on the table. - -At last, in sheer fatigue, the unhappy man began to doze. Worn out -in mind and body, he fell presently into a troubled sleep. But his -unquietness of spirit would not let him rest. He awoke with a start. -There was a sense of a continual presence, unseen but all-pervading, in -the room. - -He strained his eyes beyond the circle of light made by the candles set -on the table at which he sat. But away in the ghostly outer darkness -of the large room, he could discern no visible shape. He strove to fix -some faint and remote sound that thrilled in his ears. But, after all, -it was only the little sound of the summer wind stirring in the trees. - -Again the jaded brain tried to pierce together the slender core of will -that might disperse these phantoms and perhaps enable it to sleep. But -it was not to be. Each night as he sat there, besieged by this horror -that had entered his soul, the will grew more inert. There was a faint -voice within that had begun to whisper to him that he would never sleep -again. - -Yes, it was true. He would never sleep again. He was tormented by -unseen phantoms. Never again would he know peace in this life and -perhaps never in the life to come. - -Once again he strained his ears to listen. It was only the little voice -of the summer wind in the wide chimney-place. All was silence save -for that. Yet there was an abiding sense of an unseen, all-pervading -presence in the room. And then, quite suddenly, without warning of any -kind, a thing happened that made the very soul of Simon Heriot recoil. - -He was sitting at the table, his head resting on his hand. His back -was to the wide chimney-place, but as he sat his body was half turned -towards it. On his right hand was a long, low casement. It was -curtainless, but was covered on the outside by a wooden shutter. On -his left hand, at the opposite end of the room, was another casement -precisely similar except that it was smaller. - -All at once, without warning and without any apparent cause, the -shutters of the right-hand casement were flung to the ground. Simon -Heriot turned his head with a startled cry. His wild eyes stared out -into the night. At first, he could see nothing but the cavernous -darkness. Yet as he was still gazing, a light was flashed suddenly -across the window, and then he saw that a white, ghostly face was -pressed against the pane and was looking into the room. - -The apparition was so real, so vivid, that Simon Heriot rose half -swooning with terror and walked across to the window. - -“Who are you?” he gasped. - -He had no need to ask. It was the face of the young man, his nephew, -whom, as he believed, he had done to death. - -“Who are you?” shrieked the wretched man. - -He stumbled forward to the window. But when he came there all was dark -again. The light was gone, and the face of his nephew had vanished. - -Like a lost soul, trembling upon the verge of unreason, he stood at the -window gazing far out into the void. But there was only the darkness of -the night and the little voice of the summer wind. Yet if he was not -in a dream, or if he was not yet bereft of his wits, the shutters were -indubitably prone on the ground. - -After a moment, the unhappy man turned away from the window, unable -longer to endure that cavern of darkness which confronted him. Yet, -hardly had he done so, when the shutters which covered the window at -the other end of the long room were flung to the ground with a violent -crash. - -Simon Heriot screamed with terror. There again was the flash of the -light. There again was the face of his nephew pressed against the -window. Like one possessed, the unhappy man stumbled across the room to -this other window. But by the time he had reached it, the light and the -face were gone. - -There was nothing but the night. All was silence. And there was nought -to be seen out in the darkness. He uttered another wild scream of -terror. - -Shuddering in every vein, he withdrew his eyes from the window. As he -sought the table for support, he almost fell. And then as he reached -it, his heart seemed to stop beating. For a voice deep and terrible -filled the room, echoing and re-echoing in it, making its spacious -gloom resound. - -“Simon Heriot!” - -He heard his name. - -“Simon Heriot!” - -The voice of the unseen re-echoed high in the wide chimney-place. The -heart of the unhappy wretch was already dead within him. - -“Simon Heriot has murdered sleep!” - -In a frenzy that seemed to tear his soul in pieces, he pressed his -hands to his ears that they might be closed against the sound. But it -was in vain. No human agency had the power to shut out those terrible -words, or the awful voice that gave them utterance. - -“Simon Heriot, if ever you would sleep again, attend that which is said -to you.” - -With the shred of will that remained to him, the guilty man strung all -his faculties in order to heed the words that were spoken. - -“Do you attend, Simon Heriot.” The voice was low, deep and terrible. -“Do you take a candle and sit at yonder table, upon which materials for -writing are set, and do you write as you are now directed.” - -It was true that quill, inkhorn and foolscap were laid out on a small -table at the other end of the room. At the beck of that which he was -powerless to disobey, the unhappy man tottered very slowly towards the -table. After a moment of indecision, he sat down and took up the quill. -He was as one in a dream, except that his head seemed to be bursting. - -“Simon Heriot, write as you are directed.” - -The terrible voice had now grown so loud and so compelling, that -it seemed to tear his brain asunder. When he took up the pen, his -trembling fingers could hardly hold it. - -Very slowly and very clearly, the voice then uttered the following: - - “I, Simon Heriot, in the presence of Almighty God and with the shadow - of death upon me, hereby solemnly declare, that I have caused to be - borne to our Sovereign Lady the Queen, false testimony in the matter - of my nephew, Gervase Heriot. I further declare that I suborned - three men, Robert Grisewood, John Nixon and Gregory Bannister by - name, to bear false testimony touching the complicity of the said - Gervase Heriot in the Round House Plot, by reason of which alleged - complicity the said Gervase Heriot has been condemned to death. In - the presence of Almighty God, and as I shortly hope for eternal - rest, I do hereby most solemnly avow what I have written to be the - truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Given under my hand - this second day of July, 1599--Simon Heriot.” - -Under the goad of terror, the guilty man gathered every fragment of his -crumbling will in order that he might set pen to paper. No less slowly -than the grim voice pronounced the words, Simon Heriot wrote them down -with a kind of automatic precision. It was as if his highly wrought -state had become susceptible to a process of hypnotism. - -When at last the task was finished and he had signed the document which -made full confession of his crime, he was commanded to open a window -and to fling out the paper into the night. - -He would have had neither the strength nor the courage to do this of -his own volition. But the dread voice compelled him. He rose from the -writing-table, but now such was his condition that he could hardly -stand. A palsy was on his limbs; he was as one who has lost all control -of his mind. - -“Take heed, Simon Heriot.” - -He knew not whence the voice came, yet a power beyond himself compelled -implicit obedience. Scarcely able to walk, he tottered toward the -casement at the other end of the wide room. - -He was destined never to reach it. With a dismal cry, he stopped -midway. The paper fluttered out of his hand. Suddenly, he fell face -down on the stone floor, a slight foam on his lips. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - - -HARDLY had this thing come to pass, when a number of startled faces -appeared on the outer side of the shutterless window. Shaking and -rattling did not serve to force an entrance, but by the time the -combined pressure of four or five vigorous and determined men had been -applied, the framework began to yield. Very soon they had made their -way into the room. - -Simon Heriot was dead. - -One glance at the horrible distorted face was enough to tell Gervase -Heriot what had occurred. There was no need for the young man to get -down on his knees, candle in hand, and loosen the man’s clothing. Simon -Heriot had already breathed his last. - -The men who had come with Gervase into the room belonged one and all -to the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. The first of these was William -Shakespeare whose fantastically ingenious device had been fraught with -such tragic consequences. It had succeeded beyond hope or expectation. -Richard Burbage’s had been the voice which had re-echoed down the wide -chimney with such ghastly effect. - -“Dead?” said the playwright, looking round at the circle of astonished -and half-terrified faces. And then he said, with a passionate -solemnity, with a look of terror in his own dark-glowing eyes, “God -rest his soul. His crime was black, but he has paid for it with usury. -God rest his unhappy soul.” - -A chill of silence fell upon all who had entered the room. In a sense, -they had done this man to death, and perhaps that thought was even -more potent in their minds than the grim and awful tragedy they had -witnessed. - -After a while, the spell was broken. Burbage picked up the paper that -had fallen to the floor. He examined it by the ghostly light of the -candles, and then handed it to the man who had caused it to be written. - -It might have been supposed that the text would have been expressed -in a handwriting barely decipherable, but such was not the case. The -writing was sufficiently clear to bear no reasonable doubt of its -authenticity. By a process of hypnotic suggestion the man’s mind had -been strung up to a point beyond its natural powers, and it had not -given way until the last word had been written. - -Shakespeare folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. - -“I will bear this to the Queen myself,” he said. - -In the meantime, some of the others had raised the body of Simon Heriot -from the ground and had laid it on a table. But Shakespeare bore no -part in all this. It was not that he was callous; it was simply that -the sight of death revolted him. - -After the body had been placed on the table, one and all waited upon -the word of the leader of the enterprise, who had devised all that had -come to pass. But now his power seemed to have gone from him. Having -done so much more than he had meant to do, he was as one overborne by -the sense of his deed. He now confronted his fellow-players haplessly, -apparently not knowing what to do next or what advice to give. - -As it happened, however, all further decision was taken out of his -hands. While one and all stood awaiting that masterful initiative that -was no longer at their service, the door of the room was opened very -stealthily, and two of the dead man’s servants entered. Each carried a -candle and a fowling-piece. - -Both men were evidently in deadly fear of their lives, but a sense of -duty had prevailed with them over a desire for personal safety. - -“How, now, you masterless rogues,” said one, who was the butler, in a -voice by no means valiant. “What do you here?” - -Before it was possible to answer the question, the antiquated weapon he -carried went off with a loud report, which seemed to make the room rock -to its foundations, and half choked all those in it with the fumes of -smoke and gunpowder. It was the result of accident, certainly not of -design, but a cry arose from among the players. - -“Oh, God!” - -It was the voice of the young man Parflete. - -“Put up your weapons, you fools,” cried Gervase. - -The unlucky Parflete had fallen against the table. Anxiously they -crowded round the man who had been hit, while the butler and the old -serving man who was with him, seeing their master’s nephew of the -company, laid down their weapons. - -The young actor had been hit in the arm. It hung helpless and bloody by -his side. Suddenly he fainted, and Gervase had only just time enough to -catch him in his arms. - -William Kemp, the famous comedian and creator of the rôle of -_Falstaff_, who was one of those who had borne a part in this tragic -conspiracy, had the presence of mind to seize a horn of brandy that was -on the table. Having first, by a free application to his own throat, -been able to satisfy himself that the liquor was capable of stimulating -the heart’s action, he poured a goodly portion of it down the throat of -his wounded comrade. - -There was virtue in this remedy. But the unlucky young player lay -shivering with pain in the arms of Gervase, while Burbage attended an -ugly wound with considerable skill. - -First he cut away the dripping sleeve of the doublet with his clasped -knife. Then a basin of water was brought and he bathed the wound, and -finally bound up the arm tightly in a clean handkerchief. But by the -time this had been done, Parflete was again insensible. - -In the meantime, the two servants had discovered that their master was -dead. And the horror of that discovery was increased by the presence of -his nephew, whom they had presumed to be dead also. Furthermore, they -were not acquainted with the black part their master had played. Thus -their grief and horror were perfectly sincere. - -The arrival of what certainly appeared to be a lawless company of -lawless and masterless men, had plunged already the entire household -into a state of alarm. The cries and the noise of firearms had at once -aroused the rest of the indoor servants. In a few minutes, these had -come crowding into the room. And as soon as they had learned what had -occurred, matters began to take an ugly shape. - -The steward of Simon Heriot, who had now appeared on the scene, was a -man of resolute character. He declared that he would hold in custody -those who had been responsible for his master’s death, notwithstanding -that one among them was his master’s nephew. Accordingly, he sent one -man to call the outdoor servants; he sent another to procure a horse -from the stables and ride with all haste to the nearest justice; also -he proclaimed the fact that he would suffer no man to escape. - -In that, perhaps, although his intention was excellent, he was not -wise. The players, including Gervase and the falconer, mustered nine -men in all, against seven men and four women. To be sure, one of the -intruders was sorely disabled and would require the careful tendance of -his friends if he was to be brought securely away. But, in the matter -of arms, the advantage was with the players, inasmuch that most of them -were provided with swords, and they had only to fear one undischarged -fowling-piece and divers staves and short daggers. - -Gervase now took command of affairs. He approached his uncle’s steward -coolly enough, for all that the man preserved a very threatening -attitude with his weapon pointed ominously at the players. - -“Put it up, you curst fool!” said Gervase, roundly. “Haven’t you done -mischief enough already?” - -“Not half the mischief you have done, sir,” said the man. “Come not an -inch nearer or I----” - -Before the steward could complete his threat or carry it into effect, -Gervase suddenly struck up his arm. The piece went off with a -tremendous report. This time, happily, its contents were discharged -into the air. - -In the midst of the smoke and the general confusion, Gervase flung -himself upon the steward and, with the strength and the address of -youth, soon wrenched the clumsy weapon from his hands. Then, with -a blow on the head from the butt of the weapon, he laid the man -insensible. - -“Through the window, my friends,” he cried to his comrades. “Let us get -out of this while we have the chance.” - -Gervase had now become the leader of the players--for a time at least. -Already he had shown that faculty of quick initiative which belongs -to the man of action. The others obeyed him instinctively. His swift -decision, and the manner in which his deed leaped with his thought, -showed them clearly enough that they would do well to follow him. - -Burbage was first through the window. He was a powerful and active -man. He lifted out Parflete bodily and then, hoisting him on his broad -shoulders, began to run with him in the direction of the horses which -were tethered in the lane. It was well that the wounded actor was very -light of weight. - -Meanwhile, the others were rendering a pretty good account of -themselves. A general mêlée had ensued, in which blows were given -freely and given as freely again. And in all this, Gervase was -foremost. Many shrewd knocks he delivered with the butt of his weapon, -and one of these undoubtedly saved Shakespeare a broken head. John -Markham, the falconer, also did considerable execution with the flat of -his short sword. - -The onfall of the players had been so swift as to take Simon Heriot’s -servants by surprise. And, after all, the resistance they had to offer -was not very stout. Thus those who had forced so irregular an entry -were soon in excellent shape for making good their escape by way of the -window through which they had come. - -The breach in the casement their entrance had caused was a large one. -And with far less difficulty than they had reason to expect were they -able to withdraw from the room. Also, they suffered no further casualty -beyond a few ill-directed blows that did them little hurt. - -The dead man’s servants were less fortunate. Several were laid low, -although none of their injuries was serious. But these early mishaps -had killed any desire that might have lurked in the others to press -the conflict beyond the point of discretion. No very serious effort -was made to impede the flight of Gervase Heriot and his friends, whom -one and all of the dead man’s household honestly believed had done his -uncle to death. - -It was not a difficult matter for the players to reach their horses -which had been left in the lane. Shakespeare, who was a good horseman, -and who had contrived to be well mounted, had the wounded man lifted on -to the front of his saddle. - -Parflete was still very weak from loss of blood and the shock of his -wound. He was quite unable to take care of himself. But the playwright -was full of solicitude for the young man. Also it was fortunate that -they both rode light. Shakespeare, although well knit of figure, was -hardly more than a ten stone man. - -The horses were soon untethered and their heads turned in the direction -of Oxford. No time was lost in making for the Crown. It was most likely -there would be the devil to pay for that evening’s tragic work. The -law would certainly be invoked against them; indeed, already it was -in process of being summoned. As far as the players themselves were -concerned, their chief hope was that none save Gervase Heriot had been -recognized. If that happened to be the case, and the young man could -lie perdu for a few days, the hue and cry might pass, always provided -that no evidence was forthcoming against the members of the Lord -Chamberlain’s Company. - -Not a word was spoken as they rode to the Crown. The minds of all -were filled with a sense of vague horror. The sinister trick they had -put upon a blood-guilty man had turned to a grim tragedy. Full many a -grisly scene had these men enacted in the process of their calling. -Full many a scene of pity and terror had the master mind among them -devised. But never in all their play-acting had they approached the -sheer horror of the human soul which had been tormented so ruthlessly -that night. - -It was in vain they reflected that even with his callous crime heavy -upon him they had not meant to do the man to death. The world was -undoubtedly a better place for his quittance; it was necessary that his -soul should be wrung to its extremity if an innocent man was to escape -the ax; but let them urge in extenuation all that was possible, and -there was still not one among them who would ever forget the dreadful -thing with which he had been face to face that night. - -As they rode along the moonless lanes in the stifling silence of a -midsummer night, the weird shapes of the trees far spreading in their -heavy leafage seemed to affront their eyes with phantom shapes. The -eerie darkness that lay like a pall on the fields and woods and the -grim sentinel hedgerows oppressed them almost beyond endurance. - -Never once did they ease the pace of their horses, not even to listen -for sounds of pursuit. And to more than one among that band of -conspirators, perhaps most of all to the mind of William Shakespeare, -it was a real, an unspeakable relief when a sudden bend in the dark -road showed two or three fugitive lights twinkling a little ahead where -Oxford lay. - -Luckily, it was not a difficult matter to get through the city gate. -Still, it was necessary to knock up the porter, who rose from his couch -in no civil mood and asked why virtuous men rode so late. But a gold -angel that was thrown to him reassured him wonderfully. - -They came into the city unmolested. And thus far there was never a sign -of pursuit. But they had a deep sense of relief when, at last, they -turned round by the Cornmarket and alighted under the oil lamp that had -been kept burning for them before the door of John Davenant’s hostelry. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - - -PARFLETE was put to bed at once, and late as was the hour a chirurgeon -was sent for. He dressed the wound, and inclined to the opinion that -the limb might be saved. But the injury was so severe that weeks must -pass before the young actor could hope to appear again in the theater. - -Now this accident and its consequences had filled Shakespeare with -consternation. On the Thursday following, but six days hence, the -new comedy was to be given by the Queen’s command in Richmond Park. -The chief female character, that of _Rosalind_, had been written and -designed for this rising young actor. It was impossible at such short -notice to fill his place. There was no other member of the company who -came near Parflete in fitness for the part. The author felt that much -depended on a graceful, slender and attractive _Rosalind_. It was with -such a personage ever in his mind that the play had been composed for -the delectation of an exacting critic. - -The next morning, when the full extent of the calamity was known, -Shakespeare bitterly lamented the lack of judgment which had allowed -Parflete to bear a part in the perilous transactions of the night -before. It was vain to repine, but the playwright would now have given -much to be able to undo this grievous accident. - -There was also another aspect of the case that filled him with concern. -Gervase Heriot had been recognized by his uncle’s steward. The aid of -the law must already have been invoked. If the young man remained at -the Crown, it was doubtful whether his present disguise would be a -sufficient concealment, and if taken he would certainly be charged with -the murder of his uncle. Not that that mattered particularly to one -already under sentence of death. But it might matter very much to those -who had associated themselves with the young man in the harebrained -enterprise which had ended so disastrously. - -Truly the reflections of William Shakespeare were not of roseate hue -this morning. Looking back on the night’s adventure, it seemed to be -as grimly fantastic as a scene out of one of his own plays. When he -had planned the weird scene that had been enacted to the very letter -of his invention, he had had a very special object in view, yet he had -not looked to the matter to be pushed to that extremity. It was hardly -in human nature to mourn the occurrence, for the world was undoubtedly -well rid of a bad man. Moreover, the object of the playwright’s -audacious stratagem had been achieved. He held in his hands a paper, -which even if obtained by means so irregular, was enough to clear -Gervase Heriot, always provided that the Queen could be brought to -reconsider his case. But the feeling now uppermost in the mind of -the dramatist was one of distress. He feared that he had drawn his -companions into one of those sinister transactions in which no man in -that age could afford to be involved. - -Two things must be done, and they must be done speedily. It was -imperative for the Lord Chamberlain’s players to leave Oxford at once. -And an efficient substitute for Parflete must be found immediately if -the comedy was to be given in its integrity before the Queen on the -Thursday following. - -In the stress of these urgent matters, the playwright took counsel of -Richard Burbage. That worthy was in the middle of a substantial if -belated breakfast. - -“In the first matter, I agree with you,” he said, upon hearing what -his colleague had to say. “There will be security for none of us until -we are out of Oxford, and perhaps not even then. As to who is to play -_Rosalind_ now that Parflete is sick, heaven help us but I know not.” - -“Tarbert might play the part,” said the author of the comedy. “He has a -light womanish voice, but then his legs do not match and he has no more -grace than a soused mackerel. As I see my sweet _Rosalind_, she should -be all grace and limberness, all delicacy, tenderness and fantasy.” - -“Yes, I grant you it would be asking too much of Tarbert,” said the -tragedian, addressing himself very seriously to a quart of ale. “It -would be asking too much of any of us except Parflete. I am afraid, -William Shakespeare, this is going to be a sad detriment to your play.” - -The playwright agreed. - -“With a good _Rosalind_,” he said, “the play might pass. But without a -good _Rosalind_, it is like to be a plaguy poor thing. I confess I had -Parflete in my mind from the first. The lad has not yet had scope for -his talent. He is a youth of most excellent refined wit and very neat -and comely besides. I am sure if Gloriana could but have seen him as -_Rosalind_ to young Warburton’s _Celia_, she would have been very well -pleased with him.” - -“Yes, and with the play, too,” said Burbage. “’Tis a thousand pities. -For between ourselves, my William, if _Rosalind_ fails us, there -is mighty little substance in our new comedy to set before such an -appetite as Gloriana’s.” - -“That’s true enough,” said the playwright, gloomily. “And a writer is a -fool who leans too heavily on a single character. Yet I love that sweet -saucy quean, but God help us all if Tarbert plays her.” - -“Would it offend Gloriana if you put on one of your older pieces?” - -“Yes, accursedly--you know that, Dick, well enough. It is her whim to -have something entirely new as a midsummer masque, and if she is fobbed -off with an old thing, we shall none of us ever be forgiven.” - -“‘Measure for Measure’ she has not seen.” - -The playwright shook his head. - -“It moves too slow for Gloriana,” he said. “It is too much the work -of the apprentice. And she’d smell out its weakness before we were -half through the first act, for that crabbed old woman--whom God -protect!--has got the keenest nose in the realm in matters dramatical. -The old harridan is wonderful in some ways.” The tone of the playwright -was more reverent than the words it expressed. - -“Well, it is a plaguy ill business, William Shakespeare,” said the -tragedian, again having serious recourse to his tankard. “A plaguy ill -business altogether, what with this affair of last night, which is very -like to land us all in the Jug, and young Parflete’s hurt, and now this -offence to Gloriana. However, it is a poor heart that repines. ’Tis all -in the great comedy, my William, ’tis all in the great comedy. Sit ye -down, man, and cut yourself a piece of this most excellent pasty, and -I’ll call the drawer, who shall comfort you with an honest quart of -this right excellent ale.” - -Mr. William Shakespeare, however, had little use just now for this -robust philosophy. Mutton pasties and tankards of ale did not appeal to -him this morning. Far more serious matters were afoot. - -At this moment, Anne Feversham chanced to enter the inn parlor. And it -was almost as if that sweetly forlorn figure had been conjured up by -the instancy of the poet’s thoughts. She was still in her boy’s dress. -Here was the natural grace, the delicacy of limb and feature, the -perfect harmony of mind and mansion of the true _Rosalind_. - -Indeed, that shy and slender grace was the ideal of the poet’s fancy. -He knew now that it was the sight of her in hawking dress in the -tailor’s shop that had set his mind upon the Forest of Arden. And now -her presence in that room kindled once again the eager mind. An idea -sprang into it; an idea audacious, impulsive, extravagant, yet not -wholly outside the region of the possible. - -If only this creature, all charm and grace, could be taught to play the -part at so short a notice! - -There was no need for the poet to put into words that which had flashed -through his brain. Nay, hardly did he need to look at Richard Burbage -for his friend to read that which was published already in a face so -expressive that it declared his lightest thought. - -“Yes, why not?” said the playwright suddenly, without context. - -Burbage shook his head. He had a clear perception of the idea that had -kindled the mind of his friend, but it was hardly to be taken seriously. - -“Why not, I ask you?” said the playwright. “I am sure there is a ready -wit in that face, and if she has a quick apprehension, there is no -reason why she should not learn the part in a week. Besides,”--the poet -began to pace the room in the stress of the excitement the idea was -generating in his brain--“it would be a means of bringing her to the -Queen’s notice.” - -Richard Burbage, however, lent no countenance to this fantastic idea. -He knew Anne’s tragic story. But he had a sufficient awe of the Queen’s -displeasure to have a grave regard for the peril of such a course. - -“No, no,” he said, “I pray you dismiss so wild a thought. No one knows -better than you the temper of the Queen. And if she took this matter -amiss, it would bode as ill for us at it would for Mistress Feversham.” - -But already the idea had sunk deep. The playwright was alive also to -its possibilities from another point of view. It might prove a means of -gaining the Queen’s sympathies for Gervase Heriot. - -“Dick,” he said, “do not forget that now we hold a proof of Mr. -Heriot’s innocence. And should we adduce it in the right season, as -I have good hope of doing, there is every reason to suppose that -Gloriana, who at heart is a just woman, will view the matter tenderly.” - -“I beg leave to differ from you there, William Shakespeare,” said -Burbage. “As far as I can see, there is precious little reason to -believe anything of the kind. No one has yet fathomed the Queen’s -caprices. And it ill behooves us of all men, who exist by favor of the -public, to be mixed up in treasonable matters. Besides, after what -happened last night I for one have no longer a stomach for them.” - -The poet, however, was not to be deterred by these counsels of -prudence. His sympathies were too deeply engaged. He had taken this -ill-starred pair to his heart. Assured that Gervase Heriot was the -victim of a callous conspiracy, he was fully determined not to rest now -until his wrong had been redressed. - -Like Burbage, however, he was fully alive to the peril of mixing -in matters that could so readily be construed as treason. And none -realized more clearly than he the danger that lurked in any affront -to the Queen. Poet as he was, and a dreamer of dreams, he owed his -position among his fellows primarily to the fact that he was a -remarkably able man of affairs. His was the vision that could see, the -wit that could mold, the tenacious power of will that could compass the -design. - -Thus in spite of his friend’s caution, the playwright went presently in -search of Anne. Ultimately, he found her in the inn garden sitting by -the side of Gervase Heriot, within the shade of its single yew tree. -Taken by surprise, she had barely time to disengage her arms from about -the young man’s neck, let alone to check the tears that were flowing -down her cheeks. - -Gervase, it seemed, was bent on going to London that day. Now that he -had learned Sir John Feversham’s peril, he felt it impossible to stay -longer in hiding. To do so would surely cause the Constable’s life to -be forfeit. - -The player did his best to reassure the young man. Sir John’s peril was -undoubtedly great, but hardly so immediate as all that. As he had not -yet been brought to his trial, there was hardly reason to suppose that -he would have lost his head six days hence, when the player would have -the ear of the Queen. - -At the same time, Shakespeare agreed that after the unlucky business -of the previous night, Oxford was no place for any one of them. The -sooner they quitted it the better, since at any moment a hue and cry -was likely to be upon them. A play had to be given at two o’clock that -afternoon by the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. But Shakespeare had -already come to the conclusion that as soon as it was at an end, the -Company would do well to lose no time in setting out for London. - -The player now proposed that Gervase should keep his present disguise -and return that evening with the others. Particularly anxious not to -lose sight of the young man, and hoping also to prevent his doing -anything unwise, Shakespeare entreated him to stay with the Company and -accept the hospitality of his lodging on the Bankside until such time -as his case could be brought to the Queen’s notice. - -Much persuasion was necessary before Gervase could be brought to accede -to this course. But when Shakespeare gave a solemn promise that he -would return to London that evening, and that he would take care to -keep well informed of all that related to the position of Sir John -Feversham, the young man gave a reluctant consent. He would lie in -hiding in the player’s lodging in Southwark, until a favorable moment -came to present his case to the Queen. - -Shakespeare was glad to have obtained this promise from Gervase Heriot. -And he then unfolded the design that was in his mind. Having referred -to Parflete’s accident and its disastrous effect upon the new comedy -which depended so much on the part that young actor had to play, the -author made so bold as to suggest to Anne that she should undertake -the chief female character in her boy’s dress. Nature, he said, had -equipped her perfectly for the part of _Rosalind_, if only she could -learn to play it at so short a notice. Moreover, it would be a golden -opportunity to bring her to the favorable consideration of the Queen. -Would Mistress Feversham venture upon a task so delicate and so -difficult? - -“Yes,” said Anne, “I will, indeed, if you think my doing so may help to -save the life of Gervase.” - -She spoke with a candor, a simplicity, a decision which told the -playwright that here was a firm will and a high courage. And such -evidence removed at least half of the risk he was about to run. One -who could take such a resolve with such a clear determination was not -likely to fail in the critical hour. - -“Mistress,” said Shakespeare, “you shall receive instruction at once. -And if you can make yourself reasonably perfect in the part by next -Thursday, you shall play before the Queen.” - -Gervase, however, was strongly averse from the scheme. Still, the -event of the previous night had furnished signal proof of the player’s -wisdom. Such a design might appear far sought, yet surely not more so -than the one which a few hours ago had been brought to such a terrible -issue. - -Gervase, therefore, was bound to heed the proposal. And, after all, -the most grievous of his many misgivings were those concerning the -fate of Anne herself. In the event of his own sentence being carried -out, she was determined to die, too. Even if now he went to London to -give himself up, her whole mind was set on accompanying him. All that -dissuasion could do had failed to move her from that clear design. -Wherever he went she would go with him, even into eternity itself. - -In the end, it was perhaps the resolved attitude of Anne that enabled -Shakespeare to get his way. And, after all, if she had the courage to -embrace a plan so desperate, it was hardly for Gervase to dissent. - -And she, it seemed, with a strange faith discerned some slender hope in -it. Such a faith could only spring out of the depths of her despair. -But with the dauntless courage that had carried her through everything, -she began at once to bring the whole force of her will to bear on the -matter in hand. - -Little as she knew of the man who had made this singular proposal, -she could not remain insensible to his personality. It appealed to -her in a subtle way. This man, with his gentle voice and face of sad -expressiveness, had masked depths of power that few men and fewer women -were able to resist. - -Thus it was that the luckless fugitives came to yield themselves to -the player’s care. Their pass was desperate, indeed. Whatever happened -now could not make it worse. God knew, the expedient offered was -forlorn enough, but for the sake of the slender hope it bore, they -would submit themselves entirely to this man’s hands. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - - -AS if to lend color to Shakespeare’s fears, he was soon to hear -disquieting news. Finding himself in the course of the morning in the -tavern parlor, he overheard the conversation of those assembled there. -A sturdy yeoman, it seemed, was full of information concerning a murder -that had been committed during the night at the Grange, the house of -Mr. Simon Heriot, along the Banbury Road. - -“They do say that Mr. Heriot himself has had his throat cut by his own -nephew,” said the bearer of the news. - -“What’s that you say?” sharply interposed a man who sat in the corner -drinking his morning flagon. - -The man was Grisewood. Instantly, he was all attention and alertness. - -The countryman repeated his story, to be sure with a number of -embellishments that were very wide of the truth. But the essential fact -was there, that Simon Heriot had been done to death by his nephew in -the course of the previous night. - -Grisewood’s interest was very great. He knew as a fact that Gervase -Heriot was close at hand, and that he had a powerful motive for taking -even a course so desperate as the murdering of his uncle. - -“Has the nephew been arrested?” asked Grisewood, with an excitement he -did not attempt to conceal. - -“No, he’s not taken yet,” said the news-bearer. “But he will be -precious soon, else call me a rogue. They do say that young villain -lies here in Oxford, but I’ll wager Justice Pretyman and his posse will -mighty soon rout him out o’ this home o’ learnin’.” - -“Who the devil is Justice Pretyman?” - -“The Justice is a great man hereabouts. There’s none better than he at -tracking down the evil doer. I passed him and his men along the road as -I came up. They are going to search every tavern and alehouse in this -city from cellar to attic for this wicked young man, Gervase Heriot.” - -“Well, here’s luck to their errand,” said Grisewood, piously, draining -his tankard. - -In the next moment, plunged in deep thought, he left the tavern parlor. -Shakespeare soon left the parlor also. - -This news was very disquieting to the player. He was in such a state -of grave uneasiness, that he could have wished to start from Oxford -immediately. But it would not be possible to do this until the Lord -Chamberlain’s men had given their final performance that afternoon. -Therefore he must possess his soul in patience until that time, but -also he must be fully alive to all contingencies. Of one circumstance -he was ignorant, and well it was for his peace of mind that this was -the case. He did not know that Grisewood had penetrated the disguise of -the Italian music master. - -Happily, there was no reason to suppose that the dead man’s steward -had associated the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company with the -tragedy of the previous night. At least, as yet there was no evidence -of this fact. But the playwright felt they must be prepared for all -untoward things that might befall. - -Fortune was kind, inasmuch that the officers of the law did not pay -their visit to the Crown Tavern before the final performance had taken -place. Indeed, as luck would have it, they went away at first on a -false scent as far as the neighboring town of Banbury, so that by the -time they found their way to the Cornmarket the play was over, the -audience had dispersed, and the members of the Company were about to -sit down to a well-earned meal. - -As was sometimes their habit in such circumstances, they had not -troubled to change their clothes. The principal players were thus -arrayed with the magnificence of gallants and courtiers. And a little -group of these sat sunning themselves outside the tavern door, waiting -patiently for the summons to the board within, when Justice Pretyman -and his posse made their long-expected appearance. - -It was well that Shakespeare had already informed Burbage and Kemp, -and one or two of the others, that this untoward visit was to be -expected. Thus, as soon as the officers of the law came into view, the -quick-witted playwright was ready to meet the situation. - -A shrewd observer of men and things does not take long to find out what -a man is worth. And a glance at Justice Pretyman was enough to assure -the dramatist that he might have stood for the prototype of Justice -Shallow. - -The magistrate arrived with a number of sheriff’s men. And he was -armed with an authority to enter and search every likely place in the -city and county of Oxford which might harbor the notorious traitor, -Gervase Heriot, who had not only broken out of prison, but who had also -murdered his uncle the previous night. - -John Davenant had been told beforehand of Justice Pretyman’s coming. -Therefore he met him at the inn door. And the demand that a house of -such repute should be searched for so dark a purpose appeared to fill -the heart of the worthy vintner with grief and consternation. - -“You may search my tavern, sir,” he said, “but I would have you to -know that, upon my honor as a licensed victualler, this is the most -reputable tavern betwixt here and The Pump in Aldgate.” - -“That I don’t doubt, sir,” said Justice Pretyman, with official -asperity. - -He was a pompous, overbearing little man, very conscious of the dignity -to which it had pleased Providence to call him. - -“As _custos rotulorum_ of this country, as one armed with the Queen’s -authority----” - -“Aye, God protect her,” suddenly interposed a man who stood by in -a voice of fervent piety. “But I would beg you, sir, to abate all -instancy of demeanor and likewise all of the same on the part of your -bumpkins, whom I doubt not are excellent fellows in the right place and -season, but who at this moment will best serve the Queen by bearing -themselves with all the modesty they can command.” - -The man who had ventured these somewhat haughty remarks was dressed in -a cloak of plum-colored velvet and a feathered hat, of such style and -dimension as is seldom seen out of a court. He had come up with an air -of nonchalant ease, and had interposed his remarks in a manner which -seemed to claim for them the highest possible consideration. - -At the opprobrious term “Bumpkin,” it had been on the tip of -Justice Pretyman’s tongue to retort, “Bumpkin yourself, sir.” He -was a hotheaded little man, also he was vain, also he was very -self-important. But he was thwarted in this natural desire by the very -patent fact that whatever else this haughty personage was, he was -evidently not a bumpkin. - -Now Justice Pretyman was a small gentleman, who would like to have been -thought a great gentleman. And those who are thus afflicted, however -much they may browbeat their inferiors, however much they may ruffle it -among their equals, are of all men particularly wary when it comes to a -question of their superiors. - -By the courtesy of Providence, it chanced that before Justice Pretyman -was able to make the proper, necessary and entirely satisfactory -rejoinder of “Bumpkin yourself, sir!” his small, birdlike eye lit upon -the plum-colored cloak and the hat with the feather, and further, it -caught a glimpse of a wonderful doublet of black satin barred with -yellow. Therefore, was his rejoinder reduced from “Bumpkin yourself, -sir!” to “I beg your pardon, sir,” with as little in the way of -asperity and as much in the way of dignity as he could command. - -The personage in the plum-colored cloak smiled with a benign gravity. - -“If you are upon the Queen’s business, sir,” he said, “heaven forefend -that I of all men should come between you and your high and honorable -occasions. But, to be plain with you, I am bound to say you and your -ragged robins have come here in a plaguy ill season.” - -“Od’s life, sir!” - -The hand of Justice Pretyman strayed involuntarily to the hilt of his -sword. But again his eye caught the plum-colored cloak, and he thought -the better of the matter. - -“I have written and signed authority,” he said, “to search this house -for one Gervase Heriot, a notorious traitor, and that is a course I am -determined to follow.” - -The man in the plum-colored cloak lowered his voice. - -“If such is your intention, sir, by all means pursue it,” he said. -“But, before you do so, there is a matter of grave concern with -which you will do well to make yourself acquainted. Perhaps, Master -Davenant”--he turned to the innkeeper--“you will have the goodness to -inform this gentleman of the matter in question?” - -Mine host demurred in a manner of obsequious reverence. - -“God forbid, sir, that I should expound the matter to the worshipful -justice when you yourself are by,” he said, in a tone of awe. - -“As you will,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak. “The fact of -the matter is, sir,” he said, turning to Justice Pretyman, who by this -time was fully primed for some startling announcement, “a certain lady -who is of the highest--I may say of the very highest--consideration has -just arrived at this inn on her way to the north, and is lying here one -night.” - -Justice Pretyman nodded with the gravity of a man who fully grasps the -significance of such a piece of news. - -“Indeed, sir,” he said. “Is that the case? And may I presume, sir, to -ask the name of this personage?” - -The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a finger to his lip. - -“Forgive me, Master Prettyfellow,” he said, “but your style and -assemblance assure me that you are not unacquainted with the Court. -Correct me if I err.” - -Justice Pretyman did not correct him. - -“And that being the case, I have the less compunction in withholding -the name of the high personage who, at this moment, sheds upon -this humble roof-tree the lively radiance of her presence. Master -Prettyfellow, you take me, I trow and trust. You understand me, Master -Prettyfellow?” The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a confidential -hand upon the Justice’s sleeve. - -“By God’s life, I take you, sir.” A subtle but delightful sense of -flattery had been engendered in the little peacock’s brain. “That is, I -think I take you. It is--that is--she is--” - -The man in the plum-colored cloak checked the threatened indiscretion -of Justice Pretyman with an uplifted and much-bejeweled hand. - -“For heaven’s sake, Master Prettyfellow!” He gazed around him -apprehensively. “We are in danger of being overheard.” - -For this surmise, the man in the plum-colored cloak had full warrant -without a doubt. Others, attired with a flamboyance and a glitter that -went well with his own, were standing a little apart. And their almost -excessive gravity of manner could not disguise the fact that they had -both ears and eyes for all that was going forward. - -There was one, however, who watched this play with a sour smile. He was -a man more sober in dress, but whose attire was yet that of a person of -quality. He stood quite apart from all the rest, and carried his arm in -a sling. The look on his face clearly showed that he, too, had ears and -eyes for all that was taking place. Moreover, he stroked his chin with -an air of grim but deeply pensive satisfaction. - -“If you are determined to have search made of this tavern, Master -Prettyfellow,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “it is not -for me to gainsay you. But I am sure you will readily understand how -necessary it is that this matter should be pursued with the utmost -decorum.” - -“Sir, that I do promise,” said Justice Pretyman. - -“That is well,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “with the -utmost decorum. And as I understand, you have figured at Court, Master -Prettyfellow”--here the voice was raised to a level that drew the -attention of the group near by--“And, as I understand, you have figured -at Court, Master Prettyfellow”--the words were impressively repeated. - -“You may take it, sir, that I have.” The tone of Justice Pretyman was -full of dignity. - -“I am very glad indeed to hear that.” The man in the plum-colored -cloak spoke with a sudden accession of feeling. “I cannot tell you how -glad I am to hear that. Now there will not be the least difficulty -about the whole matter. I will send in your name at once to this most -distinguished lady, who must remain without one. My lord----” - -George Taylor and William Kemp, arrayed in the robes of the theater, -stepped forward together in answer to this summons. Such zeal, however, -in nowise embarrassed the man in the plum-colored cloak. - -“My lord duke”--he turned to William Kemp--“will you have the good -kindness to take in the name of Master Prettyfellow----” - -“Pretyman,” corrected the justice, beginning, however, to perspire -freely. - -The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as to the ground -upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor of these gayly-attired -gentlemen and the high tone that went with it, he began to fear that -the Queen herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity -having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the Court when he had -never been there in his life, he had merely to be received in audience -by her to incur the risk of a grave exposure. - -“One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this unknown lady is the -high personage I take her to be, I have no desire----” - -But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already away on his -errand. - -Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. And, -to make matters worse, the man in the cloak was fain to misread his -attitude of mind. - -“I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this lady--whom -we shall both do well not to name more explicitly--is informed that -you are familiar with the Court, she will gladly give you an audience, -although you must please remember she travels incognito.” - -By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced that it was the -Queen herself who was lying one night at the Crown Tavern. - -“You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never said that I was -familiar with the Court.” - -“You never said you were familiar with the Court, sir!” The man in the -plum-colored cloak was the picture of polite indignation. “But, ods my -life, sir! this is a very grave matter.” - -Justice Pretyman thought so, too. At least, his perspiring red face -belied him if he did not. - -“How I wish, sir,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, “you had had -the grace to make yourself more explicit. This lady is a bad one to -cross, as all the world very well knows.” - -“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” said Justice Pretyman, beginning -already to wish himself well out of the affair. - -The richly caparisoned figure of William Kemp emerged with slow -dignity from the tavern interior. He bent to the ear of the man in the -plum-colored cloak. A good deal of confidential whispering followed, of -which Justice Pretyman could only catch the ominous words, “Her Grace.” - -But it was the man in the plum-colored cloak who addressed the uneasy -magistrate. - -“The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, “this lady does not -remember your name, but she hopes she may remember your face. She is -not unwilling to grant you an audience of five minutes, but--strictly -between ourselves--if you will take the advice of a friend, you -will think twice before you run any risk of incurring her august -displeasure.” - -Justice Pretyman’s mind certainly seemed to recognize the wisdom of -this sage counsel. And the result of a very little deliberation on his -part was that he gathered his men and made off down the street with the -least possible delay, leaving the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s -Company to enjoy the triumph of their audacity. - -To be sure, they little knew on how slender a thread it hung. Not ten -yards from them, during the whole time in which this comedy had been -played, a man stood marking sourly every phase of the proceedings. He -could have undone them with a word. - -The word, however, was not spoken. Grisewood judged the hour to be not -yet. Still, he had marked very closely all that had passed. And he had -been at pains to make himself fully acquainted with the matter in all -its details. There and then, he could have laid his finger on the man -these blundering rustics sought. But that would not have suited his -purpose at the moment. For he was too astute not to realize the immense -advantage his knowledge gave him, and far too cunning not to be fully -determined to take some high profit out of it. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX - - -NO time was lost now in moving out of Oxford. Within an hour of Justice -Pretyman’s visit, the Lord Chamberlain’s men were on their way to -London. They were accompanied by Gervase and Anne, who were still -disguised as the Italian music master and his son, and also by the -falconer, John Markham. None of them was aware that, less than a mile -behind, rode Sir Robert Grisewood and his two servants. - -The players traveled that night as far as Reading, where they lay, and -reached Southwark without misadventure in the course of the following -afternoon, which was Sunday. Shakespeare felt a keen sense of relief -when he had placed the fugitives in the comfort and security of his -lodgings on the Bankside, which he shared with his friend Burbage. - -The tragedian, on his own part, it must be confessed, was terrible -uneasy of mind. He knew the situation to be one of great peril and -difficulty. And he viewed with a feeling little short of horror -Shakespeare’s determination to concern himself with a matter of high -treason. He had a deep pity for the fugitives, but he felt how futile -and how perilous it was for men such as themselves to mingle in their -sinister affairs. - -Parflete had been left at Oxford, as he was in no condition to travel. -And over the question of a substitute for that unlucky young actor, -the author and the manager came to the verge of a quarrel. Shakespeare -kept to his determination that Anne should play _Rosalind_ in the new -comedy, while Burbage affirmed that it was contrary to all precedent -and was courting disaster. - -In spite of this, however, the author began at once to instruct Anne -in the part. And she brought to her study a keenness of grasp and a -quickness of apprehension that delighted her mentor. Her progress -was very rapid under his wise guidance. In two days, she was almost -word perfect. Moreover, she discovered a natural faculty for acting -which she shared in common with her sex. All her gestures were simple, -unforced, appropriate; and her bearing had an ease and grace that -Parflete himself could not have equaled. - -The author was delighted. It was in vain that Richard Burbage shook his -head and indulged in all manner of dark prophecy. Here was the perfect -_Rosalind_. Besides, there lay behind this project a higher and deeper -motive than even the pleasuring of the first lady in the land. - -Never for an instant was there absent from a noble and humane mind an -intense desire to serve these hapless children of destiny. William -Shakespeare was determined at all hazards to arouse the Queen’s -interest on their behalf, and if possible to excite her pity. Yet -none knew better than this supreme judge of human kind the peril and -the difficulty of such a task. The Queen was a woman of dangerous and -vindictive temper. - -But Shakespeare was pledged to do all that lay in his power to save the -lives of these fugitives. Burbage and Kemp and Heming, and others of -his colleagues, might be full of alarm for the consequences likely to -attend his interference, but they were powerless to turn him from his -purpose. The matter had become a point of honor with him now. - -In accordance with the promise made to Gervase, Shakespeare kept -himself fully informed in regard to Sir John Feversham. On the morning -following his return to London, the playwright went to Greenwich to the -Queen’s palace, and there sought an interview with a man with whom he -was on terms of intimacy, who held high office in the Royal Household. -From him he learned that the Constable was held a close prisoner in the -Tower, that the Court of Star Chamber had condemned him already to the -block, but that there was good reason to believe the sentence would -not be carried out for another week at least, since Cecil, the Queen’s -all-powerful minister, felt it was not a case for undue haste. - -The high official with whom William Shakespeare conferred shook his -head sadly over the whole matter. It was very ugly, he said, and was -strongly inclined to deprecate the player’s interest in it. He gave him -a word of advice. Let him dismiss the subject from his thoughts as soon -as possible. It was one of those dark things in which no man who set a -value upon his life and liberty could afford to concern himself. - -The man to whom this excellent advice was given well knew that it was -sound enough. But he was pledged too deeply; besides, he was not a man -to count the cost. He bore the news back to Gervase, who was fretting -out his heart in his hiding-place in the player’s lodging on the -Bankside, and told him he could possess his soul in patience, at least, -until Thursday. - -The three intervening days were fraught with much anxiety for -Shakespeare. The fate of the new comedy hung in the balance. The -absence of Parflete from the cast was felt by all, except the -author himself, to be an irreparable blow to its prospects. And the -announcement that the all-important part of _Rosalind_ was to be -intrusted to one who had absolutely no experience of the theater filled -the other players with dismay. - -Burbage alone knew the true identity of the Italian music master’s son. -And even in such a crisis as this, he was too loyal to his friend to -make others a party to his knowledge. But the great actor was sorely -uneasy. His misgivings were many, not only as to the fate of the -comedy, but also as to that of the author himself, now that he had -taken this unlucky resolve to concern himself with treason. - -A rehearsal of the play was called for Tuesday afternoon. And here a -surprise awaited those who were prophesying disaster. Complete tyro -as the young Signor Arrigo was known to be, his impersonation of -_Rosalind_ showed a most surprising talent. Anne had been strung up to -a high pitch of excitement. She brought all her high courage and her -quick woman’s faculties to bear upon the task and the result was far -beyond all expectation. There was no denying such grace, such beauty, -such natural aptitude. Not once did she falter in her lines. And then -the voice was so clear and musical, that it might have been that of -_Rosalind_ herself. - -Indeed, had not the other players known the new _Rosalind_ to be the -Italian music master’s son, they must have been convinced that she was -a woman! They were bound to agree with the author that young Signor -Arrigo was born to play the part. And their spirits rose accordingly. -Even the staunchest adherents of Parflete were compelled to admit that -fortune had provided them with a substitute of quite remarkable powers. -That gifted young player himself could not have surpassed the new -_Rosalind_. - -It was only promise, to be sure. Let them withhold the verdict until -Thursday. These were men of experience, who knew that the happy augury -of the rehearsal was not always borne out by the performance itself. -But they were put in excellent heart by the brilliant aptitude of the -young Signor Arrigo, which so far transcended their expectations. -John Heming, one of the Company’s managers, a man of parts with a -well-developed faculty of criticism, was particularly delighted. He had -never seen such a precocious genius for the stage. And he could not -help admiring the perspicacity which had enabled the author to take a -step so bold, which had led to a discovery of such importance. - -All now promised well for the momentous day. If the new _Rosalind_ -fulfilled the promise of the first rehearsal, there need be no fears -for the success of the piece. The author had yet to know failure. It -was true the subject-matter of the new comedy might be flimsy enough, -but Burbage and Heming declared, and these were men of ripe judgment, -that it had all the qualities which had made the playwright famous. - -Still, before that fateful Thursday dawned, there happened a sinister -thing. Late in the evening of Wednesday, Shakespeare returned alone to -his lodgings. He had been ceaselessly occupied during the day with the -final preparations for the morrow. Everything was now in readiness for -the journey to Richmond, a few hours hence. The playwright was feeling -dog-tired and had a longing for rest, as he turned the key in the door -of his dwelling. - -He was surprised to find a light showing through the shutters of the -little parlor in which he wrote and read. The room, it was true, had -been placed at the service of Heriot and Mistress Feversham. But the -hour was so late, that he had supposed they had retired long ago to -their rest. - -As a matter of fact, this was the case. But when the playwright entered -the parlor, he found a man sitting there in expectation of his arrival. -It was a warm evening of July, but the face and the form of the visitor -were hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak. - -The unbidden guest, whoever he might be, received Shakespeare coolly -enough. He did not even take the trouble to rise from his chair when -the poet came into the room, but merely held up his hand as if to imply -a need of caution and secrecy, and then in a tone of studied insolence -told him to close the door. - -Shakespeare was quick to recognize the voice of his visitor. The man -was Sir Robert Grisewood. - -“To what is due this honor?” said the poet with a courtesy that was -deeply ironical. - -He knew well enough that his visitor was not likely to be inspired by -any good motive. But long ago he had taken the measure of the man, and -he did not fear him in the least. Indeed, for that matter, he feared no -man, but with that prudence which springs from an intimate knowledge -of the world, he was at once upon his guard. - -“You do well to ask that question, my friend,” said Grisewood, -unmuffling his face in order that Shakespeare not only might see it, -but that he might also be disconcerted by the sight of it. - -“What is your business with me, Sir Robert Grisewood?” said -Shakespeare, coldly and contemptuously. - -“I will tell you.” The eyes of the unwelcome visitor were full of -menace. “I will tell you in a very few words, good Master Actor and -Versifier. Your precious life is not worth five minutes’ purchase.” - -The dramatist was wholly unaffected by the announcement. - -“That may be so,” he said, coldly. And he gave his shoulders a shrug, -which implied that the information was of very little consequence. - -“Shall I tell you why it is not?” - -“As you please.” - -“Well, to be brief and round with you, good Master Poet, the whole -of your doings, your exits and your entrances, as you would say, of -the past fortnight are perfectly well known to me. And I would fain -inform you that, at this moment, you are harboring under this roof the -notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, and also the young daughter of Sir -John Feversham, who conspired with him to break prison.” - -Grisewood had the air of one who looses a thunderbolt. But if he looked -for the dire effect, which may reasonably be expected to attend such a -Jove-like feat, he must have been sadly disappointed. The man to whom -his words were addressed showed not the least sign of fear. - -“All that you say is true enough,” said the playwright, “if it is any -satisfaction to you to know it.” - -“Make your mind easy on that score, my friend,” said Grisewood sourly. -“It is a very considerable satisfaction to me to know it.” - -“And I presume you would gain a profit from your knowledge?” - -“Yes, Master Actor, to be brief and round with you, that is certainly -my intention. And further, I would inform you that the reward I -have in my mind is not one to be despised. Because you will do well -to understand that I have ample evidence to implicate you and your -fellow-players in the murder of my friend, Mr. Simon Heriot, who was -foully done to death in his own house in the course of last Friday -night.” - -“In other words, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Shakespeare, with a biting -coldness that seemed to exasperate his visitor, “you propose to take -profit from the murder of your friend.” - -“Have a care, you ranting, play-acting swine!” - -Although one hand of the bully was done up in bandages, the other -instinctively sought the hilt of his sword. But this action did nothing -to modify the stern contempt of the actor. - -“You are here, Sir Robert Grisewood, to seek a price for your silence?” - -The tone seemed to bite like an acid. - -“Yes, my friend, that assumption is a true one, and I propose to fix -just as heavy a price as you can afford to pay. And as I understand -your penny peep-show tricks are making you a fortune, the sum I intend -to exact shall not be unworthy of your figure in the world.” - -“Name it.” - -“What do you say to the sum of a thousand pounds, good Master -Playwright and maker of verses?” - -Less of disdain than of pity entered the face of the poet. - -“The sum seems little enough,” he said, “for the deed it would -purchase.” - -“Aye, little enough, Master Moralist, as you say, but still a fairly -substantial figure for those who have to earn it by the sweat of their -brains. And, of course,” Grisewood added with an ugly sneer, “other -opportunities may arise of adding to the price of my silence, since you -incline to think it too little.” - -“I think it neither too little nor too much,” said the playwright. -“For, to be as frank with you, Sir Robert, as you have been with me, I -care so little for your silence, that I would not stoop to buy it if -even a single word were its price.” - -“Very well, then, my friend, you shall hang at Tyburn.” - -The blackmailer rose from his chair. - -“I promise you,” he said, and his eyes were those of a beast of prey, -“my first business to-morrow shall be to seek out my Lord Burleigh. -The whole of the information I possess shall be laid before him, and -you can depend upon it, my friend, you and your infernal company, -upon being lodged in jail as soon as your precious interlude has been -performed before the Queen. It will be a pleasant guerdon to look -forward to, will it not?” - -Grisewood realized already that his choice scheme had fallen to the -ground. He saw at once that he had counted on too much. He had looked -for an easy prey. This highly strung, emotional temperament would yield -readily to his threats. It would be easy enough to frighten the very -life out of what was doubtless a craven’s heart. - -The knowledge that he was now free to do his worst, and that in -Shakespeare’s opinion the worst he could do was of such little account -as to be a subject of his open scorn, filled him with fury. Also he -was amazed at the utter indifference of the fellow. He had the power, -as he firmly believed, to take away this man’s life, and yet this half -hackney-writer, half merry-andrew was too proud to sue for his life -with civility, let alone to pay for it with current coin of the realm. - -Grisewood withdrew with a snarl and a sneer. The morrow should see them -all lodged in “The Jug.” Within a month from that day, he would answer -for it that the noose should be round their necks. - -He swaggered out of the house on to the Bankside. Here his two servants -joined him, for at that hour of the night it was unsafe for any man to -be abroad unattended. Thinking his ugly thoughts, he walked slowly in -the direction of the Falcon stairs. There he hailed the waterman, who -was awaiting him with a wherry to bear him to his own lodging in a more -aristocratic quarter of the town. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI - - -THE morning of the great day broke mistily, with a promise of -summer glory. Poor unhappy Anne, lodged in a cool and clean chamber -overlooking the river, was awake at the first peep of dawn. Her few -hours of sleep had been terribly disturbed. She awoke with a start and -sprang out of bed as soon as the light touched her eyelids. Only too -well did she know that further sleep would not be for her. - -Yes, the dread day was come. It might be the last she would know of -liberty. Nay, it was most likely. And it was the day on which the fate -of Gervase would be irrevocably sealed. - -She dare not give her mind to the grim matter, which, asleep or awake, -encompassed it. Dressing in a fever of haste, as if she feared to be -overtaken by the thoughts she dare not face, she went out of doors -into the keen morning air. She walked up and down by the banks of the -mist-enveloped river, and in the hope of composing her over-wrought -mind, she began to repeat the lines of her part. - -Suddenly she was aware that a figure was emerging dimly from the mists -ahead. It was that of a man. A moment afterwards she had recognized -the author of “As You Like It.” - -The playwright came toward her. He too had slept but little. And in -that somber and wonderful face was a haggard weariness that made -the soul of the girl recoil. It was the face of a man besieged and -tormented by a thousand devils; of a man who had never known a moment -of peace in this life, and who hardly looked to know it in the life to -come. - -Not so much as a word of greeting passed between them. But as the -player saw the face of young and delicate fairness, seared already by -the anguish of the soul, he placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder with a -gentleness of pity that meant very much more than speech. - -“Be of good courage, mistress,” that gesture seemed to say. - -Without speaking a word, the player passed on like a wraith into the -mists that hung as a pall upon the river. - -Gervase also was early abroad. He too had slept little. Seated at the -window of his room, brooding with a sick heart on the chances of his -fate, he had seen Anne go forth, so that presently he followed her. - -For long enough they walked together, and for the last time as they -believed. A few hours hence all would be decided. And in their hearts -their hope of life and perhaps their desire of it was very slender. - -Their sufferings of the past few weeks had been bitter. This morning -they were overborne. Whatever fate held in store for them now they felt -they had reached the nadir of the soul. - -Soon after nine o’clock that morning the Lord Chamberlain’s servants -embarked in two of the royal barges that had been placed at their -disposal. The progress was slow but comfortable, and by noon of a -glorious July day they had come to the palace at Richmond. All the -players, with one exception, from the most important to the humblest -member of the Company, betrayed evidences of anxiety and nervousness. -William Shakespeare alone was so cool and collected that the occasion -might have been of the most ordinary kind. - -Those few among the players who shared the dark secret which was to -make this day so memorable in the life of the author of the new comedy, -were astonished by a calmness that was to them unnatural. And they -could not help marveling how a man whose very life depended on the whim -of a harsh-tempered and capricious woman should be able to mask his -thoughts and to control his feelings in a manner so remarkable. - -The terraces of the palace which overlooked the beautiful park in -which it stood were thronging already with a mob of gallants and -court ladies. Their wonderful clothes gave a very second-rate air to -the tawdry finery affected by most of the players. Even the cloak of -Shakespeare himself erred a little, but that was on the side of modesty. - -One young fop was quick to turn this fact to account. Having a -reputation for wit, and being surrounded by those in whose eyes he had -an ambition to shine, he gravely accosted the actor. He removed his -plumed hat with a sweeping gesture and made a low bow. - -“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a loud voice which attracted -general notice. “Pray excuse the liberty I take in addressing you, but -I admire the style of your cloak so much that I would fain ask the -name of your tailor.” - -In spite of the audible tittering of fine ladies and the delighted -guffaws of gallant gentlemen, the playwright showed the perfect -unconcern of one who has his own private standard of men and things. -He did not reply, but quietly looked the impertinent coxcomb up and -down as if he were a new species of animal with whom he was not yet -acquainted. - -The fop was nettled by this nonchalance. - -“Well, sir?” he said impudently. “Give me your tailor’s name I pray -you, in order that I may have the great felicity of taking the air in a -cloak exactly its fellow.” - -The playwright shook his head with an air of polite deprecation. - -“I have too kindly a feeling toward an honest craftsman,” he said. - -“God’s death, sir! what do you mean?” - -“I mean, sir,” said the player, “that I would not like so good a fellow -to run the double risk of a bad debt and an even worse advertisement.” - -A roar of laughter followed from those who had gathered at the pleasant -prospect of a little player-baiting by an accredited wag. Many there -were about the Court who were by no means well-disposed toward players -in general. These actors were claiming far too much attention from -those in high places. Their continually growing favor was beginning to -be a matter of concern to those whose own existence depended so largely -on the indulgence of the great. - -But the fop was completely taken aback by the player’s rejoinder. For -the moment he did not know how to reply. He had not expected to be -held up to ridicule in that place of all others by an humble individual -who had not the least pretensions to fashion. But the laugh had gone -against him heavily. And being in reality a dull and commonplace fellow -enough, in the end he took refuge in round abuse of “those common jays -who would peacock it among their betters.” - -“Pray, my lord, on what ground do you hold yourself to be the superior -of this gentleman?” suddenly interposed a harsh and imperious voice. - -It was the voice of the Queen. The group of gallants and fine ladies -had been too much occupied with the sport that was afoot to notice who -it was who had come into their midst. - -My lord’s confusion was great. And it was not made less by the look of -sour disdain which animated the features of his sovereign. - -This old raddled woman in farcical clothes and an auburn wig was by no -means a fool. She had lived too long in the world and had mingled too -freely with the very best the age had to give not to be an uncommonly -shrewd judge of things and men. She had the rough commonsense which is -a far better equipment than subtlety when it comes to dealings with -human nature. - -“Well, my lord, on what grounds I ask you?” - -“On the ground of birth, your grace,” said the fop, who by now had time -to collect himself a little. - -The Queen’s lip curled contemptuously. - -“A man who takes refuge in that,” she said, “can have little merit -of his own, my lord. And to my mind a man is twice a fool who, being -born to opportunity, can turn it to no better advantage. How say you, -Master Shakespeare?” - -“There are those who hold, your grace,” said the player in his deep and -musical voice, “that it is better to be a fool of pedigree than to be a -sage without gules or quarterings.” - -The Queen laughed. But the ready independence of the player’s answer -pleased her as much as it surprised her courtiers. There was not one -among them who would have ventured it. There was not one among them -who was not unduly eager to acquiesce in any opinion that might be -expressed by this august lady. - -It was not the Queen’s habit to unbend easily. She held the exaggerated -Tudor view of the status of the sovereign. Her court was expected -to approach her on bended knee and there were many supple backs in -consequence. But there was not a trace of the sycophant about this -man who conversed with her as modestly, as readily and as easily as -he would have done with a lounger in a tavern. And while the gallants -and fine ladies were not a little shocked by the unaffectedness of -the man’s bearing and marveled not a little that one so august should -bestow so much notice upon a common play-actor, the Queen, on the other -hand, seemed almost to forget for the moment the dizzy eminence to -which it had pleased Providence to call her. - -The truth was she dearly loved what she called “a man.” And this was a -scarce commodity in the exotic atmosphere which surrounded Elizabeth -Tudor. Few there were who dared to hold opinions of their own, let -alone to advance them with the unstudied assurance of this man of lowly -calling, who was yet not wholly unmindful of the fact that he was -absolute monarch of an empire more imperial than Gloriana’s own. - -To be sure, none of those present realized that fact. Nor was it -realized by the Queen herself. Her mind was strong and shrewd rather -than deep and subtle. It was the player’s independence of judgment and -the clear yet perfectly modest and simple manner by which he gave it -expression which made such an appeal to her. - -It was a sad sight for many an astonished and resentful eye to observe -the Queen and the man “Shakescene”--it is a foible of the great to -affect a becoming uncertainty in regard to the names of humbler -mortals--walking quite apart from all the rest, up one alley and down -another, talking and laughing heartily upon terms which perilously -approached equality. What the Queen’s majesty had in common with the -merry-andrew in the barred cloak passed the comprehension of all. But -the harsh and strident laugh of the royal lady, not unworthy of a -raven with a sore throat, could be heard continually. Many a diligent -courtier who had spent the flower of his years in waiting humbly upon -the Queen’s pleasure without having anything very substantial in the -way of preferment to show for it, was cut to the soul. - -And it was not here that the scandal ended. A little later when the -Queen dined a place was set for the man Shakescene at her own table. -And many a lisping, lily-white gentleman narrowly observed the demeanor -of this upstart whose homely style and unaffected air offered so wide a -target for their criticism. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII - - -BY two o’clock that afternoon all was in readiness for the performance -of the new comedy before Gloriana and her Court. A pavilion had been -raised in the middle of one of the great lawns, in order that the -spectators might be shielded from the sunshine which beat fiercely from -a cloudless July heaven. At the edge of the lawn was a thicket of fine -trees and heather, a veritable Forest of Arden in miniature. From the -depths of this glade emerged the performers in this woodland pastoral. - -It was a great ordeal for Anne. On an occasion of far less importance -she might have been overcome by fear. But now she was strung up almost -to the breaking point. So grave was her pass and so much was at stake -that a supreme call was made upon her will. And she responded nobly. No -human being could have exercised a greater power of mind or brought a -finer resolution to bear upon her task. - -The success of the play was never in doubt. To begin with it was one of -the Queen’s “good days.” At this time Elizabeth was past sixty. And a -temper which was not particularly mild even in the heydey of its youth -had grown severe. But even this old and sour woman could not remain -insensible to the wit and poetry of this new “interlude,” performed -with the highest skill and grace in charmingly appropriate surroundings. - -The Queen made no pretensions to literary taste as did King James, her -successor. But she knew what she liked. And her untutored but extremely -shrewd faculty seldom led her astray. There were those, and Heming -and Burbage had been among them, who had been inclined to deplore the -fact that the author had not prepared stronger food for Gloriana’s -palate. A play of delicacy and fantasy, all lightness and grace, would -surely miss the mark. She who had held her sides at the broad humors of -_Juliet’s_ nurse and of _Hostess Quickly_ would hardly appreciate the -melancholy _Jacques_, _Touchstone_ and above all, the subtle charm of -_Rosalind_. - -But this was not the case. Those finely accomplished actors, William -Kemp and Richard Burbage, had very wisely been intrusted with the -two chief male characters. To be sure, it was hardly Nature’s design -that they should interpret them, but players of their genius dignify -and embellish every rôle for which they are cast. The noble voice, -the manly bearing, the persuasive ease of style, that choicest fruit -of many a victory hardly won, tells just as surely in a whimsical -impersonation a little away from the main lines of human development, -as in the delineation of some incomparably drawn world figure such as -_Hamlet_, _Falstaff_, _Lear_. - -Unaided, these great men would have carried through a weaker play. And -yet they did but serve as a kind of heavy relief, a somber frame for -the central figure. _Rosalind_ has stood for three centuries as the -symbol of womanhood in its youthful glory. That embodiment of the -divinity of girlhood still remains without a peer. And none could have -given it more powerful, more appealing expression than Anne Feversham. - -From the moment the slight figure came out of the depths of the -forest and spoke her first magic lines in a voice as clear as a bell, -a hush seemed to fall upon all. The occupants of the pavilion, no -less than the humbler spectators who were privileged to sit upon -the grass were spellbound. The tall figure, trim and slender, yet -exquisite in outline, looked a little gaunt, a little fine-drawn in its -close-fitting boy’s dress. The eyes shone out of the pale face with a -luster that fascinated those the least sensitive to beauty. And the -voice thrilling with a nameless music ravished ears which knew it not -for a cadence borne upon the long night of the soul. - -In that great and gallant company, however, were those who had eyes to -see and ears to hear. And when all was said, the Queen was foremost -among them. Harsh, crabbed, difficult, narrow, insensible to many -things as she was to the very end of that long life that was now so -near its close, she retained her force of judgment and her power of -seeing things in their true relation. _Rosalind_ spoke to her; spoke to -her not in her capacity as the sovereign of a great people, but of that -even more sacred, more universal thing, which every woman verging upon -seventy has once been herself. Of a sudden the raddled old cheeks were -wet. - -Men, too, were spellbound. Cecil, Raleigh, Pembroke, Southampton and -many others almost equally famous were gazing upon that scene. These -were first-rate minds, and in all ages, in all countries, the eternal -verities address them in the same way. Sir Fopling knew that the Queen -was weeping, and was amazed that she should not have more regard for -the havoc of her cheeks; Cecil knew why she was weeping and held her so -much more a Queen. - -Anne was strung to the breaking point. And not the Queen, and not -the Lord Treasurer, with all their power of mind, knew that. Richard -Burbage and William Kemp for all that they evoked the magic phrases -from her lips, for all that they were thrilled by the touch of her -fingers and the luster of her eyes were also unaware of it. One man -alone knew the perilous truth. And he was the individual in the doublet -slashed with bars of yellow who stood leaning against one of the noble -oaks of the Forest of Arden, in full view of the play but out of the -sight of the audience. - -Shakespeare never once allowed his eyes to stray from _Rosalind_. He -watched her every movement, her every gesture. He had an intensity of -solicitude that a father might have shown for a beloved but fragile -daughter. At the end of each scene he led her apart from the others and -made her sit in the inner shade of the thicket. Here while she rested -the playwright encouraged her with word and deed. He was all kindness, -all tenderness, all forethought and concern. - -Not far away was Gervase. Still in his disguise he had been placed -among the musicians. At Shakespeare’s behest he was biding his hour. -Before that day was out he had made up his mind to reveal himself -to the Queen. But the hour was not yet. It had been agreed between -Shakespeare and himself that the time and the manner of the confession -should be left to the player. And among the audience was the man -Grisewood narrowly watching all that passed. He too felt that the hour -was near in which the truth should be declared. But in his case he was -determined that the dramatic revelation should turn to his own personal -advantage. - -In the meantime all went well with the play. Moreover, as it proceeded -the Queen began to show the liveliest interest in the personality of -the new _Rosalind_. - -“Tell me, my lord,” she said, turning to Pembroke, an acknowledged -authority in all matters relating to the theater, “who is that sweet -chit in the doublet and trunk hose who cannot counterfeit manhood for -all her strivings?” - -“By the bill of the play, your grace, she is called _Rosalind_ and is -apparently of the sex of which she is so poor an imitation.” - -“Pshaw, my lord!” said the Queen contemptuously, “do you think I have -neither ears nor eyes? This is a _Rosalind_ that will never be able to -grow a beard. She is of my own sex and a sweeter chit I never saw in -all my life.” - -“Far be it from me to gainsay your grace,” said Pembroke with an -elaborate air, “but according to the bill of the play I have in my -hand this _Rosalind_ is impersonated by a young Italian gentleman, one -Signor Arrigo Bandinello by name.” - -“A young Italian fiddlestick!” said the Queen. “I tell you that girl is -as much an Italian gentleman as I am. She shall attend us when the play -is at an end. We will go into this matter more fully.” - -However, when the play was over, it was the author who was first -honored with a summons to the royal pavilion. The Queen received -him with high good humor. For the time being she had forgotten the -personality of _Rosalind_ in the charm and glamour of the play itself. -In the graciousness of her mood she paid many compliments to the author -of “As You Like It” and was fain to admit “that she liked it very well.” - -“You are a wonderful man, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen. “And I -think you must be the happiest man alive.” - -But there was nothing in the face of the player to suggest that -destiny. The somber eyes framed a question which the august lady was -quick to read and in the expansiveness of her mood was even prepared to -answer. - -“You inhabit an enchanted world, Master Shakespeare. All the persons -in it are of your creation. You can order their natures and their -destinies exactly as it pleases you.” - -“Alas, your grace!” The poet shook his head. - -“Tell me, is it not so?” said the Queen. - -“The world I inhabit, your grace, is that of human experience. It is -neither less nor more than that which we all know. A maker of plays -must depict life in its verity, and that is a hard matter and one which -tears the soul.” - -The playwright spoke with the slow precision of one whom has felt in -his inmost fibers the long drawn agony of mortal life. The Queen was a -little amazed. In such a bearing and in such a speech there was not a -trace of that enchanted mind, all airy lightness, all delicate fantasy, -which had wrought such ravishment. Nor was there any sign of personal -satisfaction in the triumph which had been gained or in the fruits -of success which now he was beginning to gather in ample measure. -The Queen, being a woman, was a little inclined to be piqued by the -aloofness of the dramatist. - -“Would you have us believe, Master Shakespeare,” she said, “that the -glad world which your inimitable fancy creates for the pleasuring of -your fellow-men is not a source of joy and delight to its possessor? -And would you have us believe that the homage which all the world has -come to pay to you brings not pride nor happiness?” - -The playwright who stood before his sovereign with a throng of great -persons gathered round him, answered these rather embarrassing -questions with a curiously unstudied humility. Such a modesty of -bearing made an effect of perfect sincerity. Moreover, there was a -complete absence of self-regard. Few ordeals could have been more -trying for a man of small education, who knew but little of courts, -than to be exposed to the gaze of many sharp and jealous eyes, and -to be compelled to answer on the spur of the occasion a series of -most intimate questions concerning himself and his art. Such an -ordeal would have been a tax upon the alert readiness of mind and the -self-possession of a highly trained courtier. But there was not a trace -of awkwardness in the bearing of this singular man in the black doublet -barred with yellow. Indeed, there was nothing to suggest that the -situation in which he found himself was in any way unusual. And there -was no evidence that the presence of others, of even the highest in the -land, was a source of embarrassment to him. No man could have been more -completely at his ease or more completely master of himself. - -“I will answer the second of your questions first, your grace,” he -said, speaking very slowly and looking directly at the Queen. “I am -indeed a very proud man that the travail of my mind should have given -pleasure to those whose favorable opinion must ever be coveted by all -honorable men. I unfeignedly rejoice and I am filled with gratitude -that your grace and those about you are pleased to approve my labors. -And whatever of happiness comes to me comes to me in that.” - -“That is well spoken, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen. “You do well -to allow that. And now touching the first of these questions I would -put to you. Is it that you take no happiness from the possession and -the exercise of your most noble gifts?” - -“None, your grace. They are but the mirror and the counterfeit of life. -We makers of plays live in a world of shadows--a world of shadows woven -out of our own vitals as a spider weaves his web, and from which by -night or day there is no escape.” - -“Would you escape them, Master Shakespeare, these inimitable children -of your fancy?” - -“Yes, your grace, I would on occasion; I would almost yield life itself -to do so.” - -The Queen was astonished by the almost passionate nature of the answer. -This man was no shallow deviser of masques to speed a summer’s day, but -one to whom existence was an almost intolerable burden, which admitted -of very little alleviation. And he was one who read its riddles with -the eyes of a seer. - -“I begin to take your meaning, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen. -“I had supposed that when these children of your fancy laughed and -made merry, you also rejoiced. But I had forgotten that even in these -plays of yours the sadness outweighs the mirth as is the case with life -itself, whereby a double burden is laid upon the endurance of their -creator.” - -“Yes, your grace, that is indeed true. And yet that is not the full -measure of a poet’s unhappiness.” - -“In what does a poet’s unhappiness consist, Master Shakespeare?” - -“It consists, your grace, in this. A poet sees too much, feels too -much, knows too much. He is stretched perpetually on the rack of his -excess. He reads more into life than life itself will hold. Of a most -private grief he will make a little song. He will amuse the groundlings -with the tale of some deep injury he has suffered in his bones. When he -moves the crowd to tears, his fees are paid in blood.” - -There was something in the nature of the answer which held the Queen. -Good sense was her highest quality, and it was that quality in others -which never failed to speak to her. She was captivated by the bearing -of this man, in whom she recognized not only the master of his craft, -but also what pleased her even more, a mature mind which had much to -say to her own acute and worldly wise one. - -Indeed, so gratified was the Queen with the demeanor and the mental -quality of Mr. William Shakespeare, that, as a signal mark of her -favor, he was commanded to sit in her presence. The sovereign was prone -to carry her Tudor sense of importance to ridiculous lengths, but there -was some subtle instinct lurking within her which sought equality -between “the fair vestal throned by the west” and the monarch of an -empire infinitely wider than her own. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII - - -IT was such a spectacle as could rarely have been seen in that place, -this homely fellow without airs or graces or pretensions to fashion, -seated in the presence of his sovereign and treated by her with a -respect she extended to few. But not by word, deed or gesture did -he claim the estate of an equal. He was William Shakespeare, the -play-actor, and she was Elizabeth Tudor, the conqueror of Spain. - -But the kingdom of the mind is no Venetian oligarchy. Those who speak -the same language are all made free of it. And queen and mime, alone -perhaps among that assembly, were able to address each other in the -universal tongue. Seldom, of late years at least, had this crabbed, -difficult and arrogant woman, been seen in a mood so accessible. She -spoke freely to this man of things of which few had heard her speak. -And presently she said: - -“I hope, Master Shakespeare, you will devise a new play for our -diversion.” - -“Already, your grace,” said the dramatist, “there is a new play taking -shape in my head. And if on a day it should have the great good fortune -to please the fancy of your grace, the least of your servants will be -the happiest man in your realm.” - -The words themselves may not have been without irony, but the gentle -voice showed no trace of that quality which the countrymen of -Shakespeare so much distrust. - -“That is indeed high news, Master Shakespeare. And of your bounty do -we pray you that your new diversion be all in the mood of comedy as is -this inimitable piece we have seen this afternoon.” - -“Alas, your grace!” The playwright shook his head. “We poor makers of -plays are no more than mortal men. And as mortal men are subject to the -coils of fate, so are the characters we weave subject to those laws -which govern our being.” - -“I don’t understand,” said the Queen. - -“We makers of plays, your grace, often have but a small part in our -own contrivances. Many a time have I devised a play in the spirit of -comedy, but it is ever the characters themselves who spin the plot. -And whether they shall spin it to a comic or a tragic issue none but -themselves shall say.” - -“But you are the moulder and the master of your characters, are you -not, Master Shakespeare?” - -“Alas, your grace, my characters are the moulders and the masters of -me!” - -The Queen was perplexed by so paradoxical a saying. - -“I confess,” said she, “I should ever have thought it to be otherwise. -Now is it that you would have us believe that although you have -yourself devised the characters and the plot of your new interlude, -you have so little hold upon them that you know not until your play is -written whether it will be in the tragic or the comic vein?” - -“It may not always be so, your grace, to the extent that it is in this -particular case. But in this instance, I will confess that I have but -little hold upon the destiny of the characters in the story.” - -“That seems very odd, Master Shakespeare. And our counsel to you is -to take a very speedy and secure hold upon your characters unless you -would court our grave displeasure.” - -“Alas, your grace!” The playwright sighed heavily. - -“Tell me, sirrah, what is your perplexity?” - -“To tell my perplexity, your grace, would involve the whole plot of the -story, and a recital of that your grace would doubtless find tedious.” - -The Queen, however, in the expansiveness of her mood, assured the -author that he need have no fears upon that account. On the contrary, -she professed herself delighted at the prospect of hearing it. She -avowed, besides, that her ladies would be immensely diverted by -hearing the argument of the new play fresh from the mint of the poet’s -invention. - -“Do you tell us the story, I beseech you, Master Shakespeare!” said the -Queen. “And although I cannot pretend that an unlearned woman such as -myself has it in her power to resolve your perplexity, there are about -us those of quick parts who shall hear it, who, I doubt not, will be -able to give you valuable advice upon the conduct of your play.” - -Doubtless the Queen spoke in mockery, since at heart she was a despiser -of most men and of all women. Mr. William Shakespeare, however, was -fully prepared to take her at her word. - -The poet, in order to give full effect to his narrative, rose from the -chair upon which he was seated. With perfect self-possession and an air -of supreme mastery which it is given to few men to attain, he stood -to confront the Queen and the expectant and critical throng of her -courtiers. - -The lives of Gervase Heriot and of Anne Feversham were at stake. And -instinctively the poet knew that his own life was at stake also. No -hazard could have been more perilous than that upon which he now -proposed to embark. He was about to take a very grave liberty with an -august personage who was notoriously quick to resent even a minor one. - -The mind of such a man, however, moves on a plane where the mere -personal equation is of very little account. Had the least thought of -self entered it, such a hazard had not been for a moment possible. His -own safety and freedom were as nothing. The whole force of his mind was -centered in the hope of preserving the lives of these hapless children -of destiny. - -“I will give the plot of the play as briefly as I can, your grace. And -under your grace’s favor and that of the ladies and gentlemen of your -court I will beg you to devise a fitting and proper conclusion for it -and thereby spare the poor author many a sleepless night.” - -The playwright spoke in a clear and measured tone. His voice was raised -so that all might hear every word distinctly. The air of the man, which -was far too much infused with the play of a noble mind to bear any -suggestion of effrontery, had already made a profound impression upon -all. Such a voice, such a demeanor made it clear to the Queen, no less -than to the youngest page within earshot, that the recital of this -story involved issues far deeper, far more complex than the mere idle -gratification of an author’s vanity. - -“An extraordinary man,” whispered the Lord Treasurer in the ear of his -friend, Pembroke. “I have heard much of his plays of late, but I cannot -pretend to be a judge of ’em. But if they are as remarkable as the -writer, it is no wonder they stand so high in the public esteem.” - -Pembroke made no reply. For one thing he was sadly uneasy. He had grave -fears as to the course the story would take, for he had reason to -suppose that Shakespeare had actively concerned himself in the affairs -of Gervase Heriot, and that by hook or by crook he was determined to -bring them to the notice of the Queen. In Pembroke’s view it would -be the height of folly to introduce such a perilous topic in such -circumstances, but poets were a peculiar race, apt to be carried away -by an idea. And the subtle significance of the man’s manner in the -telling of the story led my lord to anticipate the worst. - -An expectant silence fell on this assembly. The playwright had begun -his narrative, and except for the inflections of the clear, yet low and -gentle voice, there was not a sound to be heard within the precincts of -the pavilion. - -“A certain young man,” the playwright began, “well born, well favored, -well endowed, with every grace of mind and heart, fair of form as a -young god, a very Antinous among his kind, a beautiful youth who has -thought ill of none, much less having performed it against any, has -yet been born to one signal disadvantage. And the disadvantage is so -uncommon in itself that it seems strange that he should suffer it. It -is merely that he is too much the favorite of fortune. And yet I would -have your grace remark, for that is the essence of my story, how this -one faint cloud in the fair heaven of this youth’s tranquility is -enough to contrive his overthrow, to dim all his glories, to rob him of -all hope of peace and happiness in this life.” - -The Queen nodded her head sympathetically. She was following every -word with the closest attention. And indeed the pregnant manner of the -story’s telling compelled it. - -“The young man’s disadvantage is very great inasmuch that he has the -ill-hap to inspire the covetous envy of a wicked kinsman. It is a -simple stroke of ill-fortune, as your grace will see, which he cannot -help and for which he is not in any wise responsible. This kinsman, his -father’s brother, although himself a man of property and well placed in -the world, is yet consumed with a desire to add to his own demesne his -nephew’s broad lands in the west country. He is a bitter-hearted and -envious man, who has carried on a perpetual war with fortune because -she has not made him the elder brother. - -“Chance puts a weapon in the hands of this covetous man. The age is -one of peril and unrest. It is a time in which every man suspects his -neighbor. Nothing is easier for a base man who is also bold than to -bring a charge of misfeasance against one he would remove and whose -lands he would inherit. And this is what the uncle decides to do in -the matter of his nephew. He procures two evil men to accuse the young -man of having borne a part in a wicked and vile conspiracy against the -person of the sovereign. In the age in which the play is cast such -things are unhappily too common, and this is a bad man’s opportunity. - -“To be brief, your grace, the plot is laid, the charge is made, the -young man is brought to trial and condemned upon the evidence of two -suborners. He is unable to refute the accusation, so cunning are the -rogues by whom he is beset; moreover the author of the plot has always -passed for a just and disinterested man. - -“To add to this unfortunate young man’s mischances, his trial is held -behind closed doors, for, as I say, the times are greatly perilous and -the public mind is much inflamed. And he is condemned privily to the -block, and is sent to a strong fortress in the country, there to die by -the ax on a certain day. He makes an appeal to his sovereign, an august -and gracious lady whom he has faithfully served. But stealthy serpent -tongues have done their work only too well. The Queen will not heed the -appeals of this innocent, unhappy youth, and he is left to his cruel -fate. - -“The decree of heaven is otherwise, however. The inscrutable Providence -which has used the young man tenderly in all things save one and in -that one so unkindly, begins to relent toward him, and, as your grace -shall hear, he is not left to die.” - -The playwright paused for a moment. The attention of his hearers was -riveted by the force and cogency of a narrative which was given with -a solemnity so impressive that it was made to appear a veritable -page from life itself. The Queen, her ladies and her gentlemen, were -spellbound by the vivid power of the recital. But Cecil and other high -officers of the household, who were able to trace the parallel of the -story were transfixed by the man’s audacity. - -Only too clearly did they recognize the source of the plot of the -dreadful drama this man was daring to unfold. And if they could have -done so they would have stopped this hopelessly indiscreet recital -of it. Blank consternation was written in the faces of those who knew -whence the story came. - -“Stop the mouth of that madman, for God’s sake!” cried the Lord -Treasurer in the ear of Pembroke. - -But not Cecil and not Pembroke and not mortal man in that assembly -could stop the mouth of the player now. - -“Your grace,” the low, clear voice went on, “this innocent youth is not -left to die. The governor of the fortress wherein the young man is held -captive, a most honorable and worthy and highly esteemed servant of -the state, has a young daughter. She too, like this ill-starred youth, -is passing fair, and like him is also happy in every relation and -attribute of life save one. And her unhappiness is that she has not yet -known love. - -“But on a day, your grace, love comes to her. One summer’s morning -it is the will of fate that she shall see the condemned man in the -courtyard of his prison. And from his own lips she learns his grievous -history. She learns that three days hence he is to die by the ax. - -“A rage of pity comes upon her. At all costs she is resolved to save -him from a fate he has done nothing to deserve. And this young girl, so -brave and so high of soul, finds a means to let him out of his dungeon, -and contrives his escape from the castle by a famous secret passage way. - -“And there is more to tell. Love has come to her. She yields all that -she has of security and also the many benefits she enjoys under her -father’s roof in order that she may share the life of this hunted -fugitive. Footsore and hungry, by mere and mead, sleeping now under -the open sky, now in barn or byre, they make their way from place -to place. The officers of the law are ever upon their heels, but -Providence is with them, so that at last they come to a fair and famous -city and fall in with a cry of players. - -“Now may it please your grace, one of these players is not only an -actor but is also a maker of plays. And this man, by the bounty of -the gracious lady his sovereign, has been commanded to devise for her -a pastoral to be performed in her presence on the greensward of a -summer’s afternoon. And this man is so charmed by the grace and beauty -of these vagabonds, both of whom are dressed as boys, so charmed by -their fair appearance and their goodly manners, that he would fain -admit them into the company of players, in order that they may be -trained as actors, and perchance on a day delight the Queen with their -accomplishment. - -“At first these wanderers reject the proposal. But they are hard set. -They have journeyed far and food and lodging are to seek. And being -driven to a final desperate extremity at last, they put their faith in -this play-actor. They reveal to him the whole of their tragic history -and crave his help.” - -“One moment, Master Shakespeare.” It was the harsh, imperious voice of -the Queen. And it seemed to fall like a thunderclap upon the expectant -hush engendered by the player’s narrative. “Do I understand you to say -that these persons informed this play-actor of the whole matter?” - -“Yes, your grace, of the whole of their history,” the player spoke with -a calm fearlessness: “the whole of it as it was at that time known -to them. Moreover, this player, having heard their tragical story, -resolved to help them to the utmost of his capacity. To this end he had -them put in a disguise of an Italian music master and his son.” - -“In order, sirrah, I presume,” said the Queen’s harsh voice, “to defeat -the ends of justice?” - -“Not in order to defeat the ends of justice, your grace,” said the -player with a calm deference which, however, did little to allay the -rising anger of the Queen, “but rather to the end that justice might -be vindicated. That only was the purpose in the player’s mind as shall -presently appear. But under your grace’s favor, I will continue this -tragical history.” - -“Do so, sirrah, I pray you.” The voice of the Queen was now ominous -indeed. - -“The fugitives had lain but one night at the inn in the city in the -disguise of an Italian music master and his son, when an unhappy -distraught man came seeking them. He was the devoted servant of the -governor of the castle. His master, it appeared, upon learning his -daughter’s act, had repaired straightway to his royal mistress with -news of the escape of his prisoner. Moreover, he took upon his own -shoulders the whole of the blame. He withheld from the Queen the part -his daughter had played in his prisoner’s escape and submitted himself -to fate.” - -By now there were many who would have stopped the mouth of the player, -and foremost among them was the Lord Treasurer. This man, Shakespeare, -knew too much. And while some marveled at the madness of his audacity, -and all deplored his grievous indiscretion, there was not one among -them who might venture an attempt to silence him without affronting -the temper of the Queen. - -But for that matter it had been impossible to silence the player now. -For one thing the Queen, with a face that boded ill, was marking -intently every word that fell from the man’s lips. And again the -player’s feelings were wrought to such a pitch of interest by the -stress of his narrative that he seemed to be carried completely beyond -himself. For the consequences likely to ensue he had no care. He was as -one transfigured. Let justice, mercy and truth prevail even if his own -life was the price to be paid for those brightest jewels in Gloriana’s -crown. - -“Is there no means of stopping the mouth of that madman?” growled the -Lord Treasurer in the ear of Pembroke. - -But Pembroke could give no answer. He turned aside, his breast -tightening, his shoulders shaking convulsively. - -“Pray proceed with your story, Master Shakespeare,” said the harsh -voice of the Queen. - -“The servant of the governor of the castle,” continued the player in -obedience to this command, “an honest, good fellow, no sooner learned -his master’s peril, than he pursued the fugitives from place to place -over all the midland country-side. Thus it was that in the end he had -the good fortune to come up with them at the inn at Oxford. Now I would -respectfully crave that your grace remark with particular closeness -that which I am about to relate.” - -“You can count upon our so doing, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen -grimly. - -The player smiled rather wanly. He could not remain insensible to the -ominous words and the yet more ominous tone. But there was not a tremor -of fear in the dauntless face. - -“It is simply, your grace, that this humble player, the least of the -Queen’s servants, is alone to blame for all of that which follows. In -the first place, the young man was no sooner informed of the peril of -the governor of the castle than he desired to yield himself straightway -to the will of the sovereign. But the player, mistakenly perhaps, was -able to hold him from this most honorable course until a riper season. -And in the meantime, the player set his mind to work in order to adduce -a tangible proof of this young man’s innocence, so that when the time -came for him to cast himself upon the mercy of the Queen, he should not -appear empty-handed before her. - -“Providence favored him. By means of a device which I will not -describe, lest I tax the patience of your grace, the player was able to -obtain an irrefragable proof of the young man’s innocence. By the same -means, moreover, he was able to adduce clear evidence of those who were -guilty. But of this I will presently speak more fully. - -“In the meantime, however, while all this was going forward, the hour -was drawing near for the new interlude to be given in the presence of -the sovereign. And the player deemed such a season to be not the least -favorable for two noble but ill-starred children of destiny to invoke -justice and mercy of a woman, the first in the realm.” - -At this point the player paused in his narrative. A profound silence -descended upon all. Every person who had heard the singular story was -now aware that it was no mere figment of a poet’s mind. It was a grim -and terrible reality. And that unhappy fact was declared in the harsh -and cruel eyes of the Queen. - -For a full minute not a word was spoken. The player had given as much -of his story as was vital to his design. And now with a true political -instinct he refrained from adding another word, but left it to the -Queen herself to speak. - -She made no haste to do so. Astonished beyond measure, resentful, -angry, she brought the whole of her powerful mind to bear upon the -matter before giving expression to her thoughts. Dumbfounded as she was -by the audacity and the indiscretion of this man, two facts dominated -her now. The mystery attending the circumstances of the young man, -Gervase Heriot’s escape from Nottingham Castle, was now made clear. The -unlucky Sir John Feversham had neither art nor part in it after all. -He had kept a stubborn silence for no other reason than to shield his -daughter. And it was none other than that froward young woman who had -given that charming performance in the new comedy but a few minutes -ago. At last the Queen turned to her ladies with a look of sour triumph. - -“Did I not say,” she cried, “that that was indeed no youth who strutted -in doublet and trunk hose?” - -A moment afterwards the august lady had turned imperiously to the -player. - -“This seems but a tame conclusion to your new interlude, Master -Shakespeare.” - -“Most humbly and respectfully do I beg your grace to devise an issue to -this pitiful story.” The player had now sunk upon one knee. “It lies -far beyond the compass of my own poor contrivance. But it is within the -province of your grace to fashion it in either the comic or the tragic -vein. Yet if it shall seem good to you to fashion it in the latter, -there is one last boon that I have to crave for these children of fate, -and on my knees I do so.” - -“And what, pray, is the boon you crave, sirrah?” There was not a spark -of pity in the face or in the tone of the Queen. - -“The boon I would crave for them is this, your grace. Should it not -seem good to your grace to exercise the most royal prerogative of -mercy, they implore you to allow them to die together on the same -block, by the same ax, in the same hour.” - -This grim request sent a shudder through that horrified assembly. But -not a muscle relaxed in the ruthless face of the Queen. - -“Master Shakespeare,” she said in a slow, measured voice, “your request -shall be granted. These traitors, young as they are, shall die together -on the same block, by the same ax, and in the same hour. And as there -is a God in Heaven, Master Shakespeare, you yourself shall share the -fate they have so richly merited.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV - - -IT was an important evening at the Mermaid Tavern. Long before supper -time the spacious upper chamber with the sanded floor began to fill. -All the regular frequenters of the place were eager for news of Will’s -new comedy. But it was a long way in those days from the palace at -Richmond to the famous hostelry in Eastcheap. Authentic information was -tardy in coming that evening. - -The hour of eight was told on the clocks of the city. Yet there was -never a word of news of Will or of his comedy. This was indeed strange. -Among those who came very often to the tavern for the sake of the -company to be found there was a number of men about the Court. Not one -of these has as yet appeared upon the scene. And neither Will himself -nor any of his fellow-players had arrived. - -Dishes of deviled bones and flagons of wine were laid on the long -table. The company sat down to a very informal repast. Tongues were -unloosed and rumor was presently rife. - -The assembly that had gathered in this long upper chamber was a curious -one. In the shabby and careless garb of the poet, or in the soiled -doublet of the writer for the theater was contained some of the -choicest spirits of the age. On most evenings this strange company was -garnished with a sprinkling of men of fashion with some pretensions to -wit, but these were absent to-night. This fact, taken in conjunction -with a singular dearth of news was held to be a sinister omen. No news -is not always good news in matters relating to the theater. - -There was genuine concern among those present. Will was a universally -popular man. In spite of a very remarkable success which had sprung -from beginnings of the humblest kind he bore himself invariably with -a modesty and a courteous consideration for others that completely -disarmed even those who had the most cause to envy him. Moreover, those -who had the entrée to that sacred upper chamber at the Mermaid well -knew how thoroughly his success was deserved. For these were first-rate -minds. These men, as far as it was possible for the contemporaries -of William Shakespeare to do so, realized and appreciated his -accomplishment. - -If Will had at last met with a check to his career none would regret -the fact more than these friendly and admiring rivals who had an -intense admiration for his extraordinary genius. And some of them, -moreover, had already come to live in a kind of reflected glory that it -cast upon them. - -Rumors of failure grew with the arrival of each newcomer who yet had no -first-hand news to give. - -“Did he let you con the piece, Martin?” asked a gray and worn veteran -with a ragged beard of an individual very familiar to himself who sat -at the head of the long table. - -“Aye, he did so. And I tell you it is the best thing he has done yet. -If he makes a failure of that, God help the age, say I.” - -“He was not very happy about it two nights ago.” - -“Ah, that’s Will’s way. He never does anything but that he wishes it -better.” - -“And yet they say he never blots a line, eh?” said a young man with -flaming hair who sat opposite. - -“It is only Ben who says that,” rejoined the veteran at the table-head. -“And Ben blots so many himself that he thinks nobody else takes any -pains by comparison.” - -“Then you consider this new piece a good thing?” - -“Aye, good enough, good enough. It is a better thing than any of -us will ever see our names to.” The speaker sighed. He was a man -of infinite courage and ambition. But he had lived long enough and -had striven hard enough to learn the sharp truth that these things -of themselves will not conquer. “But by God!” The fine poet and -great-hearted man took up his flagon. “I’d be the last in the world to -begrudge Will his good luck. His fortune is our fortune too. He is a -nonesuch and not again will the world look on his like. He is a king -in his own right, and by God, I drink to him. Here’s to our monarch. -May God protect him, and may he never write a worse comedy than ‘As You -Like It.’” - -Dekker rose and held his flagon aloft. And all the others at the long -table followed his example. - -There was a murmur of voices and a clink of cups. - -These men could not bring themselves to admit that by any possibility -the true prince had met defeat at last. Still, the total absence of -news from Richmond was very ominous. But even if the Queen had not -approved the new comedy, that was not warrant sufficient to assume, as -more than one among that company made bold to maintain, that the new -comedy was not worthy of her approval. - -“’Tis a fine thing,” said the man at the head of the table, “and you -may lay to that. His genius ripens every day. There is nothing in my -opinion beyond the compass of Will’s invention.” - -“He lacks but one thing,” said a large, ugly and pock-marked fellow who -came slowly into the room. - -“And what is that, Ben?” was the question that was promptly fired at -the newcomer. - -“A little learning, my friends, to temper the heat of his mind. A -little of the classic severity of Athens to mellow the over-sharpness -of his wit, to trim and clip the excess of his redundancy, to confine -the natural incontinence of his humors.” - -But the words of Ben were drowned in good-natured laughter. All knew -the foibles of this heavy and slow-moving man. He was a surly dog fond -of his growl. He must ever run contrary to received opinion. He had an -exaggerated regard for the classic tongues. But there was no stouter -fellow, no stauncher friend, and there was not a grain of smallness in -his nature. - -“Sit down, you dog,” said the time-worn warrior at the table-head, “and -bury your mask in a flagon. Hi, drawer, a cup of Muscadel for Master -Jonson. Ben, my son, with all your learning, aye, and with all your -genius, too, you will never be quite man enough to don the mantle of -William the Peerless.” - -“Did I ever say I would?” said Ben roughly. “Is there any man alive -that ever heard me speak so windily? There is no man living or dead who -is the peer of our incomparable William and I care not who hears me say -it.” - -The great rude fellow brought down his bricklayer’s fist with such a -resounding thud upon the table that the dishes rattled and the wine -slopped over in a dozen cups. But this rough diamond, who as yet did -but stand at the threshold of renown, was freely forgiven all the -inconvenience he caused for the sake of that honest enthusiasm whereby -he did himself honor in the eyes of all. - -The motley crew who sat night after night at that table were without -exception men of parts and understanding. Whether their ruffles were -ink-stained, whether their hands were lily-white, whether they wore -silk and fine linen or plain bombazine, whether they lived by the sword -or by the pen, or whether they had no need to live by either, there was -no appeal from their judgments upon poetry and the drama, and posterity -has not found occasion to reverse their verdicts. It was the great -age indeed. These were men of rare mental power, of large and liberal -intercourse. They knew the highest when they met it and knew how to pay -it homage. - -For example, this rude fellow Ben Jonson, this clumsy, loud-voiced, -opinionative Scotsman, a pock-marked, ugly creature who had lived rough -and who had the brand of a felon on his thumb was the coming man. He -would go far, said the quidnuncs. He was heavy metal of the royal -currency; one who under Providence was destined to be second only to -Will himself. - -Thus men cast in a gentler mold made room for him. He was no favorite, -to be sure. His manners were too rude, his opinions too unqualified. -But the sacred fire was in his veins. And those who were wont to -dispute precedence with persons of far more account in the eyes of the -world were proud to sit at the feet of Ben. - -The long July evening was closing in. The candles had been brought and -the shutters drawn in the long upper chamber. And that which hitherto -had been hardly more than a thrill of half-expectant surmise was now -become a slow agony of suspense. It was incredible that news had not -come from Richmond. The play must have been over by six o’clock. The -verdict of Gloriana and her court must have been delivered long ago. - -Was it possible that the miracle of the age had tasted his first -defeat? Well, and if he had? said the graybeard at the end of the -table. Gloriana and her Court were not infallible. Will should read -his comedy to his peers that night, as he had done on many occasions -previously. Theirs should be the verdict, for they alone, with all -respect to Gloriana, were qualified to give it. - -The brave words from the table-head were received with loud approval -from a score of stalwarts who by now had gathered round the board. Such -words were well and wisely spoken. But suddenly there fell a hush. A -famous and admired figure came quietly, almost stealthily, into the -room. - -It was that of a bearded, brown-faced man of forty, trim and soldierly -of look, secure and curiously authoritative of bearing. His dress -was rich and fine; his air that of a courtier, urbane, polished, -calm, quizzical. There was the coxcomb in the outward man, but not a -trace of it in the far-looking, eagle-glancing eyes. This was a great -figure, even in that company, which measured a man not by his outward -assemblance but by his deeds. - -“Ah, now we shall know,” cried the man at the table-head. “Here is Wat. -Newly from Richmond, else I’ll never drink sack again out of a bombard -until I attain the age of a hundred and twenty.” - -“Yes, Martin, newly from Richmond, as you say,” came the courtier’s -lisp. “Newly from Richmond, newly from Richmond.” - -The newcomer sank down in a manner of extreme weariness in a vacant -chair. He sighed heavily. - -“A cup of the muscadel for Sir Walter,” said the man at the table-head. -“And lively about it, boy. No need to tell us what has happened, Wat. -But we did not think it was so bad as all this. We did not think it -possible that Will could fail. Is it--tell me, Wat--that Gloriana has -smelt some affront in the new piece? Well, well, she is getting old, -and even in her prime she was--well, shall we say?--what shall we -say?--why, body o’ God, what’s the matter with the fellow?” - -The speaker had good reason to ask the question. Raleigh--the -brown-faced courtier was no less than he--seemed utterly overcome. -Something untoward had most certainly happened. There was more than a -mere matter of a play’s failure or success in the dismay of that strong -face which shone a bleak gray in the uncertain light of the room. - -“Why, what’s the matter? Tell us, for the love of God!” - -But Raleigh shook his head haplessly. He who knew not the meaning of -fear in the presence of bodily peril, he whose resolution never failed -in great crises, was wholly unable to tell the news he bore. - -“Is it Will?” A sense of foreboding had descended suddenly upon all. -“Tell us, I pray you.”--The eagerly anxious voices sank in the oddest -manner. “Has aught happened to Will Shakespeare?” - -Raleigh did not answer. But that face so eloquent of power and high -capacity seemed to grow a little bleaker. And then twenty pairs of eyes -that were turned almost fiercely upon it saw that a rush of sudden -tears was shining there. - -The man at the head of the table laid a hand to his heart. - -“Oh!” - -His exclamation went echoing through the silence of the long room. -Again the solemn hush descended. That which Walter Raleigh had not -courage to tell, not one of these men could muster the courage to ask. - -What could have happened? Those were perilous times indeed; times in -which the quietest, most law-abiding citizen took his life in his hand -when he walked down the street. The tragedy of poor Kit Marlowe was in -every mind. Had Will Shakespeare, the incomparable poet and charming -personality, met the assassin’s knife by chance or by design? The face -of Raleigh portended not less than that. Yet not one of these men could -summon enough resolution to set his doubts at rest. The silence was -painful. A pin could have been heard to fall in the room. - -Suddenly there came sounds of heavy feet stumbling, blundering -up the wooden stairs. The door was flung open. A thick, squat, -gnarled-looking fellow reeled in like a man under the influence of -wine. His face shone livid in the light of the candles. - -It was Burbage the tragedian. - -“Speak, man! Tell the news!” came the hoarse demand of a dozen voices. - -“Shakespeare,” The voice of the tragedian could hardly be heard. “He -is arrested by the Queen’s order. They say--they say he will lose his -head.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV - - -GRIEF, consternation, horror surged through that room. For the moment, -the shock of the announcement was more than they could bear. It was as -if each man present had been stunned by a blow. But the calm was for -the moment only. In the next came a babel of tongues framing a score of -incoherent questions. - -Richard Burbage replied to none of these. He stood an instant swaying, -his ashen face framed in the eerie glow of the candles. And then -without a further word he turned and passed like a ghost through the -door of the room with the same abruptness with which he had entered it. -He went headlong, stumbling and creaking, down the ricketty stairs of -the old tavern and out into the July evening. - -In the street, hard by the signboard, under the shadow of the tavern -wall, two men lay in wait for the tragedian. One of these was his -fellow-player, William Kemp, the other John Heming the manager of the -Globe Theatre. These also were men of strong feelings, but they had -them under control, whereas Richard Burbage who might almost be said to -worship the ground on which the poet trod, had been carried completely -away by this direst of tragedies, which he knew not how to face. - -As became good men, true friends, staunch comrades, Kemp and Heming -were fully determined not to let Burbage pass out of their sight during -the remainder of that night. But they must not show themselves in his. -Already he had resented their presence fiercely, had cursed them when -they had sought to console him, and had so far fallen from that poise -of mind and temper which at ordinary times made him a most agreeable -companion, as to threaten to do them violence, “if they would not have -the goodness to keep themselves to themselves and stand out of his -light.” - -Thus William Kemp and John Heming remained well in the shadow of the -tavern wall. But when their distracted friend came out of the inn, -perhaps a little sooner than they had expected him to do so, they -proceeded to follow him at a respectful distance. Without betraying -their own presence, they contrived to keep him well in view. - -Certainly there was very good ground for such solicitude. The tragedian -swayed about from side to side like a ship in a gale, now up one -deserted street, now down another. And all these dark purlieus of -the city swarmed with perils at that hour of the night. Moreover, -the ostensible condition of this pedestrian, the vagaries of whose -gait certainly resembled those of a man far gone in liquor, seemed to -cry aloud for the attentions of the vigilant cutpurse or the lurking -footpad. - -With unseeing eyes, with unstable limbs, with mind insensible of its -surroundings, with steps not knowing whither they were bent, the -tragedian walked the byways of the city during the whole of that -night. Like the fate-riven figures in those soul-shaking tragedies -in whose delineation he excelled all men, he was at the mercy of an -anguish of mind that was tearing him in pieces. - -This was a large and noble nature. And bitterly it was rent because -it had not been more vigilant. Richard Burbage felt himself unworthy -of the sacred duty imposed upon him by his fraternal intimacy -with the poet. He had an insight into human nature which enabled -him to understand a certain weakness that must inevitably attend -such transcendent powers as those of William Shakespeare. And this -understanding seemed to lay the charge upon him of watching over this -man who was not as other men. - -To this trust Burbage felt he had not been true. Yet it was not easy -to know by what means he could have saved his friend from his terrible -pass. Times and again he had besought him to be prudent, and his -counsels had been urged with intense conviction. None realized more -clearly than Burbage that it was indeed a perilous hour for any man -to be concerned with treason. The Queen’s temper was implacable. She -who had done to death a kinswoman and a queen because her own personal -safety was held to be remotely threatened was not likely to know the -meaning of pity in the case of an humble play-actor who had mingled so -openly in the cause of a condemned traitor. - -Burbage mourned the madness of his friend. Pacing the dark streets of -the city during the watches of the night in a state of mind bordering -upon frenzy, he was a man self-tormented. Yet after all, he was in -no wise to blame. No grace of his, no vigilance, indeed, no human -foresight could have averted this tragic issue. - -The two comrades of the tragedian kept the swaying figure ever in view. -Wherever it went that night they followed it. Hour after hour Burbage -wandered purposeless about the city. His grief, silent and contained -though it was, was a thing dreadful to behold. - -Towards midnight he came to the river. A new fear then gripped the -hearts of his comrades. Very stealthily they crept up closer behind -him. What more likely than that one in such a frame of mind should -have recourse to those dark waters which have done so much to ease -the misery of the world? Bareheaded, unsteady of gait, wild of mien, -the tragedian walked hour by hour upon the very brink of death. And -all that time his two friends watched and waited yet dared not show -themselves. - -The night was oppressively hot. The summer air was charged with pent-up -forces, and while it was still dark these sought opportunity to wreak -themselves upon the thirsting earth. The moon and stars were hid; all -the heavens were a dense mass of pitch; presently came lightning and -peal upon peal of thunder. It was the prelude to a terrific storm and -the man by the verge of the river welcomed it with every fiber of his -being. - -The words of _Lear_ were yet unborn. But in such a night and tempest -of the soul was to walk that figure which this unhappy man was one day -to teach the ages to pity. His head was bare and unbent to the storm; -a hurricane lashed the upturned face; he was drenched to the skin; and -yet this rage of heaven was as nought to the tumult in the mind of one -poor tragedian. - -And like their friend, wholly undefended from this wild fury of the -elements, William Kemp and John Heming stood cowering a little way off -in the lee of a wall. All the long night through, in spite of darkness -and tempest, they never left him. And when at last came the dawn, and -with it some abatement of the frenzy of the heavens, they stood with -him still by the bank of the grim river. - -Drenched to the skin, and utterly weary and wretched as they were, they -did not once allow Richard Burbage to pass out of their sight. Wherever -he went they must go also; to all that he did they must be a party. Yet -only in the last resort must they venture to declare themselves to him. - -The slow hours passed. Richard Burbage still lingered by that river -which in one brief instant would have eased him of his pain. But at -last, just as the hour of eight was told by the churches of the city, -resolve appeared to brace and quicken the exhausted frame. A new -purpose, a new strength enfolded that unhappy figure. Burbage suddenly -started to walk briskly along the river bank in the direction of -Richmond. - -Hungry, exhausted, profoundly miserable, his two comrades continued to -follow him. All night had they been waiting for some such manifestation -of design, for this was a man of powerful and resolute character. It -was now more imperative than ever that this vigilance should not relax. -They knew not what secret spring of action had moved him. And in his -present mood there was nothing of which he was not capable. - -On and on he walked, briskly now and with an appearance of -ever-increasing resolve. Through fair meadows and riverside gardens -and hamlets they passed. By ten o’clock, they had left the river below -them and were ascending the steep and gloriously wooded slopes of -Richmond Hill. - -Every fiber of the tragedian’s being seemed now in the thrall of his -new purpose. Not once did he tarry or look back. All unaware that he -was being so closely followed, he turned at the top of the hill into -Richmond Park. - -It was a morning such as makes of earth a paradise. The air was cool, -fragrant, delicious after the great storm of the night. Long shafts of -gold light pierced the branches of the trees; the wet bracken shone -with crystals; the sky was one wide unbroken promise of a gorgeous -noon; the deer flitted in and out of the clean-washed spaces, between -low-hanging canopies of leaves. Earth was rejoicing this morning of -July in the solace and refreshment that the night had brought to her. -All was well with her now. Her fainting energies had been renewed. -And all was now well with one among her children, one poor and frail -tragedian. - -The squat, rather ungainly figure, striding wide as though the boards -of the playhouse were still its theater, neither passed nor faltered in -its course. Bared head upflung, a curious rigidity in the face, there -was high purpose in every movement now. - -Richard Burbage sought the broad path that led to the Queen’s palace. -And no sooner had he come to it, than he greatly increased the pace at -which he walked. Indeed, as the row of imposing turrets of the royal -demesne came into view at a turn in the road, he almost broke into a -run. - -William Kemp and John Heming, so exhausted by now that they could -scarcely drag one foot after the other, suddenly awoke with a kind of -bewildered dismay to the fact that the Queen’s palace was, beyond a -doubt, the goal of their quarry. Breathlessly, they followed ever in -his wake, but in the last hundred yards or so, he had gained upon them -considerably. - -Before the gate of the palace, however, Richard Burbage had to call a -halt. Certain formalities had to be observed before the halberdiers -on guard could be induced to pass a stranger through. And to their -question of who this stranger was and what was his pleasure, the two -comrades of the actor were able to come up to the gate just in time to -hear his reply. - -“I am Richard Burbage, the tragedian, and I desire to see the Queen -without delay on a matter of the most urgent importance.” - -Moreover, these words were spoken in that magnificently rotund and -authoritative voice that never failed to send a thrill through the -Globe Theatre. - -And even now in these strange circumstances, it did not fail of its -effect. The guards of the Queen were no more than mortal men. And this -man with great eyes burning in an ashen face was more than mortal now. -He was in the thrall of a divine idea. It was not for those on a lower -plane of being to deny such an imperious instancy. Without delay, -Richard Burbage, the tragedian, was permitted to pass through the gate. - -William Kemp and John Heming stood at the threshold of the Queen’s -palace to watch the tragedian pass from their view. But when they also -were asked by the sentinels at the gate who they were and what they -sought, they did not venture to proclaim either their business or -themselves. - -They drew off silently a little way into the bracken, there to await -the issue. Sick at heart, overcome with despair, they flung their -completely exhausted bodies into the wet grass. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI - - -THE Queen was taking counsel already with the Lord Treasurer, Cecil, -her all-wise and all-powerful minister. This morning, she was in a -harsh and vengeful mood. Many were the plots she had known in the -course of a troubled life against the security of that person for whose -well-being she had so great a reverence. And each one, as it occurred, -had the effect of hardening that naturally ruthless temper to which, -like others of her race, she was never afraid to give free play. - -The young man, Gervase Heriot, had been proved guilty upon that which -was held to be good and sufficient evidence, of a plot against her -life. He had been condemned to death by the Court of Star Chamber -sitting in camera. But by the wanton and wicked connivance of the -young daughter of Sir John Feversham, in whose custody he was held in -Nottingham Castle against the time of his execution, Heriot had been -able to break out of his prison. Subsequently, the condemned man, -in the company of this wicked girl, had wandered about the country -many weeks, finally falling in with one Shakespeare, an actor and -writer for the theater, who, well knowing they were proscribed, had -actively befriended them. Moreover, with unforgivable effrontery, -this play-actor had chosen to make public confession of his guilt at a -singularly ill-chosen time. - -The Queen was not in a mood to hear of leniency in this heinous matter. -But Cecil, the Lord Treasurer, was a very wise man, deliberate in -speech, tardy in judgment. And the view he held was at direct variance -with that of his august mistress. - -The Lord Treasurer had already brought the cool and detached mind of -a statesman to bear upon a most difficult problem. The actors in this -unhappy drama were nothing to him in themselves. Heriot was a man of -family, with a considerable estate in the west of England; the girl -was the daughter of Sir John Feversham, a man of good reputation, who -had rendered thirty years of honest service to the Queen. The man -Shakespeare was by profession an actor, and of him there was nothing -more to be said. Indeed, as far as the Lord Treasurer was concerned, -there was nothing more to be said of any of the persons of the drama. -As mere private individuals, they had not the least interest for -him; the merits of their cause concerned him but little, yet public -expediency, that and only that, was a thing of paramount importance -in his eyes. And when all was said, this was certainly a plaguy ill -matter, and it had given my lord a very anxious night. - -It seemed that Pembroke, a man whom Cecil regarded as a person of -weight, had expressed a very definite opinion in regard to the case. -According to Pembroke, the man Shakespeare was widely known and -esteemed not in London merely, but also throughout the length and -breadth of the kingdom. He had behaved with the gravest unwisdom, -but Pembroke held staunchly to the view that his action was not of a -character to incur the inclemency of the law. Moreover, the play-actor -had the excuse that he sought an occasion to establish the innocence of -a deeply wronged man. - -Yet here was a very sore point with the statesmanlike soul of the Lord -Treasurer. Heriot had been condemned by the Court of Star Chamber, and -Cecil had not the least desire that the case should be re-heard. At the -best, the whole affair constituted one of those unsavory businesses -which it is ever the aim of true statecraft to keep out of the light -of day. To this point of view, however, Pembroke had made the cogent -rejoinder that since the whole story had been given to the world, it -was no longer possible to treat it as a mystery. - -Doubtless it was this fact which rendered Shakespeare’s action -unpardonable in the sight of the Queen. She, too, had a faculty of -statesmanship, and she was well able to appreciate the point involved; -but also she had a woman’s power of illogical resentment, and in her -view not the least part of the player’s crime was the inconvenience it -caused. - -Cecil, having duly taken all the circumstances into account, was -already strongly in favor of mercy. It would be wise, in his view, to -grant a pardon to the player. The pressure of public opinion was likely -to be great, and in the opinion of Cecil that was a cardinal matter. -But the Queen was obdurate. She was incensed by the audacity of the -man. Great care had been used to keep the whole of this ugly business -a close secret, but all precaution had been rendered nugatory by this -man’s amazing indiscretion in regard to things that did not well bear -the light of day. - -“My lord,” said the Queen, with an air of finality, “what I have said, -I have said. This man shall make payment for his wicked folly.” - -“Be it so, your grace,” said the minister, with a sad shake of the head. - -He knew how vain it was to persist when once the Queen had made up -her mind. She had all a Tudor’s despotism. The statesman shrugged his -shoulders disconsolately. The man Shakespeare had certainly behaved -like a stark fool, and richly merited any fate that could overtake him, -for my Lord Treasurer’s was that practical order of mind that hates a -fool quite as much as it hates a rogue. The one was intelligible, but -the other was an affront to the human race. Still, the man Shakespeare -had many highly placed friends. And if Cecil himself had little use -for the order of things the man represented, he recognized, with that -large grasp of mind in which none of his age excelled him, that this -play-actor stood for human amenity. And that in itself was a thing that -even the most cynical of statesmen cannot afford to neglect. - -The Lord Treasurer was about to withdraw from the Queen’s presence, -when one of her gentlemen came into the room. - -“Madam,” he said, “under your good pleasure, one Richard Burbage, a -tragedian, would speak with you upon a matter of great urgency.” - -“A pox take him,” said the Queen, roughly. “A pox take all comedians -and all tragedians, too. I would that I had never set eyes on any of -the tribe. Send the rogue about his business with a flea in his ear. -Or stay--send him to us and we will hear what he has to say. And God -help the rogue, if he speaks amiss.” - -The gentleman withdrew. A minute afterwards, he ushered into the room -with great ceremony one Richard Burbage, a tragedian. - -It happens continually, in the process of nature, that a man’s calling -is declared in his personality. The soldier, the clergyman, the -lawyer and the horse-dealer are cases in point. But no man could have -borne clearer evidence of the unhappy estate to which it had pleased -providence to call him than Richard Burbage, the tragedian. His gaunt -face was haggard, his bloodshot eyes were wild, his somber dress was -muddy and in sad disorder. - -“Well, my man, what is your pleasure?” said the Queen sourly enough, as -soon as this odd figure appeared before her. - -The tragedian showed no undue haste to reply to the question. There was -a slow force in him for which the Queen and Cecil were not prepared. -And when he spoke, it was with the calm precision of one secure of soul. - -“Your grace,” said the tragedian, and for all his wild eyes he looked -steadily at the Queen, “it is my desire to offer my life for the life -of William Shakespeare.” - -The mood of the Queen was by no means agreeable. Nevertheless, these -simple and considered words struck home to the heart of the woman. -They had no savor of vainglory. They were the fruit of a rare spirit, -and she who was accustomed to judge men was quick, almost in her own -despite, to recognize the source from which they sprang. - -“Tell me why you offer it, Master Burbage,” said the Queen. “Tell me -why life has so little savor for you, that you would yield it for that -of a rival actor?” - -“I offer my life, your grace, for that of one so far beyond myself -that, although I enjoy my days as much as any man alive, there can be -no higher privilege than to give them for such a one as he. And the day -will surely come when the whole world will rise up and call me blessed.” - -These were wild words for prosaic ears. There was almost a core of -madness in them, yet it was impossible to doubt the grim sincerity of -this fanatic. - -The Queen looked at the Lord Treasurer, and the Lord Treasurer looked -at the Queen. One fact at once shone clear in the minds of both. It was -no ordinary man who offered life itself on the altar of friendship. - -“The truth is,” said the Queen at last, “you mad players, who spend -your days in mouthing bombast and in tearing passions to tatters, -get a kind of swelling in your brains. The truth is, Master Burbage, -you over-color all the facts of life. Your speech in consequence is -high-flown, your behavior nonsensical, your appearance ridiculous.” - -“It may be so, your grace.” The player spoke slowly and calmly, and yet -without any great show of humility. “But I would entreat your grace not -to overlook the fact that Richard Burbage would pay away his life for -the boon he craves.” - -“Yes, sirrah, I appreciate that,” said the Queen. “And to me, Master -Burbage, I confess it makes you a subject for confinement in a -mad-house. How say you, my lord?” - -But my lord was thinking so deeply that he failed to answer the -question of his august mistress. It was the business of his life to -estimate men and things; and for perhaps the first time in his career, -he was face to face with men and things with which his recondite -knowledge and his remarkable faculty seemed powerless to deal. - -“Yes, you bombastical players have an inflammation of the mind, there -is no doubt about it,” said the Queen. “In your opinion, Master -Burbage, I do not doubt the author of ‘As You Like It’ is the greatest -man alive.” - -“Yes, your grace,” said the tragedian, very simply, “he is undoubtedly -that in his own province, and as, in my humble judgment his province is -the highest of all, I cannot honestly claim less than that precedence -for him. But, of course, I speak, your grace, as but a strutter of -boards and a mouther of bombast. Yet in my humble opinion, a man -must be what he is, and be that only, and with all his heart. Nature -fashioned me for the theater. Therefore, my life is consecrated to the -theater, which for me is the sum of all things, the highest good. And -therefore I say to your grace, that never again will the theater look -upon the like of William Shakespeare, who to me, and to many another in -this age and in ages yet to come, must ever remain the brightest jewel -in Gloriana’s crown. And if it be given to Richard Burbage to purchase -with his own life the priceless things that lie as yet unborn in the -womb of our immortal poet’s invention, it will be a great end for a -poor tragedian.” - -These singular words were spoken plainly and bluntly enough, but with -an air of deference. And they were absolutely sincere. Whatever the -Queen’s views might be concerning the sanity of play-actors, she was -compelled to recognize this speech, perhaps more by its manner than by -its matter, as the product of a powerful and well-ordered mind. It was -now the turn of the Queen to ponder deeply. In spite of herself, she -could not help being affected by the demeanor of this man. - -Now it almost seemed as if Providence had set itself to work on the -poet’s behalf, and was determined to make the most of a favorable turn. -For that was the moment chosen by it for the announcement to be made to -the Queen that two most distinguished persons, the Earl of Pembroke and -Sir Walter Raleigh to wit, most humbly craved audience of her Grace. - -“I will see them,” said the Queen, peremptorily. “Let them be brought -to me.” She then added sourly to the Lord Treasurer, “They are upon -this same plaguy business, I’ll warrant.” - -Presently appeared these two distinguished gentlemen, true ornaments of -their age. Each was a singularly handsome man, not yet in middle life; -each had the marked ease of bearing of those who are very familiar -with their surroundings. The Queen received them with the rough humor, -caustic, witty and by no means unpleasant, which she inherited from her -father and kept for her intimates. - -“Well, my friends,” she said, “I’ll wager a tester I know already what -is your good pleasure.” - -“Your grace were infinitely less in wisdom were the case otherwise,” -said Pembroke. - -“You have come to plead the cause, I do not doubt, of a very foolish -and wicked man.” - -The silence of Pembroke gave assent to the harsh words. - -“Well, my lord, I hope you are prepared as is Master Burbage here to -yield your life for him.” - -“If it were our privilege, your grace, to do that, we should be greater -men than we are like to be--with all respect to Sir Walter here--in the -eyes of posterity.” - -“A pox upon posterity! Who cares a fig for it? The hour in which we -live alone matters to all of us. But tell me, my lord, why do you -choose to concern yourself with the matter of this foolish play-actor? -And also I would have you make known your wishes in regard to him.” - -“Touching your grace’s first question,” said Pembroke, “I am honored by -the friendship of one whom I esteem beyond all other men, and for whose -deliverance I will gladly pay into the treasury as round a sum as I can -well afford.” - -The Queen gave a grunt of disgust. The raddled face wore a very -unpleasant look. - -“Humph,” said she. “That seems little enough, my lord. Master Burbage -here offers his life.” - -Pembroke turned instantly to the tragedian, with his most courtier-like -bow. - -“Master Burbage does himself infinite honor,” he said. “I offer the -half of my estate and he offers the whole of his, therefore is he twice -the man that I am in the sight of heaven.” - -“A well-turned speech, my lord,” said the Queen. She then fixed her -sour smile upon Raleigh. “Tell me, Sir Walter,” she said, “what is the -price you are prepared to pay for this foolish and wicked player’s -ransom?” - -The point-blank question was answered readily enough. - -“The half of my fortune, your grace,” said Raleigh, “even as my Lord -Pembroke.” - -“But Master Burbage here,” said the Queen, acidly, “is prepared to pay -the whole of his life.” - -“Your grace,” said Raleigh with shining eyes, “Master Burbage is indeed -a man happy in his valor and noble in the scope and compass of his -nature. Our poet is fortunate in such a friend, yet such high constancy -is not less than his deserts.” - -This frank speech gave pause to the Queen. When the worst had been said -of her, a robust commonsense remained the keystone of her character. -These were men she was bound to respect. And to hear them express such -unqualified opinions in regard to this play-actor had the effect in -some degree of modifying her attitude. Besides, she herself believed -the playwright to be a very remarkable man. But the combined testimony -of such men as Pembroke and Raleigh made it clear that he was even more -remarkable than she knew him to be. - -“My Lord Burleigh,” she said abruptly, addressing Cecil, “let this man -Shakespeare be brought to us. We will hear what defence he will venture -of his froward conduct.” - -The Lord Treasurer quitted the room at once, in obedience to this -command. Burbage, Pembroke and Raleigh would have followed him, had not -the Queen ordered them to remain where they were. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII - - -THERE was a long five minutes of most uncomfortable silence between -the four curiously diverse persons in the Queen’s morning chamber. -Gloriana was not disposed to conversation just now. For one thing she -was deeply offended. And at the best of times she was a difficult -woman, and age and infirmity had made her morose. Her long life as -a reigning sovereign had been neither more nor less than an orgy of -despotic power. And such a condition does not make for human amenity, -particularly in the case of one in whom a love of tyranny has become -second nature. - -The plain truth was, that Gloriana was hard and cruel. And these three -men were only too well aware of the fact. Each of them felt a grave -uneasiness in regard to the fate that was likely to overtake the man -for whose life and liberty they were there to plead. - -At last, the tapestried door of the chamber opened to admit the -returning Cecil, who gravely ushered in the culprit. - -The playwright entered the room with a serenity, an unconcern that -could only have been exhibited in such circumstances by one who -breathes an air which is not the common ether of mankind. The Queen, -a close enough observer when it pleased her to be so, was impressed -by the almost majestic simplicity of this man. His three friends, so -jealous for his reputation, could only rejoice at it. - -“Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen, arrogantly, “it had not been -our intention to hear you in your own defence. We had meant to leave -the whole matter to those who know in what sort to deal with it. But -three very good and true friends of yours have come forward to plead -your cause: one, as I understand, an honest man who follows your own -calling, has even gone to the length of offering his own life in -exchange for yours; and my Lord Pembroke and Sir Walter Raleigh each -offers the half of his fortune as the price of your ransom.” - -For the moment the self-possession of the poet forsook him, so deeply -was he moved by the loyalty and the self-sacrificing devotion of his -friends. He lowered his head in the manner of one completely overcome. -The sensitive lips trembled, the deep-set eyes filled with tears. - -“You have good friends, Master Shakespeare.” The tone of the Queen was -so matter-of-fact, that she might have been merely discussing a plain -affair of business. “And no man can have friends so true as these and -so honorable in reputation without having a character sufficiently -worthy to entitle him to them. Therefore, it is for this reason, and -for none other, that I have decided to hear you in your own behalf. -But, pray understand, I hold out no prospect of leniency. You have been -guilty of such wicked folly that I do not doubt that a charge of high -treason will lie against you.” - -By this time, the playwright was once more completely master of -himself. He stood to confront the Queen simply and without fear. - -“Let us hear your defence, Master Shakespeare, if defence you will -venture to make.” - -“Your grace,” said the player, in his gentle voice, “on my own part, I -offer no defence. Freely and fully I accept all responsibility for any -hurt I have done to justice. But having done none that I know, I take -my stand upon the innocence of my intention.” - -The light of anger flamed in the Queen’s eyes. - -“Don’t use so many words, sirrah,” she said, sharply. “Come to the -issue. I am a plain woman, and I ask for plain words and few. For what -reason, I will ask you, have you embraced these devious ways?” - -The player met with calm eyes the harsh glance of the Sovereign. - -“If it be treason, your grace, to befriend the innocent,” he said, “I -will gladly pay the penalty of my crime.” - -The eyes of the Queen sparkled ominously. - -“The innocent, sirrah! Pray, what do you mean by the innocent? Is it -the part of innocence, I ask you, to engage in a plot to take away my -life?” - -“No, your grace,” said the player. “And may it never be permitted to -one of your subjects to say otherwise.” - -“Then may I ask why you take the part of those who have done so?” - -“I have but taken the part, your grace, of one accused wrongfully.” - -“Do not impugn the Queen’s justice, sirrah!” - -“God forbid! But, in this instance, I make so bold as to affirm that a -grievous miscarriage has occurred.” - -“God’s blood, sirrah!” cried the Queen, “I would have you be wary. If -you dare to impugn the integrity of our courts, and you cannot make -good your ill words in every particular, you shall make heavy payment -for such a contumacy.” - -The player showed neither hesitation nor alarm, yet the hostility of -the Queen’s demeanor must have daunted all save the very stout of heart. - -“Far be it from me, your grace,” he said, “to impugn the integrity of -that which no man in this realm should ever call in question. But no -human assembly can be wholly free of error. And in this most grievous -matter, I swear to your grace before God that there has been a truly -terrible miscarriage of justice.” - -The eyes of the Queen grew dark with menace. - -“Prove your words, sirrah. And if ye fail, God help you.” - -“Readily will I prove them,” said the player, with a certain triumph in -his voice. “I hold the proof in my hand.” - -As he spoke, he struck his hand into his doublet and produced the -written confession of Simon Heriot. He gave the paper to the Queen. - -With a cold fury sparkling in her eyes, Elizabeth handed the document -to the Lord Treasurer. She commanded him to read it to her. - -Surprise, excitement, incredulity were evoked in that tyrannical bosom -by the minister’s perusal of this document. But not for a moment did -her native keenness of mind desert her. - -“Tell me, my lord,” she said, “is this an honest and genuine document?” - -Cecil scrutinized the paper closely. - -“It bears no evidence, your grace, as far as one can at present see,” -said the Lord Treasurer, cautiously, “of its being a counterfeit. But -it would be well, perhaps, to have further and more expert testimony -upon the subject.” - -“Let this man, Simon Heriot, be at once summoned,” said the Queen. - -“Alas! your grace,” said the player, “Simon Heriot has been ten days -dead. This is his dying testimony.” - -The Queen shook her head suspiciously. - -“I like not this matter,” she said. “Who are the others named in this -conspiracy?” - -“One William Muir, your grace, and one Robert Grisewood.” - -“Let them be brought to me instantly.” - -“Unhappily, your grace, William Muir has fled the country.” - -“Has he so!” said the Queen, sternly. “Then what of this man Grisewood? -So lately as yesterday, with my own eyes, I saw him here. My lord, let -the man be brought to us immediately.” - -Cecil left the room in order to carry out these instructions. But in a -few minutes, he had returned with the information that Grisewood was -not to be seen anywhere within the precincts of the palace. Having -regard, however, to the great urgency of the matter, the Lord Treasurer -announced that he had already dispatched a troop of horse to fetch the -man from his lodgings in the Strand. - -“It is well,” said the Queen, grimly. - -With a curt nod, she dismissed all save Cecil from her presence, saying -she would confer with them again presently. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII - - -THE four men, Shakespeare, Burbage, Pembroke, Raleigh, waited in the -Queen’s ante-chamber, there to abide the issue. Long they waited. It -was a far cry in those days from Richmond to the Strand and back again. -Shakespeare alone was without concern. The others were gravely uneasy. -The Queen’s vengeful temper was much to be feared, and Cecil was by no -means a person to be trusted. - -The friends of the player were convinced that he had adduced a genuine -proof of the innocence of Gervase Heriot. They were satisfied, -moreover, that he had been inspired by no other motive than an -overmastering desire to affirm justice, truth and mercy. Nevertheless, -the turn things were taking made them painfully anxious in regard to -the outcome of the whole affair. - -The Queen, for all the native vigor of her understanding, was a mass of -prejudice and caprice. She was bitterly resentful of the inconvenience -that had been caused by the player’s wanton interference. Again, a man -like Grisewood, with his back to the wall, could be trusted to fight -tooth and nail for his life. He would lie, that was certain. He was -bound to deny the authenticity of the slender evidence that had been -adduced in a manner so fortuitous. - -The upshot was likely to be that the affair would resolve itself into a -battle between a villain and an honest man. It would become a question -in that event as to whose word the Queen would accept. Already the -player was out of favor. And when it came to a question of holding -the balance even between him and another, when it came to weighing -judicially the words of each, it was most probable that the mind of a -capricious woman would prove incapable of giving him fair play. - -Yes, the friends of the player, as they sat silent in the Queen’s -antechamber to await the arrival of Grisewood were uneasy indeed. The -man was known as a cunning, plausible, unscrupulous adventurer. He was -not likely to be over-nice as to the means he used to save his neck. -And one and all felt that already the case was prejudged. - -Presently Pembroke and Raleigh, who were officers of the Household, -withdrew. The playwright and his friend the tragedian were left -together. The hearts of both were too full for speech. The time passed -very slowly. Each hour seemed interminable. The day wore on but still -there came no summons to the Queen’s presence. After a while, food -was brought to them at the instance of a friendly official. But they -were without appetite, and did not touch it. Their minds were wholly -preoccupied with the subject of life and death. - -In all that long time, which seemed interminable, not a word was -exchanged between the playwright and the tragedian. Yet in the manner -of a pair of children, they sat very close together, the hand of -Burbage holding that of his friend. He was his elder brother, his -protector; he felt an overmastering desire to shield that shy and -delicate spirit from the harsh rebuffs of fate. - -At last, about four o’clock of the afternoon, came the dread summons -to the Queen. It was conveyed by the Lord Treasurer in person. There -was nothing to learn from that lofty and formal mien. The measured -deportment, the detached air told nothing. He who so often was called -to be the arbiter of life and death in the daily routine of his high -office betrayed not the least emotion. Indeed, the grim question now at -issue appeared to touch him not at all. - -The Queen was taking her ease on a gorgeous gilt couch. One of her -ladies, who was working a sampler in silk, was seated on a low stool -at her side. She was a dark and handsome young woman with restless, -brilliant and piercing eyes. As soon as the playwright entered the -room, they met his in a kind of challenge, half of cynical interest, -half of mockery. A slow, rather insolent smile curled her lips. For a -very brief instant, the poet was obviously disconcerted. But almost -at once, he had exercised the whole force of his will and was able to -attend that other woman who held his life in her hand. - -The Queen sat up on her couch. - -“Master Shakespeare,” she said, “I have to inform you that the man, -Grisewood, is dead.” - -“Dead!” gasped the player. - -“Yes,” said the Queen, “he is dead. He has been found at his lodging -with his throat cut. And there can be little doubt, as I am given to -understand, that he has died by his own hand.” - -The player stood in silence, looking straight in front of him. There -came a violent surge and onrush of his thoughts. In the sensitive and -generous mind, relief for the good riddance of a bad man was tempered -with an emotion of pity for an end so ignoble. - -“I have to say this, Master Shakespeare.” The voice of the Queen, which -sounded very far away, broke in upon the heavy tumult of his thoughts. -“The death of this man, Grisewood, removed a most material witness. He -alone could have proved or disproved your statement.” - -By now, however, the playwright had regained full command of himself. -Calmly, he sustained the force of the Queen’s gaze. The somber yet -wonderful eyes were fixed on the raddled and rather peevish face. - -“Under the favor of your grace,” he said, speaking very slowly and in -the manner of one who chooses his words with the utmost care, “Sir -Robert Grisewood has already attested to the truth of the statement -which I have made.” - -“In what way, sirrah? By what means?” said the Queen, sharply. - -“By the taking of his own life,” said the playwright. “It is a clear -confession of the knowledge that he is undone.” - -“How should he have any such knowledge?” - -“He was present yesterday, your grace, in the pavilion, when I -rehearsed the story of his crime. I marked his livid face among the -audience. It is one I shall never forget.” - -The Queen nodded her head, but did not speak. - -“My eyes were fixed, your grace, upon that man’s face when I said I -held the proof of his guilt. I saw his cheek turn to the color of his -ruff. And by that I knew there was confirmation of my statement had -confirmation been required.” - -“The man was an arrant coward,” said the Queen, contemptuously. “But -such evidence of his guilt does not convince me. How say you, my lord?” -She turned to Cecil peremptorily. - -The statesman did not answer the question immediately. For the moment, -that powerful and deep-seeing mind was much preoccupied. And when -answer he did, it was with the air of a man enfolded by a sense of -profound and settled conviction. - -“By leave of your grace,” he said, “and under your good favor, I am -bound to confess that I share the view of this matter which is held by -Master Shakespeare. In my humble opinion, the death of this man in such -circumstances is an irrefragable evidence of his guilt.” - -The Queen was now sitting very upright. The lean features had assumed a -look of sharpest inquiry. A round oath fell from her lips. - -“By God’s body, my lord, I begin to think you are in the right!” - -She was a woman of capricious temper. The milk of human kindness flowed -an uncertain stream in that sterile heart. But her ears were never -quite deaf to the voice of reason. Moreover, there were occasions when -a sense of justice overtook her. - -It began almost to seem that this occasion was likely to be one of them. - -“Tell me, my lord,” she demanded, “is this to say that you accept, -as a matter of sober verity, that the handwriting of Simon Heriot is -contained in this paper?” - -“Yes, your grace, I am of that opinion.” - -“You are satisfied that the man, Simon Heriot, wrote this confession -with his own hand?” - -“Yes, your grace, that is the view I hold. In the first place, I have -taken the opportunity to compare the writing in the paper with that of -another document in the same hand. And may it please your grace that I -am fully satisfied that they are one and the same. And, further, I will -add that the death in such circumstances of such a man convinces me -that a grievous miscarriage of justice has been perpetrated in the case -of the young man, Gervase Heriot.” - -Another round oath rose to the lips of the Queen. She got up -impulsively from her couch. The heart of a woman had begun to stir in -that withered and grotesque frame. - -“My lord, if that is your opinion, we must go further into this,” she -said. “Upon my life, we must not send to the ax those who have done -nothing to deserve it.” - -“To that, your grace, I say amen with all my heart,” said the Lord -Treasurer, assuming an air of simple human kindness, which really -became him very well indeed. - -“Let this young man, Heriot, attend us here and now,” said the Queen. - -“Unfortunately, both Mr. Heriot and Mistress Feversham have already -been removed to the Tower,” said the Lord Treasurer, “until the -pleasure of your Majesty be further known.” - -“Let the young man be brought to us at once,” said the Queen. “And the -girl also.” - -“The commands of your Majesty shall be obeyed,” said the Lord -Treasurer. “Both prisoners shall be sent for immediately.” - -With a low bow, the minister quitted the room. - -A subtle but marked change had suddenly taken place in the Queen’s -manner. She turned to the playwright with a certain kindness in the -hard eyes. - -“Belike, sirrah,” she said, “your play may prove a comedy, after all.” - -The playwright stood before her in silence with bent head. In the -strong frame, with its tense outlines, was a profound humility which -the Queen was wholly at a loss to understand. - -“How say you, sirrah? Would you not have it so?” - -“Life is never a comedy, your grace,” said the playwright, speaking -very gently, almost as one who thinks aloud. - -“A dark saying,” said the Queen, “How say you, Mary?” She turned, with -an ironical air, to the young woman who was working so busily upon the -sampler. “Perhaps Master Shakespeare will expound it for us out of the -infinite store of his wisdom. You don’t find life a very tragic matter, -eh, my girl, you who have the whole world at your feet?” - -The august lady gave her gentlewoman a light box on the ear. - -Mistress Fytton, whose dark and brilliant beauty had its sinister -aspect, rose from her stool with a sigh and a little laugh. - -“It is the business of a poet, your grace, to be melancholy,” said -Mistress Mary. - -“Yes, I had not thought of that,” said the Queen. “But I suspect, Miss -Malapert, you know more of poets than I do.” - -“God forbid, your grace,” Mistress Mary made a deep but mocking curtsy. - -“You impudent hussy!” - -And this time, the royal lady gave her gentlewoman so sound a box on -the ear, that it rang through the room. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX - - -GERVASE and Anne had been taken the previous evening from Richmond to -the Tower. They were placed in a prison as dismal as on that occasion -of their first meeting, which now seemed so far away in the past. But -Gervase was better able now to prepare himself for the grim fate that -too surely awaited him. - -Both these children of destiny had had many weeks in which to make -ready for that which was now to befall them. Their souls were numb. -Long ago, they had given up all hope of life. Indeed, they had almost -given up all desire of it, such had been their sufferings. The only -boon they now craved of Providence was that they might be allowed to -die together. - -In the course of the afternoon of the first day of their imprisonment, -word was brought to them that the Queen desired to see them at once, -that they were to be carried before her immediately, and that she -herself would there and then decide their fate. - -They looked for no clemency. Unknown to each other, the prisoners -were borne again to the palace at Richmond, each in a separate closed -carriage, jealously guarded by soldiers with drawn swords. The gorgeous -sunlight streamed in through the windows of their coaches, the dust -of midsummer whirled around the wheels, but their minds were withdrawn -from all outward and visible things. They felt they were going to their -death. God grant that it be given to them to embrace it together! - -On their arrival at the palace, shortly after six o’clock, they were -taken at once to an antechamber, which was next the Queen’s own -apartment. Here they met again. And the solemn-faced, harsh-looking men -who had them in their care had enough humanity to stand apart, while -Anne yielded herself to the arms of Gervase. - -“Have you the dagger?” she whispered, shaking convulsively. - -“Alas! they have found it,” said Gervase. “If only I had it now, I -would plunge it into your heart ... my life!” - -“Oh, if only you had it!” - -They had not long to wait for the dread summons to the Queen. All too -soon appeared the Lord Treasurer. At once, he ushered them into the -room where the Queen sat. - -Gervase had cast off his disguise. No longer was he the aged and -bearded Italian music master, but a trim and rather fine young man, -dressed very soberly, to be sure, yet affecting a style not out of -place at that Court, of which less than a year ago he had been an -ornament. - -Anne remained, however, in her charming boy’s dress of the previous -day. The lean grace of outline was rendered more poignant by the thin -brown cheeks, the bright, grave eyes, the head of close-clipt curls. -In the wistfulness of this frail figure, chastened by the long night -of the soul, there was a pathos which struck at the hearts of all who -beheld it. - -Besides, the Queen and the Lord Treasurer, there was one other person -in the room. Gervase and Anne, for all that they were passing through -a nightmare of dull terror, were sensible of a presence in the -background. It was their friend the play-actor, grave of look and yet -unfearing; gentle, pitiful, and yet secure of soul. Somehow, the sight -of him who had done so much, who had put his fortunes to the proof, -nay, even life itself, that he might help them, moved these hapless -lovers to new courage. - -From the gentle face of this man, all compassion, all tenderness, their -eyes sought that of the Queen. That was a very different countenance. -And yet, as those hawklike eyes met theirs, a curious light ran -in them. It was almost as if, in spite of herself, Elizabeth had -been moved by the sight of this shadowy, yet dauntless thing, this -_Rosalind_ who yesterday had charmed her with her coquetry, her grace, -her sorcery of voice and look. - -“Mistress Feversham”--the harsh voice seemed to assault their ears, so -sharp it was, so merciless--“I am given to understand you are a woman. -But let me say that, in the moment I saw you first, I knew that you -were that.” Here the voice fell away with the oddest suddenness. A -tense moment passed in which it seemed that the sovereign could hardly -trust herself to speak. “And, by God, you are a brave woman! ... a very -brave woman, even if you are a very froward one.” - -The Queen turned abruptly to the Lord Treasurer. There was a sour and -cruel smile on the thin lips. - -“Do we understand,” she said, “that there is a boon Mistress Feversham -would crave at our hands?” - -A silence followed the question--a silence in which Elizabeth and her -minister looked without pity upon the shrinking pair who stood before -them. - -In the next instant, Anne had cast herself on her knees at the Queen’s -feet. - -But it was left to Gervase to speak. And he spoke as one who proudly -asks a favor to which he feels he has clearly established a claim. - -“Your grace.” The young man sank to his knees. “We crave of your mercy -that we be permitted to die together.” - -The Queen’s answer was a swift glance at the Lord Treasurer. And then, -perhaps, it may have been that she felt a sudden sting of remorse for -the cruel nature of the play she was enacting. Yet the face of her -adviser was as cold as stone. It bore no trace of feeling. And it may -have been that such an impassiveness smote the heart of one who, after -all, was a woman, with all a woman’s emotions. - -Involuntarily, as it seemed, the Queen turned her eyes from Cecil -toward that other, that more human witness of the scene. Unconsciously, -as if at the beck of an invisible power, her imperious gaze sought the -mild one of him whose life was passed in the making of plays. His face, -averted from a sight it could not endure, was melted with tears. - -Of a sudden, something stirred in the Queen’s heart. It was such a -pang of nature as had not touched it for many a long year. The time -was surely at hand in which to make an end of the cruel comedy. Upon a -quick impulse in which the woman alone bore a part, and the tyrannical -arbitress of life and death had no share, she raised the unhappy girl -in her arms and gravely kissed her on the forehead. - -“You are a brave thing,” cried the harsh, rough voice. “By God, you are -a brave thing. You shall suffer no more. Our pardon shall be granted to -you, and also to this young man against whom as we are informed----” - -But the sentence so fraught with destiny was never finished. The frail -form had grown stiff and cold in the arms of the Queen. - - - - -CHAPTER XL - - -IT happened that one afternoon of early autumn, William Shakespeare -rode out to Richmond, as he had done so many times of late, and sought -poor Anne where she still lay in the house of a good friend. Her bed -was in a charming chamber, from which she could see the sunlit Thames -winding through its green valley. Gervase, thin and careworn, was -kneeling by the bed, and his arms were holding its frail occupant. - -For many days Anne had lain between life and death. But the fire of -youth was in her veins. She had fine courage, moreover, pure strength -of body, therefore Nature fought for her. And in the end Nature -prevailed. Yet long after life itself had conquered, it was feared -that reason, the sovereign goddess, would be dethroned forever in that -finely tempered spirit. - -Her friends never gave up hope. Many were the dark and cruel days in -which she hovered upon the verge of that abyss, by comparison with -which death itself is more than kind. And at last, very slowly, very -fitfully, the wisdom, the patience, the devotion of those that watched -over her met with their reward. - -When at last it became known that the grimmest of all her perils was -past, there were those of her friends who laid upon a certain famous -man as being the foremost of their number, the happy task of bearing -the tidings to the Queen that all was well with poor _Rosalind_. - -The player, humble-minded as he was, would have been the last man in -the world to arrogate to himself any such privilege. But the insistence -of Anne’s friends was strong. Well they knew the valiant part this man -had played. Moreover, the Queen, it seemed, had caused many inquiries -to be made of “the brave thing” who was fighting the sternest of all -her battles. The heart of the woman had been moved by the gallant -story. It may have been that Gloriana felt that honor had been done to -the sex of which she herself was a foremost ornament. She may have felt -that even in an heroic age here was a fitting mother for heroes. - -Be that as it may, the heart of the woman had been melted. And that -golden afternoon, William Shakespeare was the bearer of glad tidings -from the Queen in her palace at Greenwich. She was graciously pleased -to grant a full and free pardon to Gervase Heriot and Anne Feversham. - -There was a look of joy in the face of the player as he entered her -chamber with the high news. He found her propped up with pillows, thin -as a ghost, but her eyes were no longer wild. By the side of the bed -knelt Gervase. One arm clasped the frail form that now was all his -life; and in one hand he held the newly printed and authentic version -of the tragical history of “Romeo and Juliet” which he was reading to -Anne in his gentle voice. - -“Ah, here is the author himself.” - -Gervase laid the book down on the counterpane and rose with a shy -smile. The lovers greeted their friend, to whom they owed everything, -with shining eyes. The player’s apology for so unseasonably disturbing -them was humorously tender, but such news admitted no delay. - -“I am the bearer of great tidings,” the player cried. “All is forgiven.” - -There came a silence, and then “All!” gasped Anne. - -“All,” said the player. “All is forgiven you by Gloriana in her -clemency.” - -Again a silence. - -“But my father!” - -The three simple words seemed almost to tear at the heart of the poet. - -“All is forgiven him also.” - -That also was true. - -“But why does he not come to me? Is it that he will not?” - -Alas, that was a question the poet dare not answer. The plain truth -was he knew not in what sort to answer it. As soon as the Queen had -been apprised of Sir John Feversham’s complete innocence, almost her -first act had been to order his immediate release from the Tower. But -even when a free pardon had been granted to him and he was once more -at liberty and no longer in danger of losing his head, he was yet a -very unhappy man. He was as one completely overborne by the sense of -his daughter’s crime. Even as she lay in her extremity, he could not be -induced to visit her, nor even to speak of her. And now that the awful -force of her suffering was past, and wan and spent, yet with mind at -last clear and reasonable, poor Anne waited in vain for her father’s -coming. A powerful nature had been wounded to the depths. It was not -the act of filial treachery that Sir John Feversham found unforgivable; -it was the disloyalty to the august sovereign whom he had served all -his days that he found impossible to overpass. - -Now it chanced that one man, and he the most devoted among all the -friends of Mistress Anne had had the wit to realize the why and -wherefore of this. Shakespeare saw clearly that even if the outraged -father had been able to forgive, the loyal and devoted subject yet -found it impossible so to do. And no sooner did this tender-hearted -maker of plays realize that such was the case than daring greatly he -went to the Queen. - -“That is a matter, Master Shakespeare, in which we may never be able to -move,” was the Queen’s answer. “And yet perhaps....” - -For the present, the player felt he must rest content with that. - -In the meantime, the author of the tragical history of “Romeo and -Juliet” had to suffer the entreaties of this pair of young lovers that -he should remain and read to them a portion of that wondrous tale of -love which he had given to the world in the spring tide of his own -youth. - -The poet was not proof against the importunities of these children of -destiny whom he had come to love with a father’s tenderness. Therefore -he took his book presently from the hands of Gervase and sat at the bed -foot. In his low and clear voice he began to read the immortal story. - -Hand in hand, their fingers intertwined, Anne and Gervase listened with -strange rapture. That recital was ever afterwards to be a landmark in -their lives. The romance which ravished their ears had its parallel in -their own experience. They could live again their hours of supremest -exaltation. Was it not all distilled in those magical pages? It has -been the destiny of this story of ill-starred love to evoke the wide -world over the tears of those who have known a great passion. But here -were two who had greatly loved to whom even the author’s own rendering -of the exquisite story brought no tears. - -To such a nadir of the spirit had these twin souls descended that it -seemed to them then that they could never weep again. They could never -weep again, yet were they very far from being unhappy. Still, even now -they could hardly realize the nature of the miracle that had happened -to them. Gervase was a free man; life and liberty had been granted to -him; Anne had been given back her reason; and henceforward the only -fetters they were to know were to be the silken one each imposed upon -the other. Yet it was all very hard to realize! - -While the poet continued to read his noble invention he was gravely -preoccupied. His thoughts were forever straying from the creatures of -his fancy to that wan and fragile thing propped up with pillows who -looked as if she could never smile nor weep again. If only Sir John -Feversham could come to his daughter now! If only the forgiveness of -that just man could be granted to her! Even as he read, the words of -the Queen were ever in his ears. “It is a matter, Master Shakespeare, -in which we may never be able to move. And yet perhaps...!” - -The poet, however, had wrought better than he knew. His plea to -Gloriana had not fallen barren on those august ears. The girl had -earned absolution by her courage, nor had the Queen been slow to make -her pleasure known to Sir John Feversham. - -And so it came to pass that the poet was still seated at the bed foot -reading aloud to these children of destiny his entrancing tale of love -when a servant entered the room. A few words were whispered into the -poet’s ear. And then with a sudden startled smile, William Shakespeare -laid down the book on the bed and went hastily out of the room. - -It seemed that a miracle had happened. Sir John Feversham had arrived -at that house, was waiting below and was desirous of seeing his -daughter. - -Only a very little while was William Shakespeare gone from the room. -He had soon returned, to usher into the sunlit chamber a man who -looked strangely bent and old. His hair was perfectly white. Sir John -Feversham had changed much in appearance. And the events of more than -one lifetime had been crowded into poor Anne’s experience since last -she had seen her father. - -At first she did not realize who the frail man was with the snow-white -hair who had come into the room. - -It was not indeed until this grave personage informed Anne that he was -come from the Queen with a present and a message that she recognized -her father. And even then it may have been the slow and deep melancholy -of the voice that told her. She gave a little wild cry, and clutched -Gervase with a sudden pang of terror. But there was nought in her -father’s voice nor in his bearing to inspire it now. - -With a gesture all humility, as one who knows that the will of man is -little, and that man himself is hardly more than a puppet in the hands -of fate, Sir John Feversham knelt by the bed and gave his daughter a -kiss on the lips. - -“It is the token of the Queen’s forgiveness,” he said, “which I am -commanded to bring you.” - -Anne shivered. Dry-eyed and in silence, her arms were flung round her -father’s neck. It was as if she also had come to understand that she -was no more than a plaything in the hands of fate. - -The Queen’s messenger rose from his knees. And now for all his look of -frailty which was almost pitiful, he had the tense and vital air of a -man of affairs who is proud to serve a great sovereign. - -“Further I am bidden by the Queen’s majesty,” he said in his slow and -melancholy speech which was yet like a fine and rare music, “to bestow -upon you, Mistress Anne Feversham, in her name, this chaplet of pearls.” - -As Sir John spoke he took a small shagreen case out of the lining of -his cloak. It contained a small necklace. - -“At the Queen’s behest, thus do I place it round your throat, Mistress -Anne Feversham. Moreover, it is her Majesty’s express command that you -be well and strong again by Twelfth Night, since noon of that day is -the hour her Majesty has appointed for the celebration of your nuptials -with Mr. Gervase Heriot in the Chapel of her grandfather within the -Abbey at Westminster. The Queen hopes herself to be present on the -occasion. And I am further to inform you that on the eve of that day -Mr. William Shakespeare, to whose efforts on your behalf the late -signal acts of the Royal clemency are wholly due, has undertaken to -present a new interlude to the Queen and the ladies and gentlemen of -her Court. His former ones, the Queen commands me to say,”--Sir John -Feversham bowed to the playwright who with a grave smile bowed to him -again--“have been much admired.” - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES: - -Apparent misspelt words have been changed as follows: - - --“glamor” has been changed to “glamour”, page 16; - --“answerd” has been changed to “answered”, page 114; - --“numscull” has been changed to “numskull”, page 156; - --“ab hoc” has been changed to “ad hoc”, page 162; - --“curtesy” has been changed to “curtsy”, page 310. - -All other spelling has been left as typeset. - -Hyphenation has not been made consistent across the book. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE FEVERSHAM *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/old/67774-0.zip b/old/67774-0.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 750a12a..0000000 --- a/old/67774-0.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/67774-h.zip b/old/67774-h.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 98edcdc..0000000 --- a/old/67774-h.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/67774-h/67774-h.htm b/old/67774-h/67774-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 1ffaec2..0000000 --- a/old/67774-h/67774-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12301 +0,0 @@ -<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> - <title> - Anne Feversham, by J. C. Snaith—A Project Gutenberg eBook - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - -body { - margin-left: 10%; - margin-right: 10%;} - -.ph1 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: xx-large; - font-weight: bold; - text-indent: 0;} - -.ph2 {text-align: center; - margin-top: .51em; - margin-bottom: .49em; - font-size: x-large; - font-weight: normal; - text-indent: 0;} - - h1,h2 { - text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ - clear: both;} - -p {margin-top: .51em; - text-align: justify; - margin-bottom: .49em; - text-indent: 1.5em;} - -hr { - width: 33%; - margin-top: 2em; - margin-bottom: 2em; - margin-left: 33.5%; - margin-right: 33.5%; - clear: both;} - -.no-indent {text-indent: 0;} - -.blockquot { - margin-left: 15%; - margin-right: 20%;} - -hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} -@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } -hr.tiny {width: 10%; margin-left: 45%; margin-right: 45%;} - -div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} -h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} - -table { - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto;} - -.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ - /* visibility: hidden; */ - position: absolute; - left: 92%; - font-size: smaller; - text-align: right; - font-style: normal; - font-weight: normal; - font-variant: normal; -} /* page numbers */ - -.center {text-align: center;} - -.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} - -.dropcap {float:left; - font-size: 40px; - line-height: 22.5px; - padding-top: 2px; - padding-bottom: .25px;} - -.bgap {margin-top: 5em;} - -.x-ebookmaker-drop .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.x-ebookmaker .hide {display: none; visibility: hidden;} - -.x-ebookmaker .figcenter {width:100%} - -/* Images */ - -img { - max-width: 100%; - height: auto;} - -.figcenter { - margin: auto; - text-align: center; - page-break-inside: avoid; - max-width: 100%;} - -/* Poetry */ -.poetry-container {text-align: center;} -.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} -/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry in browsers */ -.poetry {display: inline-block;} -.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} -.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} -/* large inline blocks don't split well on paged devices */ -@media print { .poetry {display: block;} } -.x-ebookmaker .poetry {display: block;} - -/* Transcriber's notes */ -.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; - color: black; - font-size:smaller; - padding:0.5em; - margin-bottom:5em; - margin-left: 15%; - margin-right: 15%; - padding-left: 3em; - font-family:sans-serif, serif; } - -.tnindent {margin-left: 1em;} - -/* Poetry indents */ -.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Anne Feversham, by J. C. Snaith</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Anne Feversham</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: J. C. Snaith</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 4, 2022 [eBook #67774]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE FEVERSHAM ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter hide" style="width: 400px;"> -<img src="images/i_cover.jpg" width="400" alt="Cover" /> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1>ANNE FEVERSHAM</h1></div> - -<p class="center no-indent ph2">BY<br /> -J. C. SNAITH</p> - -<p class="bgap"> </p> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 75px;"> -<img src="images/i_title.jpg" width="75" alt="Publisher Logo" /> -</div> - -<p class="center bgap no-indent">D. APPLETON AND COMPANY<br /> -NEW YORK AND LONDON<br /> -1914</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center no-indent"><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1914, by</span><br /> -D. APPLETON AND COMPANY</p> - -<hr class="tiny" /> - -<p class="center no-indent">Published in England as “The Great Age”</p> - -<p class="center no-indent bgap">Printed in the United States of America</p></div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> -<p class="ph1 nobreak" id="ANNE_FEVERSHAM">ANNE FEVERSHAM</p> -</div> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</h2> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">A</span> DISTINGUISHED member of the Lord Chamberlain’s -company, Mr. William Shakespeare by -name, had entered the shop of a tailor in the -town of Nottingham. This popular and respected actor -and playwright was about thirty-five years of age. Of -middle height, he had the compact figure of one in the -prime of a vigorous manhood. His hair was worn rather -long, but his beard, inclining to red in color, was trim -and close. His dress was plainer than is the rule with -those who follow his calling. Indeed at a first glance he -had less of the look of an actor than of a shrewd, cautious -man of affairs who has prospered in trade. Close -observation might have amended this estimate. There -was a vivid pallor about the face, and the somber eyes, -slow-burning and deep-set, were like a smoldering fire. -Even when the mobile features were in repose, which -was seldom the case, the whole effect of the countenance -was vital and arresting.</p> - -<p>“That is a very choice coffin-cloth you have there, -Master Tidey.”</p> - -<p>The manner of the actor and playwright was simplicity -itself. There was not a suspicion of affectation -in it. He passed his fingers over the rich pall that lay -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>on the tailor’s knee. Upon the hem of the cloth an armorial -device was being stitched by the hand of a master -craftsman.</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor gravely. -“Choice enough, choice enough.”</p> - -<p>“Who is the happy man?”</p> - -<p>“A young gentleman who lies in the Castle yonder. -He is to have his head cut off a Tuesday by order of -the Queen.”</p> - -<p>A look of startled interest came into the eyes of the -player. “Is that so, Master Tidey? And young, you say, -and gentle, too?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, young enough. But two or three and twenty—by -all accounts a very fair and deliver young man.”</p> - -<p>“It seems a pity,” said the player, “a mortal pity, for -a man to die by the ax in the heat of his youth. And -yet ’tis better to die by the ax than by the string. It is -at least a gentleman’s death the Queen is giving him,” -he added grimly.</p> - -<p>“As you say,” the tailor agreed, “it is at least a gentleman’s -death the Queen is giving him, and he’ll have -the robe of a gentleman in which to wrap his corpse. -Happen, Master Shakespeare, that in like case it is a -better consideration than would fall to you and me.”</p> - -<p>A light flashed in the somber eyes of the player. “Speak -for yourself Master Tidey,” he said, with a slow, deep -laugh. “Whenever I get my deliverance, by God’s grace -I’ll have the robe of a gentleman to cover me. Unless”—the -light in the somber eyes was so intense that they -shone almost black—“unless they let the reason out, and -then there’s no warrant for any man’s exit. But what -of this poor young man? How comes he to this?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p> -<p>The tailor lowered his voice to a whisper. It was as -if he feared to be overheard. “They do say ’a has -plotted with the Papishers, who are always contriving -against the Queen.”</p> - -<p>“What’s the name of the unlucky youth?”</p> - -<p>“His name is Mr. Gervase Heriot.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Gervase Heriot! He is a kinsman of my Lord -Southampton.” A look of keen pity came upon the -player’s face. “I know the lad well enough. He sat on -our stage at The Globe less than two months ago. An -open, cheerful youth incapable of plotting against aught -save a flask of canaries, if I’m any judge of nature. Poor -young man. Master Tidey, this is a very tragic matter.”</p> - -<p>“Sad enough, Master Shakespeare, sad enough,” said -the tailor, stitching busily at the coffin-cloth.</p> - -<p>The actor passed a delicately shaped hand, the hand -of a poet, across his face. “More than once I have -marked the lad as he sat in the playhouse,” he said. -“’A was a proper neat youth. ’A had a subtle tongue -and a very flaming eye. ’A was german-cousin to Perseus, -him that bestrid the winged horse. And now—with -the taste of milk yet on his lips!” The player -ceased abruptly, as if overcome by a surge of feeling. -For a time he was silent. The tragic end of a youth -of bright promise appeared to weigh upon him sorely.</p> - -<p>Master Nicholas Tidey, whose skill with the needle -and shears had spread far and wide over the midland -counties, was, like the player, a Stratford man. In a -rather shamefaced way, the tailor was a little inclined -to be proud of his fellow-townsman. To be sure his -calling was hardly that of a Christian. On occasion -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>his speech was apt to be a little disorderly, it even verged -upon the fantastical, but Master Tidey was bound to -admit that there must be something in the fellow. For -one thing, rumor had it that he had recently bought New -Place, the largest house in his native town. Such a -fact spoke for itself, even if a wise man was inclined -to discount the glowing reports of the play-actor’s ever-growing -success which reached him continually from -London. But, even as far back in the world’s history -as the age of Elizabeth, “Nothing succeeds like success” -was a maxim known to the philosophers.</p> - -<p>“They do tell me, Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor, -“that some of these harlotry pieces of yours have been -approved by the Queen.”</p> - -<p>The playwright could not help smiling a little at a -certain uneasiness which was apparent in the tone of -his friend, in spite of the fact that that honest man tried -very hard to conceal it. “If I said they had not, Master -Tidey,” he answered, with dry modesty, “I might -be speaking less than I know. On the other hand, if -I said that they had, a needy writer for the stage might -be claiming more than becomes the least of her Majesty’s -servants.”</p> - -<p>Master Tidey looked a little incredulous. “They do -tell me, Master Shakespeare, that you make them out -of your own head entirely. Master Burbage, who was -here an hour ago to have new points set in his hose, -swore it was so, by the beard of the prophet—facetiously, -as I think. But I can hardly believe it, Master -Shakespeare, not out of your own head, and that’s the -fact. Why, I mind the time you was a little graceless -runnion that used to play truant from Stratford Free -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>School. Many’s the time I’ve seen you come sliding down -Short Hill of a winter’s morning in your blue short -coat, with your books falling out o’ your satchel as you -dangled it behind you, and generally twenty minutes -late for the muster. You were always a sharp lad, -Master Shakespeare, I’m bound to say that although -somewhat idly given, but I never thought you’d have had -wit enough to make one of these interludes all out of -your own head like book-learned men who have been -bred at college.”</p> - -<p>“It seems unlikely enough I grant you,” said the player -discreetly. “And my pieces, such as they are, don’t compare -of course with those of some I could mention—there -is a young fellow by the name of Ben Jonson, and one -of these days you’ll be able to contrive a whole garment -for the best of us out of his sleeve ruffles. But -I sometimes think, Master Tidey, when of an evening -I’ve had a glass o’ clear spring water with a carroway-seed -in it at the Mermaid Tavern, that if only he had -had the singular good fortune to have been bred at Oxford -or Cambridge, the world might one day have heard -of William Shakespeare—but no matter! It will all be -the same a hundred years hence.” The player laughed -cheerfully. “We shall all be forgotten, and our interludes -too, long before then.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Master Shakespeare, there can be no doubt -about that,” said the tailor heartily. “And personally -I thank God for it. I don’t hold with these masks and -gallimaufries and such-like cloaks for wantonness, saving -your presence. Still the Queen does, as I understand, -and although I am much surprised at <i>her</i>, that’s -a great matter. And that being the case I am bound to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span>admit that for one who left the Stratford Free School -at the age of thirteen with no more book-knowledge -in his numskull than Daddy Jenkins could put there with -his ferrule, and if, as I say, the Queen approves your -interludes, and they are entirely out of your own head, -as Master Burbage swears they are by the beard of the -prophet—why, I am bound to admit that you bring little -or no discredit upon your native parish.”</p> - -<p>“You pay me a high compliment, Master Tidey,” said -the actor. “And fain would I deserve it. But you will -grieve to learn, I am sure, that the Queen has commanded -the Lord Chamberlain’s servants to her palace -at Richmond on the tenth of July, and moreover she desires -a new piece from the pen of the least of them all. -It would seem that, for some reason at present obscure, -her Grace in her bounty is pleased to approve the nonsensical -comedy of “Love’s Labour’s Lost,” which, between -ourselves, is by no means the brightest of the performances -from the hand of the rustical clown in question.”</p> - -<p>In spite of the strictness of his tenets, Master Tidey -could not forbear to be impressed. “You are indeed coming -to great honors now,” said the tailor, whose worldly -wisdom appeared to be in danger of overriding his high -principles. “And it is not for me to deny that you have -a talent—of a kind that is, Master Shakespeare. But -at least, as you are a Stratford man like myself, I am -glad to hear that there are those who think well of it. -What will you put into your comedy, Master Shakespeare? -Love, I presume, and all manner of wantonness?”</p> - -<p>“Well, Master Tidey,” said the author, “since you -ask the question, you can no more leave love out of a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>comedy than you can leave an apple out of a dumpling. -Besides, it is Gloriana’s desire that I should make her -a tale of love, that there should be youth in it and girlhood -and high poesy—that is, if we can rise to poesy in -this barren age! And it is Gloriana’s pleasure that it -shall be played before her of a summer’s afternoon under -the greenwood in Richmond Park.”</p> - -<p>“You will be making your fortune one of these days, -Master Shakespeare,” said the tailor, upon the verge of -awe.</p> - -<p>“That is as may be, Master Tidey. At least I would -ask nothing better than to quit the stage. A man’s -dignity and a player’s calling don’t ride well together. -In the meantime must I tease my five wits to devise a -play for Gloriana. And it must be made, alas! by the -tenth of July.”</p> - -<p>“I’d rather you had to do it than had I,” said the -tailor, with a sigh of relief, as he took up the needle -and shears.</p> - -<p>By now the player was subdued to the process of -thought, and was twisting his short beard between his -thumb and forefinger. The eyes were veiled almost like -those of a man in a trance. “I’ve a mind to put Robin -Hood in it,” he said. “The bold outlaw of Sherwood -and his merry men. Many’s the time they have come -from the neighboring greenwood into this famous old -town of Nottingham.”</p> - -<p>Before, however, the actor could pursue this pleasant -idea, there arose a sharp clatter of hoofs on the cobblestones -outside the tailor’s door, and a minute afterwards -a personage entered the shop who at once turned his -thoughts into a new direction.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE personage was a young woman of some eighteen -years, breathing youth and its sorcery in -every line. She was tall, well grown, of a beauty -that was remarkable. She stepped with a lithe grace, -a springing freedom that Atalanta would not have disdained. -Her long quilted riding-coat was the last cry -of the fashion, and on the left hand she wore a large -hawking-gauntlet. But that which at once caught the eye -both of the tailor and of the player, and made the charming -figure still more memorable, was an audacious pair -of leather breeches. These clothed her nether limbs, and -below them were a long pair of boots of untanned leather.</p> - -<p>Now Master Tidey it was who had built this fine pair -of hawking-breeches to the explicit order of the wearer, -yet even he could hardly forbear to be scandalized when -he marked its effect. As for the player—but he had -a larger, a more liberal, a more sophisticated mind. -For one thing he had seen the fine ladies of the Court -ride out hawking in this guise. To be sure he had heard -some very salutary criticism of a style of dress that was -creeping into vogue among the highest in the land, -but he was not of those who condemned it. Mr. William -Shakespeare, unlike his friend Nicholas Tidey, betrayed -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>not the least surprise at this young woman’s appearance. -Certainly his curiosity was fully aroused, but perhaps -that was less on account of the garment itself than because -of the look of its wearer.</p> - -<p>In point of fact, Mr. William Shakespeare, whose eye -was very sure in such matters, was charmed by the spectacle. -Swiftly he moved aside, in order that this young -gentlewoman might proceed to the tailor’s counter. -Moreover, as he performed this polite action he removed -his hat with a touch of gallantry, as became an -acquaintance with courts.</p> - -<p>“Good Master Tailor,” said the wearer of the garment, -with an air so fine as to delight Mr. William -Shakespeare still more, “I make you my compliments -upon these hawking-breeches you have been so good as -to devise for me. They are a little tight around the -left knee, otherwise they do excellently well. I make -you my compliments upon them, Master Tailor, and have -the goodness to devise me a second pair in every particular -as the first.”</p> - -<p>Master Tidey bowed obsequiously. “I attend your -pleasure, madam,” he said.</p> - -<p>The young woman then drew off a glove, and with -some little difficulty was able to produce a purse from -the recesses of her attire. “What is your charge, -friend, for this excellent garment, which gives me such -ease in the saddle that from this day I am minded to -wear no other style of habiliment.”</p> - -<p>“Two angels, if it please you, madam.”</p> - -<p>“Here be four, my friend.”</p> - -<p>She opened the purse and counted out in gold pieces -twice the sum that was asked.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span></p> -<p>“Good Master Tailor,” she said, “you have right excellent -craft and your garment pleases me. And if I -must speak the truth, I had never learned until this day -what ease and freedom comes of the wearing of galligaskins.”</p> - -<p>She used such a grave air, as of one expressing a most -serious and private thought, that Mr. William Shakespeare, -who all this time had been regarding her covertly, -although taking care to appear lost in contemplation of -the coffin-cloth the tailor had now discarded, could not -forbear from giving forth a dry, stealthy chuckle.</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne Feversham half turned for the purpose -of visiting such a presumption with an imperious -eye. The clear gaze said as plainly as woman could express -it: “And who, pray, are you, sir? Whoever you -are I’ll thank you to be pretty careful.”</p> - -<p>Howbeit, in the matter of looking down this presumptuous -individual, young Mistress Anne Feversham, it -seemed, had undertaken a task a little beyond her present -powers. There was hardly one among the burgesses -of the town who could have sustained that gaze. -But with this quiet and mild-looking individual, whose -coat and sword were so modest, it was a different matter.</p> - -<p>The impact of the proud eyes of Mistress Insolence -was met with perfect composure. Moreover, there was -just a suspicion of laughter. In the opinion of the lady -there was no ground for levity. Yet it was almost as if -this person, whose dress was so little pretentious as to -be hardly that of a gentleman, was daring to say in his -heart, “Madam, think not ill of me if I confess that, -far from being abashed by your air, I am rather amused -by it.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span></p> -<p>That at least was the quick and sensitive feminine interpretation -of the subtle face whose owner was hardly -entitled to such a look of arch and humorous self-confidence. -Mistress Anne Feversham felt a slight wound -in her dignity. Who, pray, was this impertinent?</p> - -<p>By some means best known to himself, Mr. William -Shakespeare appeared to read the thoughts of the lady. -At least the sly smile that had crept into those somber -but wonderful eyes had deepened to a look of roguery. -Mistress Anne grew crimson; the disdainful head went -up; she bit her lip; and then realizing that such a display -of embarrassment was wholly unworthy of the -daughter of the Constable of Nottingham Castle, the -pride of youth chastened her so sorely that she turned -her back abruptly on the cause of her defeat.</p> - -<p>Soon, however, the ever-abiding sense of place and -power came to her aid and she was able to command -herself sufficiently to address the tailor.</p> - -<p>“I see the town is full of play-acting rogues,” she said. -“Whence do they come?”</p> - -<p>“From London, madam, I believe,” said Master Tidey, -without venturing to look in the direction of his friend.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid they are a saucy-looking crew. My -groom”—perhaps it was well that the voice of Mistress -Anne did not reach the ears of the haughty young falconer -who was taking charge of her horse at the tailor’s -door—“my groom pointed them out to me as I passed -the Moot Hall. As soon as I return to the Castle I will -inform my father the Constable, and I will see if they -cannot be put in the stocks, which to my mind is where -they belong.”</p> - -<p>As became the shrewd man he was, Master Nicholas -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span>Tidey made no reply. He was content to nod his head -gravely, as if he tacitly approved, while at the same time -he contrived to keep a tail of an eye upon his distinguished -friend. There might or there might not have -been a ghost of a smile upon that prim and cautious -mouth.</p> - -<p>Indeed, very wisely, Master Tidey left it to the play-actor -himself to try a fall with such a formidable -adversary. And this that daring individual proceeded -to do in a manner quite cool and leisurely, and yet with -a vastly considered air. In his eye, it was true, there -was a suspicion of something far other than gravity. -That of course was regrettable; but it was undoubtedly -there.</p> - -<p>Mr. William Shakespeare’s first act was to remove -his hat with its single short cock’s feather, and then he -bowed very low indeed, in the manner of one quite well -aware of addressing a social superior.</p> - -<p>“Cry you mercy, mistress,” he said, “but as one who -is himself a poor actor may he ask wherein his guild -has had the unhappiness to offend you?”</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne Feversham met this effrontery with a -disdain that was wonderful. Her chief concern at the -moment was to show her great contempt without a descent -into downright ill-breeding. But as soon as she -met the somber eyes of this individual, in which a something -that was rare and strange was overlaid by a subtle -mockery, this natural instinct took wings and fled. In -those eyes was something that hardly left her mistress -of herself, in spite of her father the Constable, her -young blood-horse and her incomparable pair of galligaskins.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span></p> -<p>“My father the Constable would have all play-actors -whipped,” said Mistress Anne Feversham.</p> - -<p>But her voice was not as she had intended it to be. -Moreover, her father the Constable had yet to deliver -himself of such an illiberal sentiment. And this graceless -individual seemed to be fully aware that this was -the case.</p> - -<p>“Whipped, mistress!” His look of grave consternation -did not deceive her. “You would whip a poor actor!”</p> - -<p>“All who are actors, sir, my father would.”</p> - -<p>“Is it conceivable?—the gentlest, the humblest, the -most industrious, the most law-abiding of men!”</p> - -<p>“My father cares not for that, sir. He says they are -masterless rogues.”</p> - -<p>“Then by my faith, mistress, that is very froward in -your father.”</p> - -<p>“He says they are the scum of taverns and alehouses -and they corrupt the public mind.”</p> - -<p>“Ods my life! how comes so crabbed a sire to have a -daughter so fair, so feat, so charming!”</p> - -<p>It began to seem hopeless for Mistress Anne to continue -in such a strain of severity. For a moment she -used her will in order to punish this audacity, but in -the next she was trembling upon the verge of open -laughter. Still the consciousness that she was no less a -person than the only daughter and heiress of Sir John -Feversham, the Constable of Nottingham Castle and chief -justice of the forest of Sherwood, was just able to save -her from that which could only have been regarded in the -light of a disaster.</p> - -<p>“I would fain inform you, mistress, there are play-actors -whom even the Queen approves.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span></p> -<p>Alas! Mistress Anne had a full share of the cynical -irreverence of youth.</p> - -<p>“I am not at all surprised to learn that, sir. I have -even been told that the Queen dyes her hair.”</p> - -<p>The effect of a speech so daring was to startle Master -Tidey quite visibly. The world looks to one of his craft -to have a conventional mind, and there was no doubt -the times were perilous. The shears almost fell from his -hand. If this was not treason, might he never sew another -doublet!</p> - -<p>The play-actor, however, was of a fiber less delicate. -It was as much as Mr. William Shakespeare could do to -refrain from open laughter.</p> - -<p>“May I ask, mistress,” he said, “what is your warrant -for such a grave charge against the Queen’s Majesty?”</p> - -<p>“The warrant of my own eyes, sir. Her hair was -certainly dyed when she stayed at the Castle a month -since.”</p> - -<p>“But bethink you, mistress, might it not appear less -treasonable if Gloriana’s true subjects presumed her hair -to be a wig?”</p> - -<p>“Let them presume nothing, sir, but that which is the -truth.”</p> - -<p>“To so pious a resolve even a poor actor may say -amen.”</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne realized that she was no match for this -man. The only hope for her dignity lay in a cool scorn -of him. Suddenly the gloriously straight back was -turned disdainfully. Let the greatest lady for ten miles -beware how she chopped logic with a strolling actor.</p> - -<p>“Master Tailor, I would have you devise me a second -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span>pair of these right excellent breeches, in every particular -as the first, and do you have them at the Castle -against the first of May.”</p> - -<p>Master Tidey bowed low.</p> - -<p>“Good-day to you, Master Tailor.”</p> - -<p>Master Tidey bowed still lower with that clear and -proud speech in his ears.</p> - -<p>With chin held high, and with an arrogant, free-swinging -carriage, Mistress Anne Feversham went forth -of the tailor’s shop. But even then, abrupt as was the -manner of her going, she had to submit to the play-actor’s -leaping to the door before she could reach it herself. -He opened it and held it for her with the grace and -dignity of a courtier. She passed imperiously, without -yielding him a glance or a “Thank you.”</p> - -<p>A dashing young man in the livery of a falconer was -holding the young blood-horse of Mistress Anne outside -the tailor’s door. He was handsomely mounted on an -animal similar to the one he held for his mistress. On -his fist was a small falcon, hoodwinked and fessed.</p> - -<p>Very agile was the lady in finding her way into the -saddle. For all that she was not quite clever enough to -defeat this incorrigible play-actor. He sprang to her -stirrup while she had one foot still on the ground and -hoisted her up with an address that enforced her respect, -and with so grave an air of courtesy as tacitly to compel -her own.</p> - -<p>All the same she was angry. And she had sense -enough to know that it was illogical to be so. Yet -she swung her horse around sharply in order to give -expression to her state of mind. And as the falconer, -John Markham by name, confided the merlin to the accustomed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> -wrist of his mistress, he turned back an instant -to scowl at the player. It was even as if he would -ask him who the devil he was, and what the devil he -did there.</p> - -<p>The player removed his hat with its single cock’s -feather in a manner that was almost tenderly ironical. -It had hardly been a display of Court manners of which -he had been the recipient. But he was too much a man -of the world to look for those everywhere. And above -all here was youth in its glamour, youth in its sorcery. -For the sake of a stuff so precious he would forgive -a crudity greater than this.</p> - -<p>With a sigh of delight the player stood at the tailor’s -door to watch this fine pair ride very slowly and haughtily -down the street. For all their air of class consciousness -and their open contempt of the townspeople, which -their youth alone saved from being ridiculous, they made -a glorious pair in the eye of the part-proprietor of the -Globe Theatre, London.</p> - -<p>That was an eye to judge men and things as none -other since the world began. Neither Mistress Anne -Feversham nor the falconer was aware of that fact, -and had they been aware of it they had not cared a -button. All that they did know and all that they cared -was that the worthy burgesses of Nottingham were stealing -glances of awe and admiration at them. In a word, -they were causing a sensation, and were very pleasantly -alive to the fact.</p> - -<p>Yes, undoubtedly a gallant pair. John Markham, in -spite of his superior condition and rising renown, rode -behind his mistress at a respectful distance of ten yards. -They sat their horses with great skill and assurance. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span>First one and then the other, as they walked them -slowly down the street, would touch them gently with -the spur, in order to enjoy the pleasure of showing them -off in the sight of the townspeople.</p> - -<p>The player, still standing at the tailor’s door, could -not take his eyes from the spectacle. Almost wistfully, -and yet in a kind of entrancement, he watched them -until at last there came a turn in the street and they -were lost to view. Then he went within to rejoin his -scandalized friend, who to compose his mind had had recourse -already to the needle and shears.</p> - -<p>“I never saw the like o’ that,” said Master Nicholas -Tidey. “It’s rare to be the quality. But that’s nothing -to you, Master Shakespeare. I reckon you see it every -day o’ the week.”</p> - -<p>“It’s a fine thing, I grant you, when it rides proud in -the sight of heaven,” said the player abstractedly.</p> - -<p>“Aye, Master Shakespeare, and even when it goes -afoot!” said the tailor, whose mind was more pedestrian. -“It does a man good, I always think, to have a sight -of the quality now and again. But as I say, Master -Shakespeare, it is nothing to you who go to Court like a -gentleman.”</p> - -<p>But the part-proprietor of the Globe Theatre was not -heeding the words of his friend. The light that never -was on sea or land had come into those somber eyes. -Suddenly his hand struck the tailor’s counter a great -blow. “That is an adorable miniard,” he said. “By -my soul, if Gloriana requires a comedy, here is matter -for a comedy for Gloriana!”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>N the meantime, the unconscious cause of Mr. William -Shakespeare’s enthusiasm was proceeding -somewhat arrogantly through the streets of the -town. Mistress Anne Feversham was mightily proud of -herself, of her young blood-horse, of her pied merlin, -above all of her brand-new hawking-breeches, which -she had had the audacity to copy from two particularly -dashing ladies of the Court who had accompanied the -Queen on her recent visit to Nottingham.</p> - -<p>As for John Markham, she was proud of him too. He -made a fine squire. But nothing would have induced -her to let him know it. None the less surely was -he subdued to her purposes. A wise fellow in all -things else, he was the true knight, the ready slave of -his young mistress. And his young mistress was imperious.</p> - -<p>High temper was in every clean-run line of her. It -was in the eye, a thing of mist and fire, gloriously -placed like that of one of Leonardo’s ladies. It was in -the nose, curved like the beak of her merlin; in the -delicate molding of the chin and mouth, in the slender -column of the throat, in the poise of the head, in the -supple assurance of the body which ruled a beast of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>mettle and goaded it into setting up its will for the -pleasure of subduing it.</p> - -<p>John Markham, with a head beyond his years, was -passing wise for his station. He was no ordinary servant, -but one high in the regard of Sir John Feversham, -the Constable of Nottingham Castle, that grim pile half-a-mile -off, rising sheer from its rock in the midst of the -water-meadows. Learned in hawking, he was esteemed -by gentle and simple for many a mile. His skill in the -craft of princes had even carried his fame as far as -Belvoir, under whose shadow he had been bred. He -was a shrewd, a skilful, a bold young fellow, wise in -all things except that he worshiped the ground upon -which his young mistress trod.</p> - -<p>That was the fault of his youth. He had been less -than he was, far less, could he have attended her pleasure -without dreaming of her in the long watches of the -night, or desiring in his hours of madness that she -should plunge into his heart the silver-hilted poniard -she wore at her waist. This was her eighteenth birthday, -and he was rising twenty-five. She was rich, important, -beautiful, capricious. For she was the only -child and heiress of the greatest man for ten miles round.</p> - -<p>And he, who was he? Well, if the truth must be told, -he was the byblow of a kitchen-wench and one of great -place who had shown him not a spark of kindness. Yes, -if the truth must be told—and John Markham thanked -no man for telling it—born and bred under the shadow -of Belvoir, given the soul and the features of a noble -race, but without birth, favor or education, except that -he was learned in hawking. Encased in that fine livery -was a strong, tormented soul.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span></p> -<p>His young mistress never allowed him to forget that -he was a servant. In her gentlest moods she would -throw her words to him as if he had been a dog. She -knew he was her slave, happy only in his chains, one -barred by fortune from an equality she could never forgive -his not being able to claim. His passive acceptance -of the bar seemed to make her cruel. He was so tall, so -brave, so handsome; not a man in all the county of -Notts could cast a main of hawks like him. Only a -month ago the Queen had praised him to his face. Yet -was he like a hound that came to heel at her word, or -a horse that took sugar out of her hand without hurting -it. In the presence of others he could be proud enough, -but in hers he was as humble as the meanest of her servants, -who asks only to be allowed to wait upon her will.</p> - -<p>At this moment, be it said, the will of Mistress Anne -was making John Markham decidedly unhappy. It had -done so indeed for a fortnight past. In the Queen’s train -during her recent visit to Sir John, his master, at the -Castle, had come the ladies of her household. Among -these had been two who, not to put too fine a point upon -the matter, had given Mistress Anne ideas. Brazenly -enough as it had seemed to chaste minds, yet it was to -be feared with the sanction of their august mistress, had -they gone a-hawking in the meadows astride their horses, -the nether woman arrayed in brown leather galligaskins!</p> - -<p>Honest John Markham was not alone in his horror of -so sad a spectacle. More than one graybeard had wagged -over it in the buttery; more than one prim kirtle had -lamented it bitterly in the hall. What were the women -of England coming to, if the highest in the land—! The -matter was one scarce fit for persons of delicacy. If -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span>such a practice spread, who should say to what heights -ere long the vaunting spirit of woman would aspire?</p> - -<p>Alas! the matter had not ended here. Mistress Anne, -in the very insolence of daring, had seen the last word -in modishness in this most perilous innovation. Nothing -would content her but that she should have a pair of -leather hawking-breeches for her wear. John Markham, -that trusty henchman, was sent at once to Master Nicholas -Tidey, the man’s tailor of Nottingham, with careful -instructions from his mistress.</p> - -<p>She was not able herself to visit that worthy, because -she had been expressly forbidden by her father to pass -through the town gate. Thus had the task been laid -upon John Markham of haranguing the accomplished -Master Tidey. And in the last resort he summoned that -famous craftsman in person to the Castle, since it presently -appeared that there are subtleties in the design of a -pair of hawking-breeches which cannot be dealt with -by third parties. Finally John it was who bore the -sinister parcel into the Castle under cover of night, carrying -it with his own faithful hands into the presence of -the lady on the eve of the eighteenth anniversary of -her birth.</p> - -<p>Truly a very perilous innovation. Honest John did -not go beyond that. Whether that other honest John, -his master, from whom she derived her over-riding temper, -would be content with such a moderation—well, -that was a matter that the future would soon be called -upon to decide.</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne, riding slowly down the street ten yards -ahead of the falconer, checking her blood-horse, Cytherea, -with one hand and holding her pied merlin in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>other, was a picture to haunt the young man’s dreams for -many a day to come. Already she had much skill in -the art he had taught her: she could bring down her bird -with the best; she sat her horse like a young goddess; -the galligaskins of supple brown leather—alas! that was -a subject to which the honest fellow durst not lend his -mind.</p> - -<p>As they rode through the town, many a sly glance -was stolen at the wearer of the brown leather galligaskins. -But the expression on the face of the falconer -said clearly enough: “Be wary of your gaze, my masters. -There is a broken costard for any who are froward of -eye.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Mistress Anne made a nine days’ wonder -in the ancient borough of Nottingham. Presently -the town was behind them. Instead of returning straight -to the Castle, they made for the open meadows all spread -with blue and white and yellow crocuses, which in the -spring of the year weave their vivid carpet by the banks -of Trent. Soon they had come to the narrow wooden -bridge that spanned the broad and deep river. John -Markham’s horse, young and half-broken, suddenly took -exception to the quick-flowing torrent under its feet. -It swerved so sharply that it all but threw him.</p> - -<p>Hearing the sound of the fierce scuffle, Mistress Anne -looked back. She was in time to see John struggling -to regain the saddle from which he had so nearly parted -company. “Clumsy fellow!” she cried. “You sit your -horse like a——”</p> - -<p>While she was in the act of finding a figure of speech -to meet the case, her own horse realized its opportunity. -Nor was it slow to turn it to account. Cytherea made -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span>a thoroughly competent attempt to pitch her rider into -the river. She just failed, it is true, but that was more -because her luck was out than for any lack of honest -intention.</p> - -<p>Cytherea’s bold rider was no believer in half measures. -She soon had her in hand, duly admonished her with -shrewd jabs of her long spurs and came a second time -within an ace of being flung into the river. Not brooking -cold steel, Cytherea fought for her head like a tigress. -She got her forefeet onto the low rail of the bridge. -There was a desperate moment of uncertainty, in which -the issue hung in the balance, and then Cytherea had to -bring her forefeet down again.</p> - -<p>“The fault is yours, John Markham,” said Cytherea’s -rider. “You are, I say, a clumsy fellow. You sit your -horse like a—” Again she paused to find a simile worthy -of the occasion. “You sit your horse like a sack of peas.”</p> - -<p>John did not reply, but hung his diminished head.</p> - -<p>“Here, take the merlin,” said his mistress, and by -now there was a steady light in her eyes. “And give me -that whip of yours.”</p> - -<p>But the falconer, fully conscious of his daring, summoned -all his courage. “Wait till we are across the -bridge, I pray you, mistress.”</p> - -<p>“Give me your whip, sirrah. If this rude beast gets -me into the river I’ll warrant she comes in herself.”</p> - -<p>“No, mistress,” said the falconer. “I dare not. The -rail is too low and the bridge is too narrow.”</p> - -<p>“Hand it to me at once, I say!” The face of Cytherea’s -wilful rider was full of menace.</p> - -<p>Never before had the falconer dared to oppose her -will, but it was almost certain death if now he obeyed it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span></p> - -<p>“Do you not hear me, sirrah?”</p> - -<p>“You shall have it, mistress, as soon as we are across -the bridge.”</p> - -<p>There was nothing for it but to wait until they had -gained the opposite bank. Once among the crocuses, -the lady reined in the still mutinous Cytherea with no -light hand. She then turned her unruly steed to meet -that of the falconer.</p> - -<p>“Now, sirrah!”</p> - -<p>The gauntleted hand was held out grimly. The eyes -were like stars in their dark luster; and in the center -of each cheek burned a glowing crimson.</p> - -<p>John Markham lifted the merlin from the fist of his -mistress. Then he gave her the whip. There was not -a drop of blood in his cheeks. His fixed, unfearing -gaze had not a shade of defiance; but it was as if the -upturned face almost invited that which awaited it.</p> - -<p>“You fool!”</p> - -<p>The whip descended sharply, but without haste, on -the lithe and beautiful flanks of the astonished Cytherea. -One, two, three. It was a hazardous proceeding. For -more than one long minute the issue lay in doubt. But -skill and high courage gained the day. The dignity of a -daughter of men was vindicated at the expense of the -dignity of the daughter of goddesses.</p> - -<p>“I thank you, John Markham.”</p> - -<p>She returned the whip to the falconer with almost an -air of kindness.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HIS was a brave thing, already out to set up its -will against the world. And of the little world -in which she lived her father was the center of -authority. He was an august man, high in the service -of the Queen. His explicit word was not lightly to be -disobeyed. And it had gone forth with no uncertainty. -Upon no pretext must Mistress Anne Feversham enter -the town of Nottingham, which nestled close about the -Castle rock.</p> - -<p>But she was eighteen years old this day, of a head-strong -blood, motherless, craving adventure. The fire -in her veins was mounting high. It must have an outlet, -it must find escape from within the grim precincts -of that old fortress which had begun to press upon her -life.</p> - -<p>Alas! as they returned to the Castle after an hour’s -larking among the crocuses, John Markham’s heart sank. -He had been a party to a forbidden thing. And he -knew not what pains, what penalties might overtake the -charming culprit if her naughtiness came to his master’s -ear. Moreover, a share of the consequences was like -to fall upon himself. But the falconer was not the -man to care very much about that. He would have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span>asked nothing better than to be allowed to pay the whole -of that reckoning which he knew very well was bound -sooner or later to confront his young mistress.</p> - -<p>That young woman fully realized her guilt. Yet she -was far from being afraid. Indeed, as they rode back -in the glow of the April sunset to the stern house which -kept the old town in awe, she was like a strong-winged -bird that knew already the power of its pinions. The -brief and sharp battle with Cytherea, whose end had been -a proper mending of manners for that unruly beast, had -put her in great heart. She was keen for a further -display of her powers. Never had she used her servant -with such a magnanimity, never with such a humorous -indulgence.</p> - -<p>It was as if she would say to all the world: “See what -a will I have. Be it known to all men it is vain for any -to oppose it.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless John Markham was sad at heart. Out -of his high devotion to her she might command him anything, -but well he knew there could only be one end to -this overweening mood. The galligaskins were a sore -matter, although the Constable had not seen them yet. -As for the visit to the town, it was neither more nor less -than an open flout to his authority. John had a troubled -heart as they passed through the Castle gate.</p> - -<p>As if to confirm the falconer in his fears, Mistress -Anne was informed by the porter of the lodge as they -passed through the gate that the Constable desired her -immediate presence in his own apartment.</p> - -<p>“For what purpose does he seek it?” The question -was asked with the impatience of a spoiled child.</p> - -<p>“I know not, mistress,” said the porter gravely. “I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>do but know that when the Constable returned from -his ride in the town he asked for you and left the message -I have given.”</p> - -<p>“When did Sir John return?”</p> - -<p>“Not an hour ago, mistress.”</p> - -<p>In the courtyard, with an air of resolute laughter, -Mistress Anne yielded her horse to the falconer’s care. -Unabashed, in her amazing garment, which set off her -long-flanked slenderness adorably, she strode into the -great house. The fine, free gait was not without a -suspicion of a manly swagger, which the Queen’s ladies -had also affected. Boldly and fearlessly she entered the -presence of the august Sir John Feversham.</p> - -<p>The Constable was seated alone in his dark-paneled -room. It was easy to see whence came his young daughter’s -handsome looks and strength of will. It was a -face that few of that age could have matched for power -and masculine beauty. The gray eyes had a very direct -and searching quality, the forehead was lofty and ascetic; -indeed the man’s whole aspect proclaimed that -here was one who had learned many high secrets not only -of the body, but of the soul.</p> - -<p>This was not a man to be trifled with, and none -knew that better than his daughter. But this unhappy -day she was a young woman overborne by a sense of -her own consequence.</p> - -<p>“You sent for me, Sir John.” The voice was half -defiance, half disdain.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mistress, I did so.”</p> - -<p>The tones of the Constable were a deep, slow growl. -They were used in a way of such reluctance that it -seemed a pain to utter them.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span></p> -<p>“Wherefore, Sir John, did you send for me?” The -half-humorous tones were all of innocence.</p> - -<p>The Constable’s reply was a grave stroking of the -chin. The stern gaze began very slowly to traverse -the culprit as she stood in all her sauciness, in all her -defiance. Not a detail of her manners or of her attire -escaped those grim eyes. “Why did I send for you? -Do you venture to ask the question?”</p> - -<p>In spite of her reckless courage the tones sent little -shivers through Mistress Anne.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Sir John, I do.” She had summoned all that -she had of boldness.</p> - -<p>“As you dare to ask the question, I will answer it.” -It was as if the Constable turned over each word very -carefully in his stern heart before it was born upon his -grim lips. “First I would say to you, daughter, there -is a long and ever-growing accompt between you and -me which has begun to cry aloud for a settlement. I -ask you, is it not so?”</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne was silent. Even her strength of will -had begun at last to fail before this slow-gathering vehemence. -Once before, and once only, had she heard that -tone in her father’s voice. Many years had passed -since then, but on hearing it again the occasion suddenly -came back to her, bringing with it a kind of vivid -horror.</p> - -<p>“Is it not so, I ask you?”</p> - -<p>The tone was that of a judge.</p> - -<p>“Daily have I marked a growing frowardness, daily -have I marked a higher measure of your impudency.” -The careful words had no unkindness. “It is but a -week since these ears heard you mock at the color of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>the hair of the Queen’s most gracious majesty. Is it -not so?”</p> - -<p>Mistress Anne had no wish to deny that.</p> - -<p>“And now to-day do I find you tricked out in a manner -whose wicked unseemliness passes all belief. Furthermore, -in open defiance of my command, you have -entered the town. Is it not so?”</p> - -<p>The culprit had no word now. The imperious valor -was routed utterly.</p> - -<p>“I do fear me,” said the Constable, “you are in the -toils of a disease which admits only of the sharpest -remedy. Week by week have I remarked an ever-growing -sauciness. It is a malady which in man or woman, -horse or hound, can only be met in one way.”</p> - -<p>The Constable rose slowly from his chair. He was -a tall, powerful man, and very formidable and even terrible -he looked. He took down a heavy hunting-whip -which hung from a nail on the wall. His daughter had -not imagination enough to be terrified easily. Moreover -for her years she had a particularly resolute -will. It was this that an imminent peril restored to -her.</p> - -<p>“I will not be beaten,” she said, with proud defiance. -“This day I am eighteen years old. This day I am a -woman, and being a woman I will do in all things as -it pleases me.”</p> - -<p>The Constable ran the long whip through his fingers. -“Oh and soh, mistress,” said he, “this day you claim -the estate of womanhood. And having come to that -high condition you put forth a modest claim to do in -all things as you would. Well, I am bound to say -I have heard that a number of the women of the present<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span> -age have these froward ideas. But it is new to me -that there are any so vain as to practice them.”</p> - -<p>“Wherefore should they not, Sir John?” The clear -and brave eyes of his daughter were fixed on his own. -“Is it not that in all things a woman is the equal of a -man, as the Queen herself has shown, always except in -those wherein she is a man’s superior?”</p> - -<p>Again the Constable caressed the whip as though he -loved it. “These be very perilous ideas,” he said. “I -had not thought this canker had bit so deep. Of all the -diseases that afflict our sorry age I believe there is none -so vile as that which leads a young gentlewoman of careful -and modest nurture to speeches of such an idle -vanity. As I am a Christian man I can hardly believe -my ears.”</p> - -<p>“Sir John, it is the truth I speak. And has not the -Queen herself approved it?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, mistress, I would have you use that name more -modestly,” said the Constable. But now in his eyes was -a light that turned her cold.</p> - -<p>Very gently the great thong was being shaken out. -The long and cruel length was uncoiling itself like that -of a serpent, so that now it lay crouching in wait among -the rushes of the floor.</p> - -<p>“I will not be beaten,” was all that Anne could gasp. -“I am this day a woman.”</p> - -<p>With a sudden chill of despair she knew that she was -helpless. And if she had not known, in the very next -instant that cruel fact would have been revealed to her. -With a surprising dexterous swiftness for which she -was not prepared, the slender wrist was twisted in a lock -so cunning that to struggle would be to break the arm.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> -<p>“As I am a Christian man it is my duty to cut away -so damnable a heresy.” The sharp, hissing words came -through shut teeth.</p> - -<p>The defenceless form was held at arm’s length. In -the implacable eyes of the Constable was the sinister -fanaticism which is not afraid to wound itself.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">“O</span>H, mistress!”</p> - -<p>A voice that had music in it sounded from the -top of the high wall.</p> - -<p>Anne had spent a dreadful night of pain and misery -in one of the milder of the Castle dungeons. That -is to say, it was above the ground. Also it was free of -vermin, it was tolerably well lit, and was provided with -a small inclosed yard open to the sky, but surrounded by -a high wall garnished with spikes. Her first night of -womanhood had been of a bitterness she had not thought -it possible to know. There had only been a crust of bread, -a jug of water and a bare pallet to assuage her tears. -She had crept out of her cell in the darkness, and at last, -quite exhausted, had fallen asleep under the April stars, -with but a slab of icy stone to ease her hurts.</p> - -<p>But now the dawn was come, and from far overhead a -charming voice saluted her waking ears.</p> - -<p>She looked up. A fair head crowned with morning -was thrust between the close-set spikes. A young man -with the bravest eyes in the world was gazing down compassionately -upon her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mistress!”</p> - -<p>Almost involuntarily she drew the cloak which had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>been given her the closer about her aches. But it was not -possible to conceal her pathetic, her terrible distress.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mistress!”</p> - -<p>For the third time the charming voice saluted her ears, -not mockingly, not unkindly, not even curiously. In it -was a gentleness, a subtle power of sympathy that, do as -she would, started her tears anew. She drew the cloak -closer about her shoulders, as if by so doing she could -conceal the fact that she had been used very grievously.</p> - -<p>“You have been a-weeping, mistress.”</p> - -<p>It was idle to deny a fact so plain.</p> - -<p>Yesterday she would have met this boldness in a very -different way. But that was past. In one long night of -intolerable anguish her very nature had suffered a -change.</p> - -<p>“For why do you weep, mistress?”</p> - -<p>Again was the voice like music. She could not forbear -to look up into the dawn, which framed with its -golden rose a fair head and a pair of brave, honest and -gentle eyes.</p> - -<p>“Is it for a grievous fault? Nay, but I am sure it is -not.”</p> - -<p>The tone was all kindness, all concern. Besides, there -was some strange magic in it that had never sounded in -her ears until that hour.</p> - -<p>“Never tell me, mistress, that you are to have your head -cut off on Tuesday by order of the Queen.”</p> - -<p>The words were spoken in a manner almost whimsical. -But as, startled and perhaps a little terrified, she gazed -up to meet those eyes she suddenly saw that unutterable -things lay behind their laughter.</p> - -<p>The words, the look seemed almost to sicken her. And -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span>then like a strong wine a thrill of compassion ran in her -veins. She rose to her feet unsteadily. Her body was -so weak that she had to lean it against the wall. A thousand -intolerable aches returned. She opened her lips to -speak, but her voice was mute.</p> - -<p>Looking down upon her distress, the eyes of the young -man were as full of compassion as her own. The face -of the girl was stained and swollen with tears; she could -hardly check a groan when she moved; the cloak slipping -from her shoulders revealed under the torn bodice the -cruel marks of the whip.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mistress!” The voice was tender as the missel-thrush. -“What was your fault that this should have -been done to you? But whatever it was, sweet mistress, -you have had savage payment.”</p> - -<p>Even as she hid her own she knew that the gentle eyes -were brimming with pity.</p> - -<p>But what were these slight aches of hers in the comparison -with his own grim pass? On Tuesday he was to -have his head cut off by order of the Queen. Suddenly -a wild flood of anguish surged at her heart. Could such -a thing be under the light of heaven? He so fair, so kind, -with the fire of youth in his eyes, must the rich and glad -life be torn from him in a manner so unspeakable within -a space of four short days?</p> - -<p>Again she sought to speak. This time words came; -at first few and fitful, but warm from a heart all broken -with pity. “They will kill you on Tuesday?” she said.</p> - -<p>The horror that ran like ice in her veins thrilled in her -voice.</p> - -<p>“Yes, mistress. The Queen has signed the warrant. -And I have done as little to deserve death as this fair -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span>April morning that I cannot bear to lose. But no matter. -I have had three-and-twenty years of this golden life, so -I have no ground of complaint.”</p> - -<p>His courage spoke to her like a noble action.</p> - -<p>“For why will they kill you?” Her heart was choking -her.</p> - -<p>“They say I was concerned with Money the Papist in -the Woodgate House plot against the Queen’s life. Two -subtle knaves have sworn it, but as I desire to go to -heaven I am an entirely innocent man.”</p> - -<p>She never doubted him. It was impossible to doubt -such eyes, such a voice, such a noble bearing.</p> - -<p>“I know not Money nor Woodgate House, and so far -from desiring the life of the Queen I am the faithfullest -if I am also the least of her Majesty’s servants.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, it must not be!” she cried in a kind of passion.</p> - -<p>“There is no means to prevent it,” said the young man. -“The judges would not hear my book oath. But I think -my peace is made with God. I am already composed for -the scaffold, as I hope and believe, although it is bitterly -sore to me to leave a world such as this. Yet if I complain -I shall be unworthy of my twenty-three years of glorious -life. But tell me, mistress, of your own case. What have -you done that they should use you so cruelly? It cuts me -to the soul to see you like this.”</p> - -<p>But she could give no heed now to her own pains. Her -mind was filled with horror, with a rage of pity. His -bearing was so noble, so full of an instant tenderness, -and in four brief days he must die by the ax in the pride -and splendor of his youth.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I cannot bear it,” she cried. “I cannot think of -you as at the point of death.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> -<p>The potent wine of youth in her own veins rendered -the thought intolerable. Such a rush of anguish came -upon her young heart as made even the long miseries of -the night seem of no account.</p> - -<p>“No, no, it cannot be. I must speak to my father.”</p> - -<p>“Pray, who is your father, mistress?”</p> - -<p>“My father is Sir John Feversham, the Constable of -this Castle.”</p> - -<p>“Alas! mistress, it is he who read to me the Queen’s -warrant. He of all men cannot help me, for it is he who -is pledged to do the Queen’s will.”</p> - -<p>She who yesterday had ventured to proclaim herself -the equal of all men was now shaken with a storm of -weeping. “I will go myself to the Queen and swear to -her your innocence.”</p> - -<p>“Alas! mistress, there is no time. Besides, she would -not heed you. A subtle enemy has done his work, and I -have given up all hope of life. But by God’s grace on -Tuesday I am determined to die well.”</p> - -<p>Her sorrow for this brave man was a thing to see. -The proud heart was wrung with a distress that her own -cruel suffering may have rendered more poignant. Yesterday, -in the hour of her shallow arrogance, compassion -for his fate might have irked her less. But since then -she had known the dark night of the soul. Something -seemed to have broken inside her heart. Henceforward -in her plastic woman’s nature would be a subtle kinship -with all great suffering, since she herself had known it.</p> - -<p>“Is there naught I may do to save you?”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing, mistress. Yet I love you for your -pitiful heart, and I’ll promise you that on Tuesday I’ll -walk the firmer for it. But do not consider me, I pray -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>you. I do not think I am unhappy. I would that you -were not, sweet mistress. Tell me why you have been -used so cruelly?”</p> - -<p>His voice was grave and beguiling, like one whose soul -has deep places in it. In despite of the slow agony of her -tears she had no choice but to heed it. There was in his -tender speech a quality that melted her resolve as though -it had been but a flake of snow.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, sweet mistress, I pray you.”</p> - -<p>How could she tell him of her frowardness? How -could she tell him of the setting up of her stubborn will -and of the grievous fashion of its breaking? How could -she tell him that in a single night she was cured forever -of the folly of holding herself other than she was?</p> - -<p>But his gentle insistence was beyond her power to put -off.</p> - -<p>“I have been beaten,” she said with utter humility. -“And all that has been done to me is no more than my -merit.”</p> - -<p>It was the elemental woman breaking from the soul -that yesterday was so vainglorious. The young man looking -upon her from his precarious coign felt his heart leap -to her in her abasement. In the delicacy of her youth she -was the fairest thing upon which ever he had set his -eyes. It hurt him keener than his own fate that a beauty -so rare should, whatever its faults, have been chastened -so cruelly.</p> - -<p>All that there was of chivalry in his tender soul went -out to her in her desolation. In his three-and-twenty -years of life he had never known love, but by God’s grace -was it given that he would not have to die without tasting -the rarest of all mortal experiences.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span></p> -<p>“Mistress”—his heart leaped in his throat so that he -could hardly breathe—“Give me your name, sweet mistress, -and I will promise as God is in His heaven that -on Tuesday morning when Gervase Heriot comes to die by -the ax he shall pass with your name upon his lips.”</p> - -<p>Like wells of soft light her eyes shone up to him. “My -name is Anne,” she said, with a simplicity that yesterday -had not been hers.</p> - -<p>“Mistress Anne, will you pray for me when I am passing?”</p> - -<p>He could not hear her answer, yet he knew what it was.</p> - -<p>“God keep you, sweet mistress! God keep you forever! -I will bear your name on my lips through all the -wide fields of eternity.”</p> - -<p>These high-vaunting words were his last. No longer -could he keep his precarious hold on the top of the wall. -The strain on arms and knees was too much. Suddenly -the eyes so full of courage and pity were lost to her.</p> - -<p>Anne was left to reel against the wall of her prison, -shaken with an anguish more terrible than any the long -night had known.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">G</span>ERVASE HERIOT had entered upon the last -hours of his life. It was arranged that he should -die at eight o’clock of the April morning. He lay -in his cell during the watches of the night that was to be -his last upon earth, with every sense a-stretch. Try as -he would—and God only could know how he had fought -during these last weeks for self-mastery—he could not -subdue the insurgency of ardent blood, the intense desire -to live.</p> - -<p>He was too young for death. He loved the sun, the -blue sky, the green grass, the birds in the trees, the spring -flowers, the abundant, sweet-smelling earth. He loved -his fellow-men. They amused and interested him. He -adored the beauty of women. His ears were attuned to -delicate harmonies of sound, his eyes were ravished by -feasts of color.</p> - -<p>The world, that wonderful assemblance of things visible, -entranced him in its glad, mysterious majesty. -There was the soul of a poet in a frame all a-quiver -with youth. As he lay in his cell in the darkness, tossing -feverishly upon his pallet through the slow hours, he -could not bear the thought that all too soon he would see -the sun rise for the last time.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> -<p>It drove him nearly mad to think that he must leave -it all, that his brief sojourn upon the fair and noble earth -which he loved so passionately was at an end. He was -too strong of blood for such a death. With all the force -of his will had he striven to compose himself. Many -prayers had he addressed to God that it might be given -to him to meet his fate with the high dignity that was the -due of his manhood. But as now he lay shuddering in -the darkness, do as he would he could not bring his mind -to accept the end. Times and again he pressed his wild -eyes to his pallet with a half-strangled moan of despair.</p> - -<p>The fact that he was an entirely innocent man did -nothing to console him. Indeed, had he been guilty, death -had been less hard to bear. But coming to him in this -arbitrary, unjust guise, its cruel causelessness set his every -fiber in revolt.</p> - -<p>Faint sounds began to creep through the night. All -too soon his quivering senses caught them. Subtle as they -were, he knew them at once for the noise of hammers -upon wood. O God! they were setting up the scaffold in -the courtyard. In spite of the strength he had won in -these last few weeks he rolled off the pallet onto his -knees and began to pray wildly. A fever shook his mind. -His new-found strength was leaving him. Death—and -such a death!—was a thing he did not know how to -meet. A grim terror took hold of him.</p> - -<p>And then a thing happened to him which shook the -central forces of his being.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he saw the face of Anne. He saw it all wan -and swollen with tears. And as he looked he saw the -eyes grow starlike and great with their compassion. And -then he remembered his vaunt to her that he would walk -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span>firmly in his last hour, and that her name should be upon -his lips. Her image was hardly more than that of a mortal -daughter of men; but that which had sprung from her -own bruised spirit, which looked out of her eyes as now -he saw them in the darkness, was the only evidence he -had of the Eternal. Some immortal essence had fused -her heart as so humbly and so pitifully she had looked -up to him. Through those eyes he had seen God.</p> - -<p>Such a thought had the power to offer a measure of -ease to his torments. The dreadful tumult began to -grow less. Those eyes were as stars in that gross darkness. -No longer was he afraid. A strange peace had -begun to bear him upon its wings.</p> - -<p>No longer had he cause to fear the noise of the hammers. -Let the morning break. Let death come when -it would. His fainting spirit had now a manifestation to -which to cling. He would walk to the scaffold with this -noble image in his heart, and it should accompany him -forever in his wanderings through the wide fields of -eternity.</p> - -<p>He crept back to his pallet, and stretched out his fever-racked -limbs to their full length. A profound peace was -enfolding him. If only death could come now!</p> - -<p>Long he lay thus, and as he lay he strained his eyes to -catch the first faint light of the dawn. Would it never -arrive? All his fear now was lest this new strength -should flee as suddenly as it had been given. But no!—the -ineffable spirit that had entered into him would continue -through all eternity to bear his soul.</p> - -<p>At last and quite suddenly a more instant sound began -to mingle with the distant noise of the hammers. A key -was grating in the lock of the door. Yes, his hour was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span>here at last and he had not known it. With a feeling akin -to relief he sat up on his pallet.</p> - -<p>He heard the door creak gently. It then came open -with so little sound as to thrill him with surprise. A faint -thread of light gleamed fitfully. But whoever was the -visitant, he was accompanied by a silence so profound -as to fill Gervase Heriot with wonder. It was not thus -that his jailers had been wont to visit him.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot.”</p> - -<p>The name was breathed rather than spoken. There was -a curious familiarity in the voice as it stole through the -darkness. His heart seemed to stop beating.</p> - -<p>He tried to answer, but could not.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot.”</p> - -<p>Beyond the faint rays of a half-shuttered lantern was -the outline of a dark form.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot.”</p> - -<p>His name was being breathed in his ears. A hand had -touched him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it is you!” were the first words his tongue could -find.</p> - -<p>“Do not speak,” whispered Anne Feversham. “Do -not make a sound. But if you would live follow close -without a question.”</p> - -<p>He rose from his pallet unsteadily. He was utterly -bewildered and very weak from many vigils. But already -the lantern had begun to move away from him, and -it was a talisman that had the power to draw him after it.</p> - -<p>Almost before he was aware of what he did he realized -that he was beyond the door of his cell.</p> - -<p>“Please wait while I lock the door again,” whispered his -deliverer, “so that they may not know too soon.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span></p> -<p>Her deliberation, her calmness filled him with wonder.</p> - -<p>Step by step they groped their way along a very narrow -corridor that smelled close and evil. The damp glistened -from the walls in the light of the lantern.</p> - -<p>With infinite caution they made their way to the end -of the long passage. And as they neared its end there -arose the sound of a man snoring heavily. A jailer was -fast asleep on a low stool that had been placed just within -the outer door of the prison. He was a gross-looking -fellow, and his large legs were stretched out to the full, -barring completely the narrow way.</p> - -<p>They used great caution in striding over these legs -lest they should wake their owner. When they had safely -cleared this obstacle Anne gave Gervase the lantern, and -also a poniard from a belt which she wore round her -waist. “I am going to replace the keys in his girdle,” -she whispered resolutely. “I do not think he will -wake; a powder has been shaken into his posset. But -should you see him rousing himself, plunge the dagger -into his heart. I have not the courage to do it myself.”</p> - -<p>With a delicate deftness, with a cool precision that was -remarkable, Anne reattached the keys to the girdle of the -sleeping man. He did not so much as stir in his sleep.</p> - -<p>“Now!” she whispered.</p> - -<p>In the next moment they had crept noiselessly through -the unbarred outer door. The cool morning air rushed -upon them. They felt the delicious green turf under -their feet.</p> - -<p>For all that the shrewd air played about the condemned -man’s temples, for all that the soft grass was under -him, for all that a young moon and a sky of faint -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span>stars was over his head, he could hardly believe he was -alive, or if alive could hardly realize he was broad -awake.</p> - -<p>Less than a hundred yards away, round an angle of -the great building, the hammers were still mutilating the -peace of the night. As Gervase and Anne stood to listen, -not knowing what to do next and uncertain of the way -to go, since peril hemmed them in on every side, they -were greatly startled by a scrunch of feet on the gravel -quite close to them. There was a sudden drone of voices -which told them that two men were quickly approaching -the spot on which they stood. Indeed they had barely -time to put out the light of the lantern and to crouch close -under the shadow of the huge wall of the prison before -the men passed them.</p> - -<p>They came so near that they almost touched Anne and -Gervase as they knelt. They heard the men open the door -through which they had just come, and as it swung back, -so close were Anne and Gervase to it that it concealed -them behind it.</p> - -<p>The sudden flash of the light that one of the men -carried was very terrifying.</p> - -<p>“Wake up, Nick.” The rough voice the other side of -the door was so loud in the ears of the fugitives that they -held their breaths. “Wake up, Nick.” They heard the -man grunt as he gave a vigorous shake to the turnkey, -who was still snoring tremendously. “What a devil you -are for sleeping and drinking! Master Norris the headsman -is here and would have a few words with the condemned.”</p> - -<p>A perfect tornado of shakes accompanied the words, -which yielded presently to a series of kicks. Evidently -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>the business of arousing the turnkey was to prove no -light one.</p> - -<p>“Wake, you drunken fool. Here is Master Norris the -headsman, don’t you hear? Are you going to keep us -here all day?”</p> - -<p>Hardly daring to draw breath, Anne and Gervase continued -to kneel close behind the open door. Their terror -and their peril suddenly made Anne desperate. Not daring -to speak, she plucked her companion’s sleeve; and -then putting all to the touch and keeping close under the -shadow of the wall, she started to creep away on hands -and knees from this position of imminent danger. Even -by the time they had made a distance of fifty yards in -this painful fashion, and had set a buttress of the Castle -between them and the open door, they could still hear the -indignant voice of him who had laid upon himself the task -of rousing the sleeping jailer.</p> - -<p>They could breathe a little now. But their position -was still one of very great peril. The whole place seemed -to be astir. Men and lights were moving in all directions. -Voices of soldiers, workmen and servants of the Castle -were all about them. As yet there was not a single fleck -of the dawn to be seen, but already the birds had begun -their early notes. Daybreak must be very near.</p> - -<p>Not for an instant must they stay in the place they -were now in. Even as they knelt close by the wall they -expected to hear the startled outcry that would announce -the escape of the condemned man.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HEY had only one hope of getting free. By some -means they must cross the open courtyard, and -creep round to the Castle gate before the coming -dawn had time to reveal them.</p> - -<p>On hands and knees they made for the open. With -no longer the shadow of the Castle walls to conceal them, -their peril was greatly increased. More than once they -stopped and lay full length on the ground, so near they -were to discovery. It seemed as if they would never be -able to get to the point they had fixed upon, which was -the precarious shelter of a few stunted shrubs growing -near to the Castle gate.</p> - -<p>It was a long while before they could reach that security. -Not long perhaps in point of fact but an age in -experience. Each time they lay down on the hard cobblestones -to avoid some new danger they expected the -dread proclamation to ring in their ears. It seemed -little short of a miracle, such was their exaggeration of -events, that the escape was not known already.</p> - -<p>At last they were come to the place they sought, hard -by the gate. And here it was that the Providence which -thus far had used them so well seemed now to desert -them. To their horror they realized that the east was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>already light. The only hope of getting clear had been -to slip unseen through the gate at a moment it might -chance to be open for the admission of others. But from -the first they had known that daylight would make the -risk too great to admit of any such expedient.</p> - -<p>They must find some other way. Yet Anne well knew -there was no other way. The Castle was surrounded by -walls it was impossible to scale, except on the south side. -Here the parapet was low, and for a sufficient reason. -Beyond the south wall the Castle rock ended abruptly. -A terrible chasm, hundreds of feet in depth, lurked beneath.</p> - -<p>They had soon decided that the gate could not avail -them now. Thus they crept away to the left in the direction -of the south wall, taking cover as they went beneath -a row of laurel-bushes. But no sooner had they reached -the wall than they saw, even in the gray twilight, that -it was certain death to climb it and hazard a descent of -the sheer precipice on the farther side. What could they -do? Every moment it was growing lighter.</p> - -<p>By now Gervase had shaken off his lethargy. One who -has lain weeks in a prison and has composed himself for -death can hardly be expected to take occasion by the -hand. But the fine and keen air of the morning and the -almost miraculous chance of life that had been given -him had done much to restore his numbed faculties. -A resolve had already been born in his heart to sell -his life very dearly. In the last resort he was determined -to attempt the almost impassable face of the -cliff.</p> - -<p>But there was his brave companion. She seemed to -read his mind. And reading it she summoned the courage<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> -of despair. “If there is no other way we will crawl -down the rock,” she said.</p> - -<p>“It would be death, mistress.”</p> - -<p>The clear eyes that were so unafraid shone like stars -through the gray light. “I do not fear death,” she said -in a low voice. “Rather death than the whip or a dungeon -underground.”</p> - -<p>Dismally he realized that there was no answer to this -argument. “We will go together, mistress, wherever it -be—unless—” a deadly chill corroded the young man’s -veins—“I walk back to my prison.”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” said his deliverer tensely. “Anything rather -than that.”</p> - -<p>Every minute it was growing lighter. They crouched -under the scanty cover of the laurel-bushes, not knowing -which way to turn or what to do. All their senses were -strung to catch the alarm they were ever expecting to -hear. But the miracle still endured; the alarm was not -yet given. Yet it was impossible that it could be much -longer delayed.</p> - -<p>In despair they crept farther along the wall. They -must choose a place for the grisly descent, yet even as -they looked far down over the parapet of the wall they -hardly knew how to face such a hideous alternative.</p> - -<p>“It is certain death for us both,” said Gervase. “It is -better that I returned to my prison if you are sure there -is no other way of escape.”</p> - -<p>“Do you fear the rock?” The firm voice was low and -calm.</p> - -<p>“For you I fear it, mistress.”</p> - -<p>The starlike eyes pierced him with their light. “For -myself,” said Anne, “I fear only to be left alive.” Very -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span>deliberately she took the dagger from her belt. “Wherever -you go,” she said as she offered it by the hilt, “I -would have you plunge this into my heart rather than -you left me.”</p> - -<p>His cold fingers trembled on the hilt of the dagger, but -even as they touched it he knew that such a deed was -far beyond his present strength. “Better the rock than -that,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, better the rock.”</p> - -<p>Such a steadfast courage was like wine in his veins. -Suddenly he flung his arms about her and folded her to -him. One slow kiss was pressed upon the upturned -mouth. Certain death awaited them, and they were -young to die, but there was now no way of life. And -at least by God’s mercy they had known one high moment -which paid for all.</p> - -<p>It was the man’s part first to mount the parapet. Shuddering -in every vein, he began to climb up to it. He was -not a coward, but the desire of life was running desperately -high. The girl followed close after him. Her -will was firmer than his because her imagination was less.</p> - -<p>Gervase had nearly reached the coping of the low -stone wall when Anne caught at his heel and drew him -down again. “See,” she cried. “Is not that a hole in the -ground along there by that farthest bush?”</p> - -<p>“It may be so,” said the young man, fearing for his -resolve. “But let us not look back. If this were done -let it be done now.”</p> - -<p>But sudden resolution had come upon Anne. Or was it -that resolution was failing her? At least with this new -and faint hope she was able to draw Gervase from the -wall. His will had been strung to meet the death he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>feared with all his soul, but the passion of life in his -pulses heeded her call in spite of himself.</p> - -<p>There was a void, it seemed, gaping in the ground behind -the bushes but a few yards off. But Gervase could -scarce drag his body towards it as they crept close by -the wall to see what it might be. For now he felt with -a dull sense of terror that the great moment was past. -His insurgent nerves told him that not again in cold -blood would he climb to the parapet of the wall.</p> - -<p>From this new errand he looked for no deliverance. -But as soon as they came near they saw that the void, -barely visible in the gray light, was a hole in the ground. -It seemed to be a kind of cavern or deep passage burrowing -far down into the very bowels of the earth. As far as -they could discern it was provided with rude steps of -stone, and the mouth of the cavern was protected by an -iron grating.</p> - -<p>They did not wait upon one another’s word, but at once -and together put forth all their strength to remove this -barrier. It was so heavy that it scarcely yielded at first. -But sheer desperation armed them, so that at last they -were able to move the grating sufficiently to permit first -one of their slender bodies and then the other to squeeze -through the narrow opening into the total darkness that -lay beyond.</p> - -<p>By the time they had descended three steps they could -see nothing. Absolute night yawned under their feet. -The unknown, terrible and immeasurable, began slowly to -receive them. Whither they were going they did not -know. Where the cavern led, what they would find at -the end of it or what they were likely to encounter by -the way were matters about which it was vain to speculate. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>All that they knew was that for the time being they were -very precariously delivered from a more instant peril.</p> - -<p>It might be perhaps that they were going to a doom -more terrible, since the unknown is ever more sinister -than the known. For aught they knew the stone steps -might carry them through that appalling darkness to the -verge of a deep well or some abyss that would shatter -them in pieces as surely as a fall from the rock itself.</p> - -<p>Sheer desperation urging, however, they prepared to -descend step by step into the noisome earth. Gripping -each other’s hand tightly, they started very slowly to go -down the steps. And now it was that they had cause -to regret bitterly that the lantern which had guided -Anne to the prison had been left under the Castle wall as -being a thing that had already served its turn. At this -moment its help would have been beyond price.</p> - -<p>Holding each other by the hand, their hearts violently -beating, they yielded themselves to the care of Providence. -The descent was sheer, slow and terrifying. -Bats, undisturbed for many a long year, began to hover -round them. They could not see anything; a foul -miasma hardly allowed them to breathe; each step they -took was likely to be their last, but not for a moment -did they pause in their descent.</p> - -<p>They were like a pair of twin souls in the avernus. -The sense of nameless fear enfolding them was awful, -overmastering.</p> - -<p>“Whither does it lead?” said Gervase at last, his whole -being now in revolt.</p> - -<p>“I know not,” said his companion. “But so long as -we are like this, hand in hand together, there is surely -no need to care what lies ahead.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> - -<p>Such an answer, spoken with the clear force of a noble -resolution, thrilled in his heart. The courage that was -his by nature, which the bitterness of his recent pass -had overthrown, came back to him. If death must come, -let it come to them now as each held the hand of the -other. They began to move more quickly, and now -with a sort of recklessness, far down into the chasm -that yawned darker and darker below them. Minutes -passed; step succeeded step, yet still they had not come -to the final one.</p> - -<p>Would this descent never end? Would they never -again see the light? The desire to know what lay ahead -grew so intense as to be almost unendurable. This dreadful -suspense through which they were passing was -neither more nor less than torture.</p> - -<p>It began to seem certain that they would find themselves -in some pit or oubliette or forgotten dungeon underground. -In that case there was some hope of concealment, -in which they might lie through the day. And if -their pursuers had not the wit to find them, when the -darkness came they might again ascend to the courtyard, -and carry out their first design of escaping through the -Castle gate.</p> - -<p>At last, after at least a full hour of this torture by -hope, the steep, narrow, winding stone stairs came suddenly -to an end. It was impossible to go farther ... a -wall confronted them. It would appear that the descent -ended in a cul-de-sac. Before accepting this as a fact, -however, Gervase gave the wall a kick in order to attest -its nature. To his surprise he found it to be made of -wood.</p> - -<p>That fact served to tell him that here was not the natural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> -end of those strange stone stairs. Something lay -beyond. Conceivably this wall was a door. But so -heavy was the darkness that it was impossible to tell.</p> - -<p>Gervase set to work with the dagger his companion had -given him, in order to see if he could not pierce this barrier -and gain a clue to these hidden mysteries. But the -point of the weapon was delicate and the wood was tough. -It was impossible to make any progress. At last, realizing -the attempt was vain, in a kind of despair he hurled -the whole weight of his strong frame against the door in -the faint hope that it might yield.</p> - -<p>Sometimes it happens that when a man has grown -utterly desperate, an inspired accident shows him the way! -Gervase had looked for no result from that reckless, -despairing fling of his shoulders against that dark wall, -but to his surprise an odd creaking and cracking at once -arose. The wood was rotten with age. In the next instant, -to the unspeakable joy of Gervase and his companion, -a faint worm of light came creeping through a -rent in a door.</p> - -<p>Daylight lay beyond! So cruelly had their nerves been -fretted by the slow descent into cavernous darkness, that -they could have cried out for joy at the light. Together -they hurled their strong young shoulders against the door. -Further rendings and tearings followed. Then came -an ominous crack, and there was a breach in the door -wide enough for them to pass through.</p> - -<p>Their eyes were blinded by a flood of golden light. It -was broad day, and once again were they breathing the -air of morning. But where were they. They had come, -it seemed, into a small paved yard. In front of them was -a wall and a line of low buildings. In the middle of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span>yard was a large farmer’s wagon containing a number of -sacks of corn. To this vehicle a pair of horses was attached.</p> - -<p>They crept very cautiously out of the door in the rock, -and not then until they had first made sure that the yard -was empty.</p> - -<p>“This is the yard of the Castle brewhouse,” said Anne. -“There is a door yonder which opens into a lane that -runs down to the river.”</p> - -<p>They ran swiftly across the yard, found the door unbarred, -and at once were free of the Castle precincts. -They were now in a long, narrow lane. It needed but a -swift glance to tell them there was not a soul in sight. -Thereupon they took to their heels and started to run -down the lane for dear life.</p> - -<p>It was more than a mile in length and it led -straight to the river. It was narrow, muddy and uneven, -winding through swampy marshland over all manner of -rough ground. But in spite of the many difficulties it -presented they dashed so fiercely along the lane that it -seemed as if their hearts must burst.</p> - -<p>Providence was with them still. All the way to the -river they did not meet a soul. Great as was their good -fortune, it was yet less remarkable than it appeared, since -the path they had taken was a rude cart-track rather than -a road, with a tall hedge growing on either side.</p> - -<p>At last the Trent in all its morning splendor lay before -them. With sides heaving and breath sobbing, they flung -themselves beside it, burying their faces in the icy grass.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">S</span>HUDDERING with fear and gasping for breath, -they lay side by side, their convulsed faces pressed -into the grass. Such a nightmare of terrors as they -had endured had for a time overthrown them both completely. -But in their veins was youth, and very soon -the courage it gives began to renew them.</p> - -<p>Yet, as thus they lay in the grass by the bank of the -river, fighting for the strength to go on, there was a grim -sense already in each of their hearts that they were no -more than a pair of birds in a snare. Not for an instant -dare they consider how long they might hope to elude -pursuit. Perhaps it might be given to them to enjoy an -hour of freedom—if freedom it could be called with a -desperate hue and cry upon their heels—but it was by -no means certain that even so much grace as this would -be vouchsafed.</p> - -<p>They rose presently from the cool grass. Already their -strength had returned. It was still early morning, not -more than seven o’clock perhaps, but the day promised to -be glorious. A trembling sheen, like a curtain of finest -gossamer, was falling from the face of the sun; the mists -were receding from the fast-flowing river. Cattle were -lowing in the fields; larks were singing in the upper air. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span>Nature in all her color and music, in all her pomp, variety -and gladness, was spread before them. Every brake was -alive with the song of birds; from every hedge and tree -the tender green was bursting. How was it possible, amid -such a pageant of young life, for either of them to think -of death?</p> - -<p>A little chilled by the grass in which they had lain, they -began again to run by the side of the river. Like a pair -of colts they shook their limbs free. For a mile or more -they ran their hardest in order to get warm, and perhaps -in order to outstrip the thought that held their souls in -thrall. On and on they ran. The sense of motion, of untrammeled -freedom in their pulses, was like a delicious -madness now. At last they stopped, feeling very hot and -breathless, and bathed their hands and faces in the river. -Then they made the discovery that they were desperately -hungry.</p> - -<p>Alas! there was no means at hand of staying their -pangs. And even had food been obtainable they would -have been face to face with the fact that they had not so -much as a penny between them. The whole of their -worldly store consisted of the clothes in which they stood -and a dagger whose hilt was curiously wrought in silver. -But these were slender means enough to meet even the -most pressing of their needs. Alas! that Anne, in the -obsession of her high resolve, had forgotten the importance -of putting a purse in her pocket.</p> - -<p>It was a bitter discovery. Slowly and very surely the -pangs of their hunger were mounting, so that all too soon -their spirits fell. Then they sat on the grass and rested -awhile and dabbled their wrists in the cool water of the -fast-flowing river. Thus they gained new strength and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>were put in better heart. And as they now continued -their strange journey at a drooping pace, they walked -hand in hand with a kind of tragic tenderness.</p> - -<p>In a little while, however, Providence again declared -itself to them.</p> - -<p>A sudden turn of the riverside path revealed a woman -sitting under a hedge milking a cow. Hand in hand, like -a pair of children, they approached her and humbly craved -one drink apiece from her pail.</p> - -<p>The woman was old and ill-seeming, with a very hard -face, and there was nothing about her to suggest that it -was her nature to be generous. But the strange request -was made very politely. It was preferred in a manner -not unworthy of persons of condition, but in the shrewd -eyes of Mistress Poll Plackett their appearance had a -grave lack of anything of the kind.</p> - -<p>The man was without a hat, his long fair hair was lank -and undressed, his clothes, though of a good sort, were -covered with mud, and his face might have had considerable -beauty had it been less wild, less pitifully haggard. -As for his companion, good Mistress Plackett was completely -at a loss to say who and what she might be. In -the first place it was hard to determine her sex, let alone -her degree. The shape was all slenderness, all long-flanked -delicacy; a profusion of charming curls escaped -in clusters from under her velvet cap; the face, full of a -rare and vivid beauty, was lit by two eyes that were like -twin stars of gray light. Yet she too was covered with -mud and she bore a look of wild distress. And far worse -even than this, to Mistress Plackett’s horror the nether -limbs were clad in a pair of leather breeches.</p> - -<p>Had it not been for this unlucky garment their good -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>looks and good manners might have melted the heart of a -prudent housewife and fearless Christian. But such -a strange style of dress was a sore tax upon her forbearance.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what to say, and that’s the truth,” -said Mistress Plackett very doubtfully indeed. “I -don’t like the looks o’ ye. Can ye pay for a little drink -apiece?”</p> - -<p>“By my faith no,” said Gervase, with perfect honesty. -“We cannot do that, good dame. But give us even a very -little draught of your delicious milk and we will bless the -day that you were born.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t doubt ye will,” said Mistress Plackett sourly, -“if ye get a drink for nix.”</p> - -<p>Further scrutiny followed hard upon this unblushing -confession of absence of wherewithal. Moreover it -seemed to confirm Mistress Plackett’s unfavorable -opinion.</p> - -<p>“Do you see any green in this eye, young man?” said -she. “And do you suppose that Poll Plackett has passed -three-score and five winters in a hard world, and the same -amount o’ summers to match ’em, not to have better -wisdom than to give away milk warm from the cow to -a gallus pair o’ strolling Egyptians?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be hard-hearted, mother, I pray you,” said -the young man in his beguiling speech. “If only you -knew how hungry we are! Let us drink only a very -little of your delicious milk, and God will reward -you.”</p> - -<p>“Maybe, young man,” said Mistress Plackett, “and -maybe He will reward me doubly for the little ye take -not. However, here is the pail. Have a little drink, you -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>Egyptian, for I am bound to say you have a very good-looking -face.”</p> - -<p>“A thousand thanks,” said Gervase, eagerly seizing the -milk-pail. “But first may I offer it to—to my friend?”</p> - -<p>“No, you may not,” said Mistress Plackett roundly.</p> - -<p>“But why may I not, good mother? We will take but -a very little apiece.”</p> - -<p>But Mistress Plackett shook her head sternly. “Be -your friend a man or a woman?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Can you not see that she is a young gentlewoman?”</p> - -<p>“Od burn me if I can!” said Mistress Poll. “A young -woman she may be, but gentle she is not, to appear out -of her sex. I will not have my honest pail go near such -a shameless thing. Let her keep off, else you shall go -wanting yourself.”</p> - -<p>“But, good mother——”</p> - -<p>“Let the young doxey keep off, I say. She shall not -have a drop as I am a virtuous woman. And if I did but -know where to find Master Tippet the thirdborough, she -should be burned in the hand and whipped out o’ the -county o’ Derby.”</p> - -<p>So shocked was Mistress Poll Plackett when she discovered -the sex of the second Egyptian, that the first, for -all his beguiling speech, was like to go hungry. Gervase -and Anne were desperately keen-set, and they very well -knew that it was within their power to take the milk-pail -from the custody of this good lady, and to soften her -protests by applying the milking stool to her head. But -fierce as their hunger was, they yet hesitated to take such -extreme measures. Still it was driving them so hard as -sorely to try their forbearance.</p> - -<p>“The shameless hussy shall not touch a drop,” said Mistress<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> -Poll. “But you seem a proper and decent and fair-spoken -youth, and ye shall sup a modest bellyful.”</p> - -<p>“Not a drop will I touch until my sister has drunk,” -said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“Ye called her friend just now,” said Mistress Plackett -grimly.</p> - -<p>“Sister and friend,” said the young man, with a profound -air. “He who finds a friend in a sister has a -sister for a friend.”</p> - -<p>Gervase spoke with much gravity, as if this gem of -philosophy was worthy of the deepest consideration. He -had already grasped the truth that there are occasions in -life when it matters little what is said so long as it be well -said. And in that age he would have been a poor-witted -fellow who having been bred as a scholar could not readily -assume the garb of wisdom.</p> - -<p>Yet after all it may have been less Gervase Heriot’s -whimsical readiness that prevailed with the good wife -than his charming voice, his tall, fine person and his -gracious, manly air. When all was said this was no -Egyptian. None of the tribe of lawless wanderers could -have shown such a delicacy of manners when hunger -drove him hard.</p> - -<p>“Ye can both drink your fill,” said Mistress Poll -Plackett.</p> - -<p>They needed no second invitation. Anne drank first -of the warm, delicious draught, that might have been -ambrosia straight from heaven. Then drank Gervase.</p> - -<p>“Good mother,” he said as he gave back the pail, “two -wayfardingers will remember you in their prayers this -night. And our prayers, alas! must be your only guerdon. -But from our hearts we thank you.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> -<p>Mistress Poll shook her head. “Let it be so,” she said -gruffly. “Although you can’t cut ice with thank you, -still I don’t begrudge the milk, young man. But my advice -to you is this: when you come to a bush give your -young doxey a sound beating, that she may learn not -to ape her betters in such a shameless livery.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HEY gave good-day to Mistress Poll and passed -on their way wonderfully refreshed in body and -spirit. Still they kept by the river. The sun was -now shining clear out of a pure and limpid heaven. Above -and all about the birds were singing. They could almost -hear the sap running in the trees; yellow daffodils shone -in the grass; the little green buds were bursting from -brake and thicket. By now a wild sense of freedom was -in their veins and they had a great delight in the company -of each other. Yet behind all things—the glamour of -the earth, the golden sky, the grave majesty of nature—lay -a dark, terrifying cloud.</p> - -<p>Not for a moment could they forget that their lives -hung by a thread. They were ever looking back to see if -their pursuers were yet in sight. They raked each bush -they came near to see if it held an enemy. At every bend -in the river they made ready to be sprung upon.</p> - -<p>And, as they were soon to learn, there was only too -much reason for these fears. It happened that they had -made another two miles or so when they came to a tall -hedgerow running at right angles to the river. And -Gervase, looking along it in his constant vigilance, saw -to his dismay a small party of mounted men, wearing the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>conspicuous scarlet livery of Sir John Feversham. They -were no more than fifty yards away, and were coming -slowly down the hedgerow on the other side, beating the -bushes as they came and examining them closely.</p> - -<p>Providence for the moment was with Gervase and -Anne. The height of the hedge and an abrupt bend of -the river served to hide them from view. Instantly they -took cover by flinging themselves full length in the grass -in which they stood. There was nothing else to be done; -their pursuers were so near that flight was impossible.</p> - -<p>All that remained for them was the hope that they had -not been seen as yet, and that their pursuers would not -come over to their place of concealment. But as thus they -lay close in dire suspense, they were not aware of a more -instant danger. Within a few yards of them, on their -own side of the hedge, a man with a dog was approaching.</p> - -<p>As yet the man had not seen them, but alas! the dog -had already discovered them. It ran straight to where -they lay concealed in the grass, and to their horror began -to fondle Anne and lick her face. In the next moment a -man on a horse was bending over them.</p> - -<p>Thrusting the dog away from her, Anne looked up and -saw the man, and as she did so her heart died within her. -It was John Markham the falconer. His eyes were fixed -upon the prostrate form of Gervase. In the very fascination -of terror she watched his hand stray to the hilt of his -dagger.</p> - -<p>Both the fugitives lay in the grass staring up helplessly -into the grim eyes of the falconer. They could neither -move, speak nor act. A chill of horror was upon their -souls. But the dog, Anne’s old friend and companion, -was overjoyed and continued to lick and fondle her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> - -<p>Of a sudden John Markham’s hand forsook the hilt of -his dagger. And in the same instant his face changed -from the tawny bloom of health to a hue far otherwise. -His rather slow brain had realized who it was that lay by -the side of the escaped prisoner.</p> - -<p>The falconer grew white as death. He was the devoted -servant of a good and honored master. But beyond all -things he was the slave of his young mistress. All was -mad turmoil at the Castle. As yet none had had thought -to spare for Mistress Anne. Her absence had not been -noted, perhaps not even by the Constable himself. All -that was known was that the condemned man had made -his way out of his prison, in a manner bordering upon -the miraculous, within some two hours of the time fixed -for his execution.</p> - -<p>Here was the explanation of the mystery! In a moment -of harrowing bitterness of soul John Markham read -the terrible truth.</p> - -<p>“Oh my mistress!” was wrung from his lips.</p> - -<p>John Markham’s was a slow brain, but now his high -devotion lent it swiftness and subtlety. In that instant -he had learned all. She whom he had adored with a -passionate fidelity had given everything that was hers to -one whom by all the terms of his honorable service he was -pledged to retake.</p> - -<p>“Oh my mistress!” A tear sparkled upon the falconer’s -cheek.</p> - -<p>The fugitives lying in the grass made no reply. And -in his anguish of mind the falconer seemed as helpless as -they. In the next moment came a shout from the other -side of the hedge.</p> - -<p>“Hulloa, Markham, what have you there!”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> - -<p>The words broke the spell for the man who loved his -young mistress devotedly. “The dog seems to have found -a rabbit,” was his answer.</p> - -<p>“Naught better than that!” came in tones of disappointment. -“We were hoping he had found something else.”</p> - -<p>The falconer called off the dog, and then immediately -rode away to join his companions.</p> - -<p>Gervase and Anne lay in the grass until the Constable’s -men were out of sight. For the moment the danger was -past. But they were possessed by fear they could not -overcome. More and more they marveled at the singular -Providence that held them in its care. Gervase had no -knowledge of the falconer; thus all that had happened -was to him a mystery. With Anne it was otherwise. -Yet over and above a feeling of gratitude for the man’s -fidelity was the sting of remorse and a sharp pang of -regret for the glad, glorious and free life of yesterday.</p> - -<p>Less than a week had gone since she had last ridden in -the fields with the falconer, mounted on her blood horse -Cytherea, with her pied merlin upon her fist. Since then -the whole of life had changed. There had come the terrible -breaking of the imperious will, which after all was -not more than the will of a woman. And hard upon that, -and doubtless because of it, there had come this wild and -complete surrender to the impulse of pity which had -banished her completely and forever from the world in -which she had dwelt.</p> - -<p>Long after John Markham and his companions had -passed out of sight she lay in the grass sobbing hysterically. -Such a wild storm of tears came upon her as -seemed to shake the slender form in pieces. And Gervase -was powerless to comfort her.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span></p> - -<p>After a time her pitiful distress abated, and then they -found the courage to go on. For some miles they followed -the river, yet with a redoubled wariness. Their -adventure had shaken them terribly. They did not know -which way to go or what to do. They wandered aimlessly, -but with every sense a-stretch and with terror -gnawing at their hearts. Soon they were hungry again, -yet they had not so much as a penny with which to buy -food. Their spirits drooped. The April sun was still -shining out of a clear sky, the birds were still singing -gaily from every bush, the carpet of spring flowers was -still spread vividly before them, but the world was now -a different place.</p> - -<p>At noon they saw a village in the distance away to the -right. It was perilous to enter it, but hunger drove them -hard. Thus they turned their steps towards it in the hope -that by some good chance they might obtain a little food.</p> - -<p>The village proved to be a rather large one. And in -the middle of the main street was the shop of a baker. -They felt they were taking their lives in their hands by -showing themselves in a public place, since they had had -such clear evidence that the hue and cry was upon their -heels, but the pangs of hunger rendered them desperate.</p> - -<p>Happily the baker seemed to dwell in complete ignorance -of the recent happenings at Nottingham Castle, -which to be sure was fifteen miles away. But in another -respect the fugitives were less fortunate. The man of -flour proved to be a very shrewd and surly fellow.</p> - -<p>He would only part with one of his loaves, even a stale -one, on the express condition that it was paid for in current -coin of the realm. Would he accept a dagger with -a hilt wrought curiously in silver in exchange for twenty -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span>pieces of that precious metal? No, he would not. Would -he for ten? No, he would not. He had no use for a -dagger, silver-hilted or otherwise. The only thing he -had a use for was an honest true penny when it came -to a matter of a quartern loaf.</p> - -<p>All Gervase’s persuasiveness could do nothing with -this sturdy Saxon. One of his quartern loaves was worth -a penny, as had been those of his father before him; a -penny was its price in the open market, and he would -defy the devil himself to get one for less. In such circumstances -there was nothing for Anne and Gervase to -do but to return bitterly hungry to the village street.</p> - -<p>They feared to show themselves in it, but alas; the spur -of hunger is a most instant thing. Sad indeed and footsore -already with their wandering, they walked through -the village. Both were tired and thirsty and also faint for -lack of food. They kept close under the houses, expecting -at any moment to be sprung upon by the men in the -scarlet livery.</p> - -<p>In the middle of the road, coming slowly towards them, -was a ragged nut-brown vagabond playing a flageolet for -pence. He was very far from being a skilful performer. -Indeed his tunes upon his cracked instrument were as -ragged as himself. But apparently they did not lack the -approval of the public. For while Gervase and Anne -stood looking wistfully at this draggle-tail, a well-dressed -man riding a good horse tossed the fellow a coin as he -passed.</p> - -<p>Adversity is a great thing for the mind. Gervase at -once took the idea that he himself could perform quite as -villainously if only he could come by an instrument. If -only he might barter the silver-hilted dagger for a flageolet,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> -even of the most lamentable kind, it might be possible -in the present condition of the public taste to keep body -and soul together.</p> - -<p>He gave the idea to Anne, who approved it heartily, -always assuming that he had some little skill upon the -instrument.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” said Gervase. “I learned to play on the -flageolet when I was at Paris. ’Tis the only thing I -learned there; at least it is the only thing I learned there -that is likely to serve us now.”</p> - -<p>But how were they to come by such a thing? That -was a problem indeed. Under the spur of their necessity -they went after the ragged fellow and were fain to interrupt -him in the midst of his discoursing of the infamous -melody of “Jumping Joan.”</p> - -<p>He did not thank them for their interruption.</p> - -<p>“Barter my pipe for a silver-hilted dagger, quotha? -I would not barter my pipe for all the pearls in the head -o’ the Virgin Queen. Stand out o’ my light and let me -proceed.”</p> - -<p>He was a rude fellow and a fierce one, and he was like -to stride over them in his haste to get clear of the suggestion.</p> - -<p>“Barter my pipe!” they could hear him mutter -as he passed down the road. It was as though he -had been asked to barter his religion. He poured out -a string of curses and then returned to his villainous -melody.</p> - -<p>Feeling almost desperate, they dragged themselves -along the street until they came to a door with a bush -hanging over it which showed it was the village ale-house. -Here on a bench outside the door they flung themselves -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>down. The seat was hard and narrow, yet infinitely delicious -to their weariness.</p> - -<p>Here they sat until the landlord came to them. They -marked his appearance with great trepidation as to what -manner of a man he was. Like that of the baker, his -aspect was large and stubborn but not genial.</p> - -<p>“I give you good morrow, Master Innkeeper,” said -Gervase in his frank and pleasant fashion.</p> - -<p>“Good morrow to you, young man,” said the innkeeper -cautiously.</p> - -<p>“Do you care to buy a dagger with a hilt wrought -curiously in silver?”</p> - -<p>“That I do not,” said the innkeeper; “I would not care -to buy anything except a halter for my wife.”</p> - -<p>“What will it profit your wife,” asked Gervase, “if -you provide her with a halter? You are not going to -hang her, I hope.”</p> - -<p>“Hang her! God bless me, no! It is simply that to-morrow -I am going to lead her in her shift with a halter -round her neck as far as Derby market-place and sell her -to the highest bidder. Happen, young man, you don’t -want a wife yourself?”</p> - -<p>“What is the price you ask for her?”</p> - -<p>“A gold angel will buy her, and she’s worth double the -money.”</p> - -<p>“But why do you part with her? Has she a fault in -her temper, or is it that she is not as virtuously given as -she might be?”</p> - -<p>“No, her temper is excellent; and as for her virtue, -the vicar of the parish will answer for that.”</p> - -<p>“Then in that case,” said Gervase, “a gold angel seems -little enough to pay for her.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> -<p>“Yes, she’s a great bargain,” said the innkeeper; “you -can make your mind easy, young man, on that score.”</p> - -<p>“One might take her for a month on trial, I suppose?” -said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the landlord decisively; “if you decide to -have her you must pay your gold angel and take her off -my hands at once. But as I say, you will have a bargain. -Her virtue and her temper are excellent, and if you remind -her what a rope’s end feels like at every new moon -I’ll warrant that you’ll have no trouble with her at all.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I hope she can cook a meal,” said Gervase. “It -is an excellent thing in a woman if she is able to cook -a meal.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll answer for her cooking, young man. You couldn’t -find a better hand at that sort of thing if you tried all -over the county o’ Derby.”</p> - -<p>“Skilled in making bread?”</p> - -<p>“Bless my soul, yes!”</p> - -<p>“And in making cheese, I hope?”</p> - -<p>“Ask Master Radlett the bailiff what he thinks of her -cream cheeses.”</p> - -<p>“Can she brew ale?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, and cider too and also perry.”</p> - -<p>“Well, she’s a paragon, I’m bound to admit.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, she’s a nonesuch, there’s not the least doubt about -that,” said the innkeeper. “Her bread and her cider are -things to remember.”</p> - -<p>“Things to dream upon, in fact?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, young man; and if you doubt me you had better -try them for yourself.”</p> - -<p>Now it was here that Gervase affected a lordly indifference, -a lofty disdain. “Well, Master Innkeeper, I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span>don’t mind very much if I do,” he said, and his air was -almost one of condescension.</p> - -<p>“You shall do so young man,” said the innkeeper -proudly.</p> - -<p>And in an exceedingly loud voice he addressed some -unseen presence within the precincts of the inn kitchen. -“Marian, bring out at once one of your newest and largest -loaves for a young gentleman in a tarnished doublet of -black velvet.”</p> - -<p>“You have forgotten the cider,” said Gervase, with an -air of profound indifference. “A large pot would be the -best, I think.”</p> - -<p>“Also a full pint pot o’ your last year’s cider, Marian.”</p> - -<p>“And perhaps a little of the cream cheese would not be -amiss in the circumstances. It is wise as a rule to make -quite sure in a matter of this kind.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said the innkeeper heartily. “There is -nothing betwixt here and Derby that can hold a candle -to her cream cheese. Bring out a ripe cream cheese, -Marian.”</p> - -<p>Anne began to tremble with excitement at the mere -mention of these viands, but Gervase sat as cool and collected -as any man could have done in the circumstances.</p> - -<p>Presently a crone about seventy years of age brought -forth a loaf of bread, a cheese and a jug of cider. She -laid them on the bench by the side of Gervase.</p> - -<p>With much deliberation the young man broke the bread -in half and divided the cheese into two portions with his -dagger. He handed one share to his companion solemnly. -“I ought to tell you, Master Innkeeper,” Gervase explained, -“that my sister here is about as good a judge -of food as there is to be found in the Midland Counties. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>Tell me what you think of the cheese, my dear Philomela?”</p> - -<p>It was as much as ever Anne could do not to appear -ravenous. “I think the cheese is splendid,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord. “And -what do you think o’ the bread and the cider, you pretty -young doxey?”</p> - -<p>“I have never tasted anything like them,” said Anne.</p> - -<p>“Ha! I knew it would be so!” said the landlord, with -an air of pride that was wonderful.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">B</span>Y reason of this odd adventure Anne and Gervase -were in good heart all the afternoon. Providence -had surely taken them in its care. Food was not -plenty, their feet were getting very sore, their enemies -might be upon them at the next turn in the road, they -knew not where that night to lay their heads; but trudging -ever side by side in the company of each other they -had the spirit of youth to bear them on.</p> - -<p>Again they took to the winding river-bank. It was -kindlier traveling that way. The springing green turf -was far easier than the hard stones of the road. Also -the dust was less and there were fewer people to -avoid.</p> - -<p>Towards evening poor Anne began to limp rather -sorely. But not a word of complaint passed those resolute -lips. Gervase too was in sad case. Full many a weary -mile had they made since their wild setting forth in the -dawn of the April morning.</p> - -<p>Several times in the late afternoon they were obliged to -sit by the river and seek some little ease by taking off -their shoes and stockings and by bathing their aching -feet in the cool water. But their courage was wonderfully -high, for youth was with them, and also Providence, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span>and also a something rare and strange which each had -kindled in the other’s heart.</p> - -<p>The mists of evening began to steal down the river. -As the fugitives sat on a green bank by the side of the -water, their faces aglow with the sunset, nature spoke to -them with a new, a fuller, an intenser meaning. Bird and -beast, herb and tree were thrilling with life. And yet as -Gervase and Anne sat close together they felt a sense of -their tragic destiny overtaking them. The life of one, -perhaps of both, was forfeit. The dark shadow was ever -in their minds. All thought of the morrow must be put -away.</p> - -<p>The sun had left them now. Out of the dark valley, -a little sinister with its close-grown gloom of trees, -through which the reaches of the river wound, a faint -wind came stealing. Very softly it caressed the face of -the water, making an effect of music, eerie, solemn, yet -enchanting.</p> - -<p>Gervase knitted his brave companion to his heart. The -flood-tide of youth was surging in his veins. The sudden -sense of possession, of high comradeship gave him -one of those rare moments to which the mind goes back -when it comes to ask whether life has been worth all -that has been paid for it in blood and tears. To this -slender thing, so true, so resolute, he owed the life which -for the moment was raised to this perilous height of -ecstasy. In his arms he held this great gift of God to -man; but a voice spoke to the chivalrous heart of him that -he must hold it reverently.</p> - -<p>One kiss on the lips he yielded and no more. He would -have pressed a thousand there, but let him not forget the -awful tragedy of their present hour. No consummation -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span>their love could ever know on earth. He fixed an iron -control upon his will. And yet.... Whatever held the -earthly morrow, were they not twin souls pledged to -roam the starry spaces of eternity together? In the surge -of his passion he tore himself suddenly from the warm -embrace and rose wildly from the green bank of earth.</p> - -<p>The darkness came, and more weary miles they trudged, -her cold hand clasped in his still colder one. The night -fell very chill and without a single star. Soon they left -the river and struck inland, through hedges and over -swampy marshland, in the hope of finding a lodging for -the night more hospitable than the open country.</p> - -<p>Of food there was little prospect. But under Providence, -which during the whole of that long and terrible -day had been so kind to them, they might hope to find -shelter in a cow-hovel, or a shepherd’s hut, or at the worst -a dry ditch. And at last, when they had grown so faint -with hunger and fatigue that they knew not how they -could go another mile, Providence was moved again to -pity them.</p> - -<p>Suddenly they came upon the dark bulk of a line of -farm-buildings just ahead of them. A little groping -brought them to a gate which led to a stackyard. By -now the moon was showing, and with the aid of her fitful -light they were able to find a stable. Here was a ladder -which led to a hay-loft; and in spite of the darkness they -made their way into it, whereupon to their unspeakable -joy they found bundles of clean hay upon which they -could lie warm and snug until daybreak.</p> - -<p>In utter weariness they burrowed under the hay like -moles, and very soon their cares were laid aside in as -sound a sleep as they had ever known. When they awoke -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span>daylight was stealing in through the chinks in the roof. -It was still very early, to judge by the absence of sounds -from below.</p> - -<p>The abundance of the hay had kept them wonderfully -warm during the night, and now they shook their limbs -free of it with a feeling of refreshment and gratitude. -But scarcely had they begun to move when they felt a -mighty need of food. Whatever befell, at all costs must -they seek some.</p> - -<p>They came down from the loft and crossed the yard, -first making sure, however, that there was no one about. -The morning was cold and misty. Not far off was a -byre, and a number of cows were in it ready for milking.</p> - -<p>Hunger was pressing them too hard to be put off with -a scruple. Eagerly they searched all about the farmyard -for a pail, and at last were able to find one in the -stable out of which they had come. It was not very clean, -but the attentions of the farmyard pump soon made it -fit for use.</p> - -<p>However, when it came to a matter of milking the -cows they discovered but little skill at first. Gervase -tried his hand with very poor results. Anne then took -a turn, and at last the pail began to fill.</p> - -<p>She it was who drank first this nectar of the gods. -Then followed Gervase; then followed Anne again, and -then again Gervase. Never in their lives had they had -so rare a breakfast. But so completely had they been -absorbed in their task that they had paid no heed to the -passing of the time, or to that which was going on around -them. The enjoyment of this illicit repast had taken more -than an hour, and the farmyard was now astir.</p> - -<p>Of this fact they were soon made aware. Indeed their -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>meal was scarce at an end when a man’s shadow was -thrown across the doorway of the cowhouse, and there -was the farmer standing looking at them.</p> - -<p>He was a very powerful man, broad and heavy, and -dressed in a suit of russet leather. His hands were tucked -in his jerkin and his chin was sunk upon his breast as -if he were wrapped in profound thought. The look upon -his face was not so much of anger as of amazement. “I -trust ye have had your fill?” he said at last, speaking -in a slow, deep voice.</p> - -<p>“That we have,” said Gervase heartily.</p> - -<p>All the same he felt a kind of shame for having debauched -himself so freely upon another’s property. Yet -it would be idle to deny that a sense of well-being was -uppermost in his mind at that moment. When all was -said, this feeling outweighed any that he might have had -of moral turpitude.</p> - -<p>“Well, then, having had your fill,” said the farmer, -speaking as one who chooses his words, “you will not object -perhaps to make payment?”</p> - -<p>“That I cannot do, I am sorry to say,” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“It is just as I thought,” growled the farmer.</p> - -<p>“I ask your pardon,” said Gervase, “for taking your -milk, but we have no money to pay for any food and we -are starving.”</p> - -<p>The face of the farmer was very ugly now. “Starving, -are ye? Well, my lad, ye shall both come with me to the -constable.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry I cannot oblige you in that,” said Gervase. -“I own I have done you a wrong, but not such a -wrong as to allow the law to mend it.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my lad, you shall not go without payment of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>some kind,” said the farmer, “and you can lay to that. -Either step wi’ me to the constable, or if you’d rather -have it that way, come out into the yard and have the -properest thrashing you’ve had in all your born days.”</p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps that is not unfair—if you can give it -me.” Gervase spoke with the modest readiness of a -man of mettle.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’ll give it you right enough,” said the farmer, -“and you can lay to that.”</p> - -<p>Certainly he was a most formidable-looking fellow, and -he spoke with a truculence sufficient to strike terror into -all save the very stout of heart. But Gervase, having -slept soundly and breakfasted well, was not inclined to -quail. He stepped briskly into the yard at the farmer’s -behest. But there a rude shock awaited him.</p> - -<p>“Diggory,” called the farmer to one of his hands at -work in the yard, “you just fetch my horsewhip along. -Ask mistress to give it thee. Now then, step lively.”</p> - -<p>Gervase, however, proceeded to show cause why Diggory -should not step lively. “Oh no, you don’t, Master -Giles,” he said to the farmer with a laugh. “Pray don’t -think I am going to take it that way.”</p> - -<p>“Then what way are you going to take it, my lad?”</p> - -<p>“Man to man with the bare knuckles if I take it at -all.”</p> - -<p>“Then by God you shall!” The farmer suddenly flung -off his coat. “But you don’t know what you are out for, -young fellow. A bit o’ whipcord will come a lot kinder -to you than these ten commandments o’ mine.”</p> - -<p>“I think I’ll risk that,” said Gervase modestly.</p> - -<p>The farmer rolled up his sleeves, disclosing a pair of -mighty arms. “I’m the man,” he said, “who pretty nigh -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>killed Job Nettle in the fight at Lichfield twenty years -ago. They talk about it to this day. And I reckon, young -fellow, I’ll pretty nigh kill you. There was never none -as could stand against Gideon Partlet as ever I heard -tell of. Did you, Diggory, ever hear o’ such?”</p> - -<p>“Naw,” said Diggory, “naw, I niver.”</p> - -<p>And the eyes of Diggory began to start in anticipation.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">C</span>ERTAINLY the farmer had the look of a bruiser. -Moreover he had a robust confidence in his own -powers, and this was expressed by the grin of -satisfaction upon his face. A number of the farm hands -soon came up, attracted by the never-failing charms of -a bout of fisticuffs.</p> - -<p>Gervase followed the example of his adversary by -discarding his doublet and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. -He was far slighter of build and cast in a mold altogether -more delicate than the farmer. Still he was a -very likely looking fellow.</p> - -<p>As became a gentleman of his time, his education had -been liberal. Martial and manly exercises had played -their part in it. Even in such a simple affair as a set-to -with fists he was not without instruction from professors -of the craft. Therefore he had a modest hope that he -would be able to take care of himself, even if his foe -was a man of greater power and experience.</p> - -<p>Gervase gave Anne his doublet to hold. She, alas! -was terribly distressed when she saw what was going to -happen. But there was no help for it. If Gervase did -not fight the farmer he must submit to the hands of the -law.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> - -<p>Her natural woman’s instinct was to run away and -hide while the battle was fought. But her staunchness -forbade such a course. She mustered all her resolution -in order to remain where she was. Gervase might have -sore need of her help before he was through with a -business so grievous.</p> - -<p>Although the blows turned her sick, she forced herself -to stand by the wall of the cowhouse and with -wildly beating heart watched the progress of the fight. -The might of the farmer’s arms was terrific. Happily -he was a man past fifty; he carried far more of flesh -than when he was in his prime as a fighter; and thus -was Gervase given an opportunity to ward or avoid -the worst of his blows. Well it was for him that he was -able to do this, for in his prime, which was twenty-five -years ago, Gideon Partlet had been a famous fighter. -Even now much of the old skill remained; but the muscles -were not so supple and he could not get about as -craftily as of yore.</p> - -<p>All the same the farmer brought such a zest to his -fighting, he delivered such a rain of blows, and there -was such a power behind them, that had not Gervase -been uncommonly quick with his hands and feet it must -have gone hard with him.</p> - -<p>The farmer’s great fists would have dealt out terrible -punishment had the milk-stealer been unable to parry -them. Even as it was, and in spite of all that he could -summon of youth, activity and skill, Gervase did not -get off scot free. To the huge delight of the farm -hands who were shouting loud encouragement to their -master, the milk-stealer received one blow on the side -of the jaw that shook him terribly, while another caught -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>the young man on the nose and drew his blood. But this -was slight punishment compared with what might have -been, for had Gervase been wholly without experience -he had paid heavy toll for his felony.</p> - -<p>Now Gervase was enough of a man to accept and perhaps -even to desire punishment for his offence. He could -not help feeling that Master Gideon Partlet had received -a deep wrong at his hands, so that he felt at first no -very great animosity toward the farmer. But if the -truth must be told, the crack on the jaw shook considerably -this chivalrous desire to make payment in kind for -his felony; the starting of the blood rendered it in -imminent danger; and when presently he was so hard -pressed that his right eye was like to be closed, the -noble sense of equity of which all men do well to be -jealous, was thrown to the wind.</p> - -<p>It seemed then to grow clear to the mind of Gervase -that Master Gideon Partlet somehow lacked a sense of -proportion. The buffets on jaw and nose were in his -opinion quite as much as the milk was worth. The -assault on the right eye was usury. But the farmer did -not share this view. Once blooded, he fought more furiously -than ever. Moreover he accompanied each blow -with a savage grunt and did all he knew to pin the -younger and lighter man against the wall of the byre.</p> - -<p>The distress of poor Anne was dreadful. Brave as -she was, after a few moments she could endure the sight -no more. Shuddering, she hid her eyes in the doublet -of her champion.</p> - -<p>Would the fight never cease? She began to fear that -the farmer would kill Gervase. No longer dare she -look at the cruel spectacle, but the ever-recurring sound -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>of the blows chilled and sickened her. At last there -came a loud cry from the onlookers, and then the dread -sounds ceased. When she ventured to look she made -the discovery that a very strange thing had happened.</p> - -<p>The farmer was prone on his back in the mire of his -own stackyard. He lay motionless; and Gervase and -one of the hands were bending over him and were in -the act of raising him up.</p> - -<p>“Oh, is he dead?” gasped Anne.</p> - -<p>“Not he,” said Gervase cheerfully. He besought her -to bring a little water from the pump in the milk-pail.</p> - -<p>By the time this had been brought the farmer was -sitting up rather ruefully in the straw of the yard. Gervase -supported him with a shoulder; but soon finding -that Gideon Partlet was little the worse for the blow -on the point of the jaw that had leveled him to mother -earth, the young man proceeded to clear the blood from -his own face by dipping it in the bucket.</p> - -<p>The farmer watched the process with an air of grim -approval. “Here’s my hand, young man,” he said when -Gervase’s countenance had been put in some sort of -order. “You are a lad of mettle and a pretty fighter. -By God, young fellow, I didn’t think ye kept such a clip -as that in your shirt.”</p> - -<p>The farmer seemed to think it was the finest jest in -the world that one so wise and crafty as himself should -have been careless enough to lay himself open to such -a blow. And, as became one who had enjoyed many -triumphs in his youth, he was too good a fellow not -to be able to laugh at his own expense. “Tell me, young -man, where did ye learn that buffet? A thing like that -don’t come by nature.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span></p> -<p>“I had it of Christopher Tattersall, the Yorkshire -champion,” said Gervase modestly.</p> - -<p>“Did ye so?” said the farmer, with a kind of enthusiasm. -“Well, it’s the prettiest buffet I’ve smelt this -thirty year.”</p> - -<p>“I would not have used it had you not forced me to,” -said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“And if I’d known you were keeping it in your sleeve -I’d not have held ye so light, young fellow, and you can -lay to that.”</p> - -<p>The farmer spoke with a kind of grim admiration, as -became an old warrior who had dealt many a shrewd -knock in his time. He bore no malice, either for the -rape of his milk or for the blow to his pride. Besides, -much was to be forgiven a lad of the true mettle.</p> - -<p>“If you and your young doxey will step as far as the -kitchen,” said he, “perhaps the good wife can find ye a -bite o’ breakfast apiece.”</p> - -<p>In spite of the quantity of the new milk they had consumed -Gervase and Anne needed no second invitation.</p> - -<p>The good wife, to be sure, viewed them at first with -little in the way of favor. Certainly neither was very -reputable to look upon. Fragments of straw and flakes -of dried mud were clinging to their clothes, and their -faces had not met soap and water for many hours. Also -the face of Gervase was sadly swollen and discolored.</p> - -<p>Still, in spite of the good wife’s misgivings she gave -them a delicious breakfast of collops, hot cakes and ale. -Never in their lives had they had such a repast. And -the farmer, for all that they had stolen his milk, was fain -to heap up their platters with the large generosity of one -who has been a first-rate fighter in his youth.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> - -<p>“I know not who you be, young fellow,” said he. -“You have an air of quality, although you may be none -the less a cutthroat for that. Perhaps you are Tat -Barcey, the gentleman prig. Still, I care not who you -are, but by God’s life you are a mighty pretty fighter. -Wife, give the young rogue another slice o’ the cake -and give some more swipes to the young doxey. Let -it never be said that Gideon Partlet knows not how to -honor a stout and crafty fighter.”</p> - -<p>Thus it was that an hour hence they went forth furnished -royally. High of heart, they took the road again. -A night’s rest and a square meal are wonder-working -things. For a time they were no longer the hunted -fugitives of the previous day. Girt by the spirit of youth -and braced by good cheer, they struck across the country -into the Derbyshire woods. Here their path was -spread with primroses and all manner of spring delights. -The bursting buds caressed their faces, the odor of wild -flowers was in their nostrils, a thousand golden-throated -voices filled their ears.</p> - -<p>In the high-hearted freedom of the moment they forgot -their tragic peril. This was life in its rapture, life -in its fulness. Soon Gervase began to sing.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">In the merry month of May,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">In a morn by break of day,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Forth I walked by the wood-side</div> - <div class="verse indent0">When as May was in his pride.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>The green aisles re-echoed his voice. Presently they -rested on a moss-grown bank with the great river flowing -far beneath them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">There I spied all alone</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Phillida and Coridon.</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>They looked in the ardent eyes of one another utterly -heedless of what was to come. In this joyous morning -of spring they were determined to forget the horror -that held them in thrall. Let the morrow bring what -it might, in this glorious hour they were determined to -rejoice. For the moment let the moment suffice! They -would give themselves up to the rapture of this little -hour.</p> - -<p>Why have a care? Their pursuers were outrun. They -had the whole wide world in which to hide—the whole -wide world, which was full to the brim with glorious -adventure. They asked nothing beyond the comradeship -of each other. Let chance continue to serve them -for their modest need.</p> - -<p>For their luncheon they took a young turnip out of -a field. But this did not prove a very satisfying bill -of fare. Alas! they soon began to crave an ampler -meal. Nor did this craving grow less when early in the -afternoon the sun went behind a cloud and presently a -cool wind arose accompanied by the threat of rain.</p> - -<p>Turnips are doubtless excellent things, but they are -little enough upon which to maintain the fires of youth. -Thus were they driven, at whatever risk to their lives, -to strike out again toward the haunts of men. Again -was Gervase consumed by a desire to barter the silver-hilted -dagger for a flageolet by means of which he -reckoned to get pence, or failing that, he hoped to turn -the superfluous weapon into current coin of the realm.</p> - -<p>They passed through several hamlets, but in none -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>did the opportunity arise of fulfilling these desires. Moreover -charity was lacking, so that by sundown a bitter -hunger took them in its grip. To add to their woes -they were again growing footsore and there had come -a change in the weather. The wind had a sting in it -and the heavy gray clouds were flying low.</p> - -<p>Anne, however, was the bravest companion. She -trudged along patiently by the side of Gervase and nothing -would make her admit that she was hungry or weary -or afraid. But had it not been for the solace of each -other’s company they must have given in long before -they did. Each was sustained by the other’s valor. -Yet with night at hand, supperless and without a roof -for their heads, heaven knew what would befall them -now.</p> - -<p>At last, when the cold twilight had come down on -the woods and fields, they felt no longer able to go on. -They rested awhile by the side of the road. Gervase -nestled Anne’s cheek against his coat, and it seemed -like ice.</p> - -<p>“Poor soul,” he whispered, and could hardly restrain -his tears.</p> - -<p>It was quite dark by the time they had gathered the -strength to continue their journey. At first their limbs -were so stiff that they could hardly walk. But the bitter -wind, the heavy darkness and the threat of rain spurred -them cruelly. Their strides grew shorter and shorter, -they fell sick at heart, yet they did not complain of one -another or of Providence.</p> - -<p>On and on they trudged until they were like to drop. -Exactly what they hoped to find in that inhospitable -night was more than they could have told. Perhaps some -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span>hovel or shepherd’s hut or a byre with cows in it was -the bourne of their desire. But the weary miles passed -by and none of these things came to them.</p> - -<p>After a time they turned from the hard and bleak -high road, which gave no protection from the merciless -wind, again into the fields. They felt now that they -could not walk another mile. Utterly weary and dispirited, -they still clung to the slender hope of finding shelter -in a wood wherein to pass the remainder of the night. -But the country now was flat and cheerless. It contained -little else than low-lying marsh-land fringed with stunted -willow-trees.</p> - -<p>Disappointed of even this small crumb of solace, they -crept at last under a hedge which in the total darkness -was the best protection they could find. And grateful -were they for it. At least they were saved from the -wind and rain. But fatigue galled them in every bone -and they were most bitterly hungry.</p> - -<p>They were too miserable to think of sleep. For the -sake of warmth they lay very close together, but little -enough there was of it that crept into their veins. But -never for a moment did their courage fail. They were -sustained with a sense of miraculous deliverance from -infinite perils. In body they were fainting, but in ardor -of spirit they were unconquered still. God who had -given them so much would continue to hold them in His -care.</p> - -<p>Almost as if in answer to their faith they saw suddenly -a light quite near. It seemed to be no more -than a couple of fields away. Yet again, tortured by -hope, they painfully gathered their weariness and dragged -their worn-out bodies toward this fitful and unexpected -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span>beacon. Alas! the two fields became four and yet the -light seemed to be no nearer. But once afoot in its -quest, they stumbled on miserably through the driving -rain, in the teeth of the icy wind, over wet furrows and -through close-set hedges. On and on they stumbled, till -at last a moment came when they were like to fall in -sheer fatigue. But Providence was with them still. For -in this last dire extremity they were rewarded by the -sight of that which they had come so far to find.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE light proved to be a fire which had been -made by a band of gypsies in a corner of a field. -As Gervase and Anne approached, hope revived -them again, since a most exquisite scent of food began -to pervade their nostrils. Suspended above the fire was -an enormous cauldron from which this most delicious -savor proceeded.</p> - -<p>Gervase staggered toward a very ancient crone who -was stirring the contents of the cauldron with a long-handled -iron spoon. “For love of God, good mother,” -he said, “give us leave to lie by your fire a bit. And -if we may have a share of your supper, by my soul we -will remember you in our prayers.”</p> - -<p>The old woman looked at them both very doubtfully. -“Who be ye?” she asked suspiciously. “Whence come -ye?”</p> - -<p>“That I cannot tell you, mother,” said Gervase, and -his tone was pleading hard. “But we are a-cold and -we are famishing. Do but grant us this and you shall -never have cause to rue your kindness.”</p> - -<p>“Ye have the trick of fair speaking at any rate,” -said the crone. “I like the sound of your voice, young -chal. Yes, you shall eat and lie by the fire a bit.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span></p> - -<p>The contents of the pot proved to be not less delectable -than the smell that came out of it. The crone -made free use of the large iron spoon and gave Gervase -and Anne each a huge platterful. They did not inquire -of what the savory mess consisted. It was enough -that it was good.</p> - -<p>While they ate thus dim figures emerged continually -from the shadows beyond the fire. Soon these were -stretched before the pot and fell to eating also. They -were a rough, ill-kempt company. Their table manners -were none of the nicest. But they were a hearty, friendly, -genial people. They asked no questions of the guests -who lay before their fire, but rather seemed glad to find -them there. Moreover they handed about freely a flagon -of excellent ale.</p> - -<p>A dozen or more of these cheerful, dark-visaged wanderers -were soon about the fire. And after supper, as -the night was still young, one of their number produced -a flageolet and began to play upon it not unpleasantly. -It was a well-toned instrument, far superior to the one -out of which the draggle-tailed wanderer of the village -street had wrung such doubtful music. Indeed Gervase, -who had the ear of the true amateur, was delighted with -the whole performance.</p> - -<p>He was fain to compliment the musician upon his -melody. And in such a wonderful manner had warmth -and good cheer revived the young man’s spirits, which -less than an hour ago were at their lowest ebb, that -now he begged to be allowed to discourse a little on the -gypsy’s pipe—a request that was readily granted.</p> - -<p>Now it chanced that Gervase, for all that he had a -very humble estimate of his own powers, had a certain -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>skill in this, the most charming of the arts. Upon a -natural and refined taste was grafted years of delighted -study. Moreover the instrument was rather a choice -one.</p> - -<p>The gypsies had a real love of music; and when cunning -strains began to rise from their midst as they lay -round the warm fire, they were spell-bound. First Gervase -played a soft, refined piece he had learned in Italy. -Its delicacy composed the ear even while it ravished it. -Then followed bolder harmonies, less exquisite perhaps, -but none the less delightful. Finally he passed into a -couple of ranting pieces known and admired over all -the countryside.</p> - -<p>When they heard these famous tunes some began to -sing and others rose and danced round the fire. They -would not hear of Gervase ceasing to play. For long -enough was he kept at his task; all kinds of revelry -accompanied the cheerful strains of the pipe, and when -at last the accomplished musician was so weary that he -could play no more it was gravely whispered about the -fire that this soft-spoken wanderer with the wonderful -gift was none other than Tat Barcey, the gentleman -prig.</p> - -<p>All went well that evening with Gervase and Anne. -An almost superstitious respect was paid to them. The -old woman gave them a good place beside the fire in -which to pass the night, and when the morning came -they had another good meal.</p> - -<p>The gypsies showed them so much kindness that they -were in no hurry to go forth. And before they left these -friends, so heedful were they of present opportunity, that -two things of consequence befell. In the first place a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>great desire had been kindled in Gervase to get possession -of the gypsy’s flute. Again was the dagger -with the silver hilt produced. Devoutly he hoped it would -be deemed a full equivalent for the thing he coveted.</p> - -<p>The owner of the flute examined the weapon closely. -Gervase’s heart began to beat excitedly. At that moment -he desired the flute beyond anything else in the world. -The value of the dagger tempted the gypsy to make the -exchange. “Why, yes,” said he, “certainly I will.”</p> - -<p>When Gervase was given the pipe he felt a thrill of -joy, for here was a means of life.</p> - -<p>But this was not the end of their good luck.</p> - -<p>It was most necessary that Anne should disguise her -sex at the first opportunity. The hawking-breeches and -long boots of untanned leather surmounted by a woman’s -bodice and feminine canopy of curls had already excited -remark. Therefore was the crone persuaded to cut off -the long tresses with a pair of shears, and out of the -gypsies’ wardrobe she provided a boy’s leather jerkin -and a cap to match it in exchange for the woman’s gear -that Anne was wearing.</p> - -<p>A great change was wrought thereby in her appearance. -She was no more a maid. Her thin, tall figure, -graceful as a willow, did remarkably well for that of a -very slender boy. Charming she looked; her form was -of a singular delicacy, but it passed very well for that -of a boy. Awkward questions need no longer be feared -along the road. Both were now unmistakably of the -sterner sex in the sight of all men.</p> - -<p>They went forth in good heart. Armed with this -blessed pipe no longer need they fear for a modest sustenance -by the way, unless they should fall in with a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>singularly barren land or one notoriously averse from -music.</p> - -<p>All the same they must use great caution. It had -been proved to them already that the chase was like to -be hot at their heels. Still if they kept to little frequented -places, there was for the present a chance of -eluding their pursuers. But beyond that they did not -dare to hope.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">F</span>ROM this time forth, as far as it was possible, -Gervase and Anne kept to the woods and the fields. -For several weeks they yielded themselves to a -free life in the open. Drenched by the rains, combed -by the winds, baked by the sun, they soon became as -brown as berries.</p> - -<p>All day would they wander hand in hand. But this -was a state of things that could not last. A clear -conviction had grown up in the heart of Gervase that a -term had been set to his days. At any moment he might -be taken. Therefore would he have his taste of life.</p> - -<p>He welcomed nature in all her moods. He basked in -her sunlight, he turned his face to her winds, he rejoiced -when her sudden plumps of rain drenched him -to the skin. And the brave thing, ever beside him, to -whom he owed the life which was still his, she too in her -courage and devotion was in a mood of highest fortitude.</p> - -<p>Come what might, they would live their hour. Already -Anne had made a vow that when the call came -to Gervase she would obey it too. When that dread -hour came in which they could no longer put off their -captors they were resolved to die together. Soon or -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span>late a tragic fate must overtake them. But in the meantime -let them taste of life in its abundance, let -them rejoice in the ever-mounting passion of their -love.</p> - -<p>Often a barn or a byre sufficed for their night’s lodging, -but they seldom lacked food. Even in the most -rural places Gervase’s skill upon the flute, blended occasionally -with the fresh and charming voice of Anne, -hardly ever failed to bring a few pence which served to -buy them a meal.</p> - -<p>It was a good life and yet a very hard one. They -dared not venture into the larger places where pence -might have been more plentiful. Thus for the most -part the fare was coarse and scanty, and often were -their bones a mass of aches from the unkindness of their -couches. They were tanned like gypsies, fine-drawn as -greyhounds; and all too soon their clothes began to display -holes and tatters in spite of the care with which -they tended them.</p> - -<p>Small wonder was it that as the days passed this -severe life of the road began to pall. Greatly as they -exulted in their freedom, they began to long intensely -for gentler fare. Besides, they were inclined to view -their perils more lightly. Nerved by hardship, very -hungry and also grown a little desperate after a long -succession of most uncomfortable days and nights, -they found themselves on a glorious morning in the -streets of the famous town of Oxford. And here a thing -befell that was to change the current of their lives.</p> - -<p>It was hardly more than eight o’clock by the time they -came into the Cornmarket, where stood the Crown Tavern, -which was the principal inn in the city. The season -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>was June, and young as was the day the sun was already -hot in a sky that was without a cloud.</p> - -<p>A man dressed neatly in a doublet of black velvet, and -with a short cock’s feather in his hat, sat on a bench in -the sun by the tavern door. On his knees was a mass -of papers which he was studying intently. The expression -upon his face was a little dubious at times, and -more than a little pensive at others. Now and again -as he read he indulged in a trick of brushing back his -rather long hair with the palm of his hand, and to this -he had free recourse when he came to a passage in the -close-written folio that particularly engaged his attention.</p> - -<p>As the strains of Gervase’s flute, mingled with the notes -of Anne’s rather plaintive treble, caught the man’s ear -he paused suddenly in his task. With an eager, inquiring -eye that was singularly searching he looked up; -and as it fell upon the pair of vagabonds who were -coming slowly across the Cornmarket toward where -he sat, there was something in their aspect which -seemed to arouse his curiosity. At any rate he laid -his papers down on the bench, and regarded the musician -and the singer with an air of great candor and -interest.</p> - -<p>It may have been that the performance on the flute -struck him as possessing a merit beyond the common, -or it may have been that the sweetly plaintive voice -touched a chord in his heart, or again it may have been -that some subtle quality in the aspect of these ragged -robins spoke to him. For at least his scrutiny was grave, -direct, very regardful. It was as if he saw, beyond the -tawny skins, the unkempt locks, the tattered clothes, an -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>underlying strangeness as of something far other than -was as yet revealed.</p> - -<p>So oddly was this man taken by the appearance of -these wanderers that when they halted, rather timidly as -it seemed, some twenty paces from where he sat, he was -fain to beckon to them to come nearer. Yes, here were -youth and grace indeed, and beneath their tan was an -unmistakable beauty. Very slowly and very gravely -the man on the tavern bench looked them up and down -from top to toe.</p> - -<p>“Playing for a breakfast, young sir?” he said in a tone -of amused friendliness, when at last this scrutiny was at -an end.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, we be,” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>Of late the young man had affected a kind of Doric -in his speech, the better to accord with an appearance -that grew more and more rustical. But as soon as the -man heard the tone of his voice a smile played furtively -upon his lips.</p> - -<p>Again were those observing eyes directed upon Gervase -and Anne. There was neither unkindness nor impertinence -in that whimsical gaze. It was hardly more -than the sympathetic curiosity of a subtle mind in the -presence of a mystery it is tempted to solve. But to -Gervase at least it brought a sense of discomfort. The -man’s whole aspect made him feel that here was a -mental power, a faculty of divination far beyond the -common.</p> - -<p>“My friend,” said the man, with a disarming air of -courtesy, “if I may say so, you perform so choicely -upon the flute that you should seldom go wanting a -meal.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, sir, we lack one sometimes,” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“There should be no occasion to do so this morning -at least. Persons of taste abound in this old university -town.”</p> - -<p>“That is good news, sir,” said Gervase guardedly.</p> - -<p>“And had I been bred at this ancient seat of learning -I myself might have claimed to be of their number.” -So soft and gentle was the tone of the man’s voice -that Gervase was set more than ever upon his guard.</p> - -<p>The young man tried to show by a gesture that the -conversation was being carried above the plane on which -his bucolic wits were accustomed to move. But unhappily -its very politeness defeated the object in view. No -rustic since the world began had ever been able to convey -a deprecation so delicate in a manner so urbane.</p> - -<p>The man could not forbear to be amused. “Well, -sir,” said he, “let me make myself clearer. May I, as -a humble lover of the arts, offer a breakfast to you and -your friend in order to celebrate your genius upon the -flute?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, sir, you may,” said Gervase, with grateful -alacrity, and casting all prudence to the wind.</p> - -<p>The man bowed as if aware that an honor had been -done him. “Is there any particular dish, sir, you crave -for your breakfast?”</p> - -<p>Instead of replying to the question Gervase looked at -Anne, as if he desired that in a matter of such importance -hers should be the responsibility of choosing.</p> - -<p>Quick to follow the glance, as he was quick to follow -all things, the man was fain to take it for his guide. -“What do you desire for your breakfast, young sir?” -he said to Anne.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> - -<p>“A dish of sweetbreads, if it please you,” said Anne, -without an instant’s hesitation.</p> - -<p>“The devil you do!” The man broke into a cry of -laughter. “You eat delicate, young sir. Is a dish of -sweetbreads your usual fare of a morning?”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Anne. “But you asked me what I would -like for my breakfast.”</p> - -<p>“Well, young gypsy, you shall have ’em, confound me -if you shall not, if good Mistress Davenant can rise to -such fare. I will go and inquire.”</p> - -<p>The man gathered his papers, rose from the bench -and entered the tavern.</p> - -<p>Anne and Gervase were left on the threshold to speculate, -perhaps a little dubiously, upon this new turn in -their fortunes. Gervase was already spurring his memory -to recall who this man might be. He had the clearest -recollection of having seen him before. But where -he had seen him and in what circumstances he could not -remember just then. Still, he felt not the least distrust -of him. The countenance was subtle enough, -and wholly unlike that of any other man, but it had -also a frankness, a candor, a large geniality which wholly -forbade the idea of treachery.</p> - -<p>Soon the man returned with a roguish light in his eye -and the assurance that Mistress Davenant would furnish -a dish of sweetbreads in twenty minutes.</p> - -<p>These were glad tidings. Gervase rendered his thanks -in his best Doric and begged to be allowed the use of -the pump in the courtyard of the inn. Surely such a -noble repast called for some amenity on the part of those -who would yield to its delights.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">W</span>HEN a few minutes later Gervase and Anne, -as wholesome as the pump in the courtyard -could make them, were ushered by their new -friend into the breakfast parlor of the Crown, they -learned without surprise that his calling was that of a -play-actor. Several of his colleagues were seated at a -long table that ran along the center of the room.</p> - -<p>This man’s entrance with two nut-brown vagabonds, -whose clothes were in tatters and had the appearance -of having been drawn through a hedge, gave rise to not -a little curiosity. And when he led them to a small -table spread for three persons that was set in an embrasure -of the window looking on to the street, and sat -down to eat with them, covert glances were stolen at so -singular a spectacle by more than one member of the -Lord Chamberlain’s Company.</p> - -<p>Still, even in that age there was a certain indulgence -among the elect for a man of acknowledged genius. And -of such persons whom nature and fortune had favored -there was a number round the table in the center of -the room. At the foot of it, immediately opposite the -vacant place of his slightly eccentric co-manager, was -Richard Burbage, who had recently built the fine new -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>playhouse on the Bankside in Southwark, and who was -held by all whose opinion was of weight to be the first -tragic actor of the time. Near to him was William Kemp, -the famous comedian, a burly, rubicund fellow, whose -rolling, unctuous tones had been nourished upon many an -honest quart of sack. Farther along the board were -such excellent mimes as Taylor and Lowin and Heming -and Harrison, men highly accomplished in their calling, -and of whom any body of players had a right to be -proud.</p> - -<p>The Lord Chamberlain’s servants were on the floodside -of success. At this time they were going from -strength to strength and outdistancing all competitors. -Even the Lord Admiral’s men had grown to envy them. -These were no unworthy rivals; men of wit and parts -from the universities were writing plays for them, but -they had not the good fortune to be inspired by a man -of very brilliant and remarkable genius.</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage’s co-director and part-proprietor of -the new theater on the Bankside was William Shakespeare, -like all of these men an actor, and perhaps a -rather mediocre one. Yet wild horses would not have -dragged any such admission from his more accomplished -brethren. For these well knew that this man, whose air -was so modest, so charming and so friendly, was one -whose own special gift was beyond all price. Times and -again, at the shortest notice, had he taken the lifeless -corpse of a forgotten play and with a few magic touches -had made the dry bones live.</p> - -<p>More than once had Richard Burbage gone to him -with a demand for “something new for Twelfth Night.” -And as sure as Burbage had done so something new -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span>had been forthcoming; a piece such as to make the town -ring, and cause the Admiral’s men to bite their nails with -envy. Plays of all kinds, running through the whole -gamut of the emotions, had William Shakespeare devised. -All sorts and conditions of men had been enthralled by his -remarkable talent.</p> - -<p>“What new maggot has Will got in his brain?” inquired -the famous Kemp of the still more famous Burbage -as he rolled a large and rather bloodshot eye in -the direction of the window.</p> - -<p>“Nay,” said the tragedian, with an indulgent shake of -the head, “I know not, except that, as he would say, he -is studying the great human comedy.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Dick,” said the comedian, “if you and I did -not know that he had rarer wit than any man alive we -should think he was as mad as a March hare.”</p> - -<p>“It is a form of madness, friend William, that will -never trouble you and me,” said the tragedian, fetching -a deep sigh in which there was more than a suspicion -of the idolater.</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage in particular was sealed of the tribe. -In those reverent eyes the true prince had no peer. The -tragedian was not only a magnificent actor; he was also -an uncommonly shrewd and practical man of the world. -He of all men was able to appraise the merit of William -Shakespeare. Burbage knew that his touch had an astonishing -mastery. He knew Shakespeare to be an incomparable -craftsman who had already furnished him -with wonderful parts in which to display his own -genius. Moreover the tragedian firmly believed that this -wonderful man carried many another fine play as yet -unborn in his brain.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span></p> - -<p>It mattered not what the theme was. It might be as -old as the moon or it might be invented expressly for -the Globe Theatre, but as soon as William Shakespeare -took the pen in his hand the realms of gold were unlocked. -An incommunicable thrill was given to the stale -old plot; the light that never was on sea or land glowed -over it; every line acquired a cadence, a fire, a magic -that Richard Burbage, acknowledged monarch of its interpreters, -knew to be incomparable.</p> - -<p>In the presence of the other members of the company, -and particularly in that of the younger ones, Burbage -would often allude to the playwright in terms of awe. -His attitude of whimsical adoration was apt to amuse -his brethren not a little at times. Whenever the playwright -expressed an opinion on things and men—and an -uncommonly shrewd one it was as a rule—it could count -invariably on the approval of Richard Burbage. Furthermore -all that he was moved to say or do had some -high sanction in the sight of the tragedian.</p> - -<p>There might be those at that table less prone to idolatry. -Some of the younger men, having much to learn, -were tempted to smile at the spectacle of their chief -sitting apart with a pair of nondescript vagabonds, who -to judge by their clothes were no more than a couple of -strolling Egyptians. But with Burbage and Kemp this -was by no means an occasion for levity. Their implicit -faith in their colleague enabled them to see method in his -madness.</p> - -<p>“Another of his discoveries, I trow, Dick,” said William -Kemp, with a sly glance in the direction of the window.</p> - -<p>“You can lay your sweet life upon that,” said the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>tragedian, fixing a stern eye upon a somewhat froward -junior a little farther down the table. “Do you mind -how he found Edgcumbe and where he found him?”</p> - -<p>“That I do, and Crosby too and Parflete also if it -comes to that. There is not a man in all England has -such an eye for a youth of likelihood.”</p> - -<p>Nor had this view to wait long for confirmation. Presently -the playwright rose from his seat by the window -and came over to the long table. There was an expression -of keen pleasure upon his face. He laid an affectionate -hand upon Burbage’s shoulder. “Dick,” he said, -“we are in luck. I’ve found two of the prettiest boys -I have seen this many a moon. Well-mannered, gentle-spoke, -right excellent in address. One plays the flute in -the manner of a musician; and the other is straight and -limber, soft-voiced and neat-legged. There is the making -of such a <i>Rosalind</i> there as Parflete himself could not -better. Give your old nose one more dip i’ th’ tankard, -Dickon, and then come over and pass the time o’ the -day with my dainty young Egyptians.”</p> - -<p>The tragedian needed no second invitation, but with -a “There-what-did-I-tell-you!” expression of countenance -accompanied William Shakespeare to the table by -the window.</p> - -<p>“This is my friend Burbage,” said the playwright to -the brown and handsome Egyptians. “Not of much -account as an actor, I am afraid, but without a superior -in the handling of a tankard with a toast in it or in -tossing off a cup of sack either before or after supper.”</p> - -<p>Gervase and Anne rose from the table and bowed respectfully -to the tall, grave and dignified tragedian who -yet had a subtle light of humor in his eye.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> -<p>Now the name of William Shakespeare was already -familiar to Gervase. He had heard his kinsman speak -of him with high approval. Moreover Gervase had sat -on the stage at the theater and seen him perform in a -number of his own plays. To be sure he was nothing -great as an actor, but those who could judge of such -things, his cousin Harry to wit, were of opinion that -he was without a peer as a deviser of plays.</p> - -<p>But whatever the man was or whatever he was not, -in the estimation of Gervase he was undoubtedly a very -agreeable follow. He had given them a delightful breakfast. -He had regaled them with free and lively discourse. -Also he had depicted the life of an actor—particularly -of one who had the good fortune to be taken into -the Lord Chamberlain’s Company—in most glowing colors. -Nor had even this contented him. He had ended -by making them a formal offer to join that famous band.</p> - -<p>They should have clothes of a good style and quality; -their cheer should be abundant; they should be comfortably -housed and cared for; and during the first -year of their apprenticeship they should receive a tester a -day. The whole craft of the theater should be taught -them; they should tread the boards of the Globe; and, -with due diligence, upon a day they might hope to play -before the Queen at Richmond or Greenwich.</p> - -<p>It was an alluring prospect that the actor had painted -with a lively and glowing fancy. And now that Burbage -had seen these singularly attractive youths and had -learned that Shakespeare had set his heart on securing -them for the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, they had the -tragedian’s wiles of speech to combat.</p> - -<p>Gervase was tempted sorely. The hard life of the road -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>was growing intolerable. Food was scarce, beds hard -and often to seek; they were continually exposed to the -weather in all its inclemency; they were haunted by a -constant sense of peril. Should they exchange all this -discomfort for the happier prospect that was now dangled -before them?</p> - -<p>It was a grave problem and one that called for much -hard thought.</p> - -<p>“’Tis the finest profession in the world,” said the tragedian, -with the light of enthusiasm in his eyes, “and -you, with your looks and address, are bound to rise in -it. Twenty years ago I was by trade a carpenter, and -as for Will here he was even less than that.”</p> - -<p>It was not, however, the worldly advantages of a player’s -calling that were making their appeal to Gervase. -No doubt they were considerable, for both of these men -had prosperity written upon them. It was not for these -things that he cared, however, nor overmuch for his -own ease and security. But for Anne, poor brave Anne -who was already beginning to fail from sheer fatigue, it -would mean a far gentler way of life.</p> - -<p>When, however, Gervase came to consider the alternative -that was offered he could not be blind to its perils. -It was bound to mean a life of publicity, in places moreover -in which he was likely to be known. No; the more -thought he gave to the matter, the clearer his conviction -grew that it would add tenfold to their dangers if -they threw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s men.</p> - -<p>Gervase liked so well these honest, genial and courteous -fellows and the gay, free and pleasant life they -offered that it went to his heart that he could not answer -in the way he would have chosen. What a boon such -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>a life would have been, what a relief from the hard road -and the open sky! Day by day their case was growing -worse. But they must not yield to these beguilements so -long as they set any value on their lives.</p> - -<p>It was with much reluctance that in the end Gervase -informed the players that he and his companion could -not throw in their lot with the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. -They were sensible of the liberal offer that had -been made to them; they expressed all proper gratitude -for it, but their business lay otherwhere.</p> - -<p>The playwright in particular was much disappointed. -Already he had begun to count upon a couple of most -promising recruits. The shy grace, the light-flanked slenderness -of the younger gypsy had especially intrigued -that perceiving eye. But it was in vain that Shakespeare -pointed out the advantages such a mode of life afforded -over their present one. It was in vain that he assembled -all the glowing colors of his fancy to depict it.</p> - -<p>“I would, sir, that we might do as you wish,” said -Gervase, with a deep sigh.</p> - -<p>The keen-witted player was quick to notice the wistful -tone of the voice, the look of pain in the eyes. All at -once it came into his mind that this young man was not -what he appeared to be.</p> - -<p>Surely he had seen this young man before. For the -life of him he could not then say when it was or where, -but he had not the least doubt that he had met him in very -different circumstances. Yet his delicacy of mind was -such that the knowledge that he had come to the threshold -of a mystery made him less insistent than he would -have been otherwise.</p> - -<p>Presently with many sincere expressions of gratitude<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -Anne and Gervase took the road again. As Shakespeare -watched them depart his professional feelings got -the better of him. “Dick,” he said to his faithful henchman, -“I am sore to see them go. No two such springalds -as those, so fair, sweet and likely, have I seen for a -month o’ Sundays.”</p> - -<p>“It may be so,” said Richard Burbage sagely.</p> - -<p>“Still, things are not always what they seem, Dickon,” -said the playwright.</p> - -<p>“How mean you, you old wiseacre?” The tragedian -linked his arm affectionately within that of his friend. -“What new hare is started in that wild demesne which -you are pleased to call your mind?”</p> - -<p>“I mean, dear shrew, that those are no more gypsies -than Richard Burbage is Emperor of Cathay.”</p> - -<p>“Then who the plague be they?”</p> - -<p>“Ha! you have me there. But I’ll wager there is -far more in this matter than meets the eye.”</p> - -<p>“So be it, then,” said the tragedian, rolling his rich -voice. “But in the meantime let us see if a large cup -of sack will sharpen your recollection, you subtle-minded -maker of plays.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">A</span>LAS! a large cup of sack did little to sharpen the -remembrance of Mr. William Shakespeare. It -was in vain that he brought his mind to bear upon -the problem that now engaged it. He felt sure he had -seen both the gypsies before, and in very different circumstances; -slight threads of recollection were alive in his -memory, but for the life of him he could not piece them -together into any hopeful clue.</p> - -<p>The playwright spent the rest of the morning on a -bench in the sun before the door of the Crown, conning -diligently the close-written sheets of the latest heir -of his invention.</p> - -<p>Art is long, time fleeting. He read with mingled feelings: -relief that the thing was done at last; regret of -the true artist that it was not to be done all over again, -so far it was from those first blithe runnings of the -fancy which had peopled his mind with such glad shapes -as no eye of mortal could ever look upon. Even now -it wanted a title, this pleasant conceited comedy. And -how was it possible to find a name for this absurd, sweetly -foolish fantasy of the greenwood and a banished -duke, of love and girlhood and high poesy?</p> - -<p>Art is long, time fleeting. It was a poor thing, but it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span>would have to serve, since the Queen had called for it to -be played before her next Thursday se’nnight in her -palace at Richmond. And it made the playwright sigh to -think that there was only young Parflete to play <i>Rosalind</i>, -that fair emblem of victorious girlhood, upon which -he had feasted and quickened his imagination. The -prosperity of the play depended on a single character, -and Parflete, with all his grace and talent, came not near -the poet’s ideal of the part. Perhaps no mortal youth -could ever hope to do that, and yet what a glorious -<i>Rosalind</i> had walked up that street but an hour ago!</p> - -<p>It was a stroke of perverse fate that his eyes had been -ravished by that charming gypsy boy. But for that -sight, Parflete, for whom the part had been designed -from the first, would have contented him. But now -having seen the true <i>Rosalind</i>, for all that he was so -fine-drawn and shy, so ill-kempt and rustical, it made -the poet sad to think of Parflete in the rôle, youth of -breeding and talent as he was.</p> - -<p>The playwright sighed heavily as he turned the last -page. Alas! he felt already that he had leaned too heavily -on his chief female character. Oh, if—! But such -a speculation was idle ... he must dismiss it. Let him -spend his mind more profitably in seeking a name for -the plaguy piece. But how was it possible to find a -name for such a patched coat of fantasy?</p> - -<p>While William Shakespeare was in this mental -travail, his friend Richard Burbage came out of the -tavern. “Dick,” said he, “of your charity give me a -name for this curst piece. I know no more what to -christen it than does a blind tinker his dog.”</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage removed from his mouth his pipe of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>tobacco, a fashionable action which seemed to call for a -slight air of magniloqence. “A name, my William, for -the curst piece?” The tragedian shrugged his shoulders -and spread his hands nonchalantly, while the light of a -large good-humor shone in his shrewd face. “Oh, call -it as you like it or what you will.”</p> - -<p>The fist of the playwright descended upon the bench -in front of him. “Dick, you’ve hit it at the first shot!” -he cried. “As You Like It!—you’ve hit the target right -in the middle.”</p> - -<p>“Why take two bites at a cherry, my son?” said the -tragedian, with another amused shrug. “In fact, the -matter merely amounts to this: If William Shakespeare -of Stratford-on-Avon in Warwickshire, would engage -one Richard Burbage, an honest good fellow, to write -his plaguy pieces for him, it would save him a vast deal -of trouble and inconvenience and the world would never -be able to tell the difference.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon Mr. Richard Burbage sauntered back into -the Crown Tavern with that large air of benevolent tolerance -which should be the attitude of a superior mind -toward all men and all things.</p> - -<p>“As You Like It,” said the playwright. “The name -is as good as a better, confound me if it is not!”</p> - -<p>He dipped his quill into the horn of ink that was on -the bench beside him, and, with the never-failing instinct -of the true craftsman, wrote the title on the first page -of his new comedy.</p> - -<p>Scarce had he time to do this, however, when that -swift, alert and curious mind was engaged by an entirely -new affair. There was the sound of a horse’s -hoofs on the cobbles leading to the tavern door. And -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>the playwright’s quick uplooking glance was met by the -sight of a singular traveler.</p> - -<p>The newcomer was a man about twenty-five years -old, riding a useful-looking horse. But that which particularly -drew the notice of William Shakespeare was the -hapless plight of man and beast. Both were greatly -distressed. The horse had evidently traveled far and -swiftly: it was caked with mud up to its withers; it was -lame of a foreleg; it was covered with sweat, and seemed -hardly able to do another yard.</p> - -<p>The case of the rider was in keeping with the horse’s -unhappy state. The man looked so limp and wretched -that he could scarce sit in the saddle. Moreover, he -was wild-eyed and haggard; and his leather riding-suit -which seemed to denote a servant of a superior sort -was in sad disorder.</p> - -<p>The man rode into the courtyard of the inn and handed -over his weary horse to an ostler. Then the rider, no -less weary than his steed, staggered painfully to the inn -door. In a hoarse voice he called for a tankard of ale -and then flung himself heavily on the bench near to -where the player sat.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare eyed the traveler with deep curiosity. -The man was in such a sorry plight that he could not -refrain from pitying him. “You appear to have traveled -far, friend,” he said.</p> - -<p>The man looked at the speaker in a manner to suggest -that he might be strongly averse from the delights -of promiscuous conversation with a total stranger. “Yes, -I have traveled far,” he said, with a weary sigh.</p> - -<p>He buried his head in his hands as if he were in -despair. And even after refreshment had been brought -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>to him he did not heed it, but continued in this attitude -for some little time. Then suddenly he shook off his -lethargy and drank the ale. Feeling a little renewed, he -called for a second tankard.</p> - -<p>“You don’t happen to have seen a couple o’ young -gypsies traveling through Oxford?” he asked suddenly.</p> - -<p>Immediately the player grew very alert. “What kind -of gypsies do you mean?” he asked in a casual but wary -tone.</p> - -<p>“The taller of the two might be playing on the flute, I -reckon, and the younger one, who has the voice and look -of a girl, might doubtless be singing.”</p> - -<p>William Shakespeare, as became a thoroughgoing man -of the world, was far too acute to blurt out on the spur -of the moment the full measure of his information. -Rather he preferred to parry the question of this singular -traveler by putting a few of his own. “What might -you be wanting with them?” he asked cautiously.</p> - -<p>The traveler drank copiously of his second pot of ale -before he answered. And when answer he did it was -in the rather surly manner of one who strongly desires -to keep his own counsel and yet is not well enough -trained in the art of politeness to be able to keep it gracefully. -“That’s my affair,” he said bluntly.</p> - -<p>The player was too wise a man to pursue his inquiry -at the moment. But by now his curiosity was fully engaged. -There was a mystery here. And mystery of any -sort was apt to engage that subtle mind. When he had -first set eyes on that picturesque pair of young vagabonds -he had been strongly inclined to believe that they were -other than they seemed. Now this man’s coming, his -agitation and his secrecy confirmed him in that theory.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span></p> -<p>Clearly there was a good deal more in this matter than -met the eye. The player was convinced that he had -seen both these ragged robbins before. And in some -vague way he felt he had seen them in circumstances -and surroundings wholly different from those in which -they were at present.</p> - -<p>He knew how to keep his own counsel, however. It -was left to the traveler himself to renew the topic. And -this the man presently did, and in the manner of one -who against his natural judgment is driven by some remorseless, -some irresistible force.</p> - -<p>“Did you say you <i>had</i> seen a pair o’ gypsies pass along -the road?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“I say neither that I have nor that I have not,” said -the player. “Still, if you care to tell me more it is possible -that I may be able to help you. But,” he added, -with well-assumed indifference, “after all, it is hardly -likely that the persons I have in mind are those whom you -are seeking.”</p> - -<p>The man hesitated as one impaled on the horns of a -dilemma. Evidently he was very loath to tell all he -knew. Yet at the same time he realized that the information -he sought could only be won by a measure of -frankness on his own part. After a careful weighing of -the pros and cons of the matter he seemed reluctantly to -conclude that his silence might lose him more than it -would gain.</p> - -<p>“I know not who you are,” he said at last. “But you -have a fair-seeming air and the face of an honest man. -And God send you are all of what you appear, for it is -a very strange and grievous story that I have to tell.”</p> - -<p>The traveler spoke in the manner of one who is entirely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> -desperate. He seemed to have been driven to the -limit of his mental as well as his physical endurance.</p> - -<p>In the face of the player was that beacon of true sympathy -which is as a talisman in the sight of all men. -He had the power to put himself in the place of others. -And here was a kindness, a candor, an openness for all -men to read, and reading for all men to trust implicitly.</p> - -<p>“My story is one you will find very hard to believe,” -said the young man. “But there is no reason why it -should not be told. It is in the power of no man to make -things in a worse coil than they are. And while I do -not think aught is to be gained by making others a party -to them, after all it can do no harm, and I may even gain -a certain ease of mind.”</p> - -<p>The player showed very clearly that he was following -every word with the closest and most sympathetic attention.</p> - -<p>“To begin at the beginning of my story,” said the -young man, “my name is John Markham. My calling is -that of a falconer. I have been eight years in the service -of Sir John Feversham, who is Constable of Nottingham -Castle, and chief justice of the Forest of Sherwood. -He has the reputation of being a hard man. But I have -always found him a very just one. Moreover I say to -you, whoever you be, that no man could desire a better -master.</p> - -<p>“Well, to come at once to this dreadful story, which -it hurts me to tell, some months ago, six perhaps or more—at -least it was in the fall of the year—the Queen -caused to be imprisoned privily in the Castle a Mr. -Gervase Heriot. He was a highly placed young man. -But he had mixed with the Papists, and after a trial -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>which had been held in secret before the Court of Star -Chamber, he had been found guilty of complicity in the -Round House Plot, which you may know had for its object -the taking the Queen’s life. By a good providence -the plot was discovered in time, but the conspirators -were able to fly the country, except Mr. Heriot, -who alone was taken.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot, as I say, was tried in secret, because -the Queen’s advisers were anxious not to inflame the -public mind, and they wished as little as possible to be -made of so ugly a matter. Mr. Heriot was proved guilty -of conspiring against the life of the Queen, and he -was committed to the Castle of Nottingham to be held -there by Sir John Feversham, my master, until such -time as her pleasure concerning him should be further -known.</p> - -<p>“Some two months ago the Queen signed the warrant -for Mr. Heriot’s death. The day for the execution was -fixed. And now I come to the strange, the grievous, -the incredible part of the story.” In the sudden flood -of his emotion the falconer’s voice almost failed. “On -the very morning that Mr. Heriot was to die by the ax -on the block, within three hours of the time appointed, -he escaped from his durance.”</p> - -<p>The young man could not go on. But the unspoken -sympathy of his auditor nerved him to continue. Yet -as he did so a kind of tragic horror entered his voice.</p> - -<p>“At first nothing was known of the circumstances of -Mr. Heriot’s escape. Yet without loss of time all of -us of the Constable’s household who were able of body -mounted our horses and rode off in all directions in order -that the prisoner might be retaken. And it fell to me as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>I rode that same morning in the meadows beside the -Trent to come upon Mr. Heriot hiding in the grass.”</p> - -<p>For a moment the unhappy young man covered his -face with his hands. It was as if he was wholly unable -to proceed with his story or to contemplate that which -was coming.</p> - -<p>With an ever-mounting interest William Shakespeare -waited in silence for this emotion to pass.</p> - -<p>“I had but to speak,” the young man was able to continue -at last. “I had but to cry out to my comrades, who -were less than fifty yards off, and the prisoner would -have been ta’en. But I did not do this.”</p> - -<p>Again came a dire threat from an overwrought mind, -but with a powerful effort of will the falconer was able -to proceed with his story.</p> - -<p>“But I did not do this, for beside him in the grass was -Mistress Anne Feversham, the daughter of the Constable -my master.”</p> - -<p>A sharp cry broke from the lips of William Shakespeare. -He rose from the bench in the stress of his excitement.</p> - -<p>“You let them go free!” said the player.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the falconer. “I had it not in my heart -to take them when she, for whom I would have given -my life, had given hers for the man she loved better -than her own soul.”</p> - -<p>The face of the player was all melted with compassion. -His eyes of strange somberness grew fixed and -dark.</p> - -<p>“But this is not the end of what I have to tell,” said -the falconer. “I let Mr. Heriot and my young mistress -go free; yet before that day was out the truth came to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>the Constable my master, that it was his own daughter -who had contrived the prisoner’s escape and that she -was away with him over the country-side. And my master, -being one to whom honor is a jewel, posted at once -to the Queen to her palace at Greenwich. With his own -lips he told her that Mr. Heriot was broken free. And -not a word did he speak of the part his daughter had -borne in the affair, but took the whole blame of the -matter upon himself.</p> - -<p>“They say that when Sir John told the news to the -Queen her displeasure was terrible. They say that his -story—as in faith it must with the chief part of it left -out—carried so little credence to her mind that she at -once suspected him of treachery, old and loyal servant -as he was. She had him straightway committed to the -Tower. He is to stand immediate trial before the Court -of the Star Chamber on a charge of aiding and abetting -the escape of a prisoner of state. And as I learn from -those best able to judge of such a grievous matter, -my master, unless the prisoner is retaken at once, will -without a doubt be condemned to the block.”</p> - -<p>Shakespeare had followed with a growing excitement -as strange a story as he had ever heard in his life. There -were elements in it which appealed intensely to his -dramatic sense. Besides, he did not doubt that two of -the chief actors in the tragedy were very close at hand. -He did not doubt that they were that fascinating pair -of vagabonds who had wrought upon his curiosity so short -a time ago.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">S</span>ELDOM had the mind of William Shakespeare -been exercised more severely than in this hour. -No story could have been more poignant. Yet -was it the duty even of a true subject and of an honest -man to confide to the distraught John Markham his -knowledge of the nearness of those whom he sought?</p> - -<p>Anxiously he considered this problem; but the more -thought he gave to it, the more baffling and complex -seemed to be the difficulties it presented.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare talked long and earnestly with the falconer -as they sat out in the sun on the tavern bench. -And the result of this intimate conversation was that -he came to form a high regard for the character of this -unhappy man.</p> - -<p>The mind of the poor fellow was grievously tormented. -On the one side was worship of his young -mistress; on the other his fealty to a good and honored -master. He was as one rent in twain. A high adoration -had divorced him from his duty, and now, in -horror of an action that was to cost his master his life, -he was determined to do all that lay in his power to -repair his crime.</p> - -<p>Up hill and down dale, in all weathers, at all hours -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>of the day and night, had he journeyed for more than -a fortnight past. Far over the country-side by little-frequented -ways had he ridden in his quest of the fugitives. -Now did he hear of them from one of whom a -few days before they had obtained a night’s lodging; -now from a masterless man upon the road; now from -a tribe of wandering gypsies; now from the keeper of an -alehouse. He was ever upon the point of coming up -with them, yet ever by the interposition of some strange -providence had they eluded him.</p> - -<p>As Shakespeare listened to the tale of John Markham’s -wanderings the sore problem was ever posed before -his mind. Should he discover to the distraught falconer -the whereabouts of the fugitives? Must he set -him upon the road they had taken but a brief two hours -ago?</p> - -<p>It was not at once that the player could come to a -resolve. Indeed an extension of time was unexpectedly -granted to him, for as John Markham sat on the bench -in the sun a great fatigue suddenly overcame the young -man and he fell asleep.</p> - -<p>Thereupon the player retired to the pleasant garden -at the back of the inn. Here he paced up and down the -box-bordered paths with his hands tucked deep in his -doublet.</p> - -<p>To him presently came Richard Burbage.</p> - -<p>“Oho, my William,” said the tragedian. “Piecing out, -I presume, a further parcel of neat verses for the fair -Rosalind?”</p> - -<p>“No, Dick, a greater affair than that is toward.”</p> - -<p>The tone banished all levity from Burbage’s lips. -“Why, what is the matter?” he said.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span></p> -<p>“Must I tell it or must I not?” The playwright -seemed to be thinking aloud. Then he broke out with a -kind of petulance. “I would to heaven I was not curst -with this fell disease!”</p> - -<p>“Which of your fell diseases is that, dear coz?”</p> - -<p>“The bitterest of them all—the disease of not being -able to know your own mind.”</p> - -<p>“The penalty of high imagination, my friend,” said -Richard Burbage, with an air of understanding and sympathy.</p> - -<p>“You are right, Dickon. The penalty of imagination, -as you say. One of these days I will take a revenge upon -myself and make a play of it. It is the bitterest thing -in the world. There’s no peace in this life for those -who suffer it. But I have here a matter in which I -crave your help. Sit ye there, by the yew-tree yonder, -and I will unfold the most tragical tale that ever came -from the lips of man.”</p> - -<p>Burbage sat as his friend desired. In spite of his -colleague’s perplexed face he was prepared for one of -those odd, fantastic, whimsical inventions that often -enough had been poured into his ear. But this was to -prove another kind of matter altogether.</p> - -<p>The story did not take long in the telling. The tragedian -was thrilled by it. He listened with fascinated -attention.</p> - -<p>“And now, Dick,” said the playwright when he had -come to the end of the tragic story, “I ask you what is -to be done?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, what indeed!” said Burbage in his deep voice.</p> - -<p>“God help them, poor souls!” said the poet tenderly.</p> - -<p>“Amen to that!” said Burbage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span></p> - -<p>These were wise men. There were few of the coils -that fate weaves for her children with which they were -unacquainted. But here was a matter which in its sinister -and tragic complexity seemed to lie beyond their -grasp.</p> - -<p>The problem was indeed a sore one. They were true -subjects of the Queen. As loyal, chivalrous and honorable -men they could appreciate the cruel pass of the -unfortunate Sir John Feversham, and also of the ill-starred -falconer. But how was it possible to deliver up -two such fugitives, two who were little more than children, -who had dared and done so much, to the vengeance -of the law?</p> - -<p>“I ask you, Dick, what is to be done?” said the playwright.</p> - -<p>The tragedian sat with his head in his hands, the picture -of desolation.</p> - -<p>“Nay, Will,” he said haplessly, “you would do better -to consult God and your own conscience.”</p> - -<p>“An’ I do that,” said the playwright, “a curse will lie -on my soul for ever-more.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">A</span>FTER their fine repast at the Crown, Gervase -and Anne left Oxford at once. Soon they were -in the pleasant meadows that lay all about that -famous city. It was a really glorious morning of the -early summer, with the sun, which day by day had -scorched them, more powerful than ever.</p> - -<p>All the forenoon they wandered idly in the fields. -Anne shamed her boy’s apparel by plucking the wild -flowers, gathering a great posy. There seemed hardly -need for a care just then. They had money enough to -carry them through the day and even provide a modest -lodging at nightfall. The grass in which they lay for -long hours was soft, dry, delicious.</p> - -<p>Every day that passed strengthened the sense of comradeship -that sustained them. They were all to one another -now. Yet enraptured as they were with their -love, they were never able to forget that they were -proscribed. This glimpse of happiness could only be a -transient thing. Any day, at any hour, Gervase was -likely to fall into the hands of his enemies. But whenever -that dread accident befell them, as sooner or later -it must, they had made their pledge that they would die -together.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<p>Was there no way of ultimate escape? Each day that -passed had seemed to minister to their love of life. -As they lay in the grass, gazing afar into a heaven so -gorgeous that it filled them with wonder, this longing -to live took hold of them both with a still greater intensity. -Was there no way by which an entirely innocent -man could escape the scaffold?</p> - -<p>If only they had a little money to buy a passage on -board ship they might hope to escape across the seas. -Instead of wandering aimlessly from place to place, void -of purpose or design, there was no reason why they -should not make for the coast. Unhappily it was likely -to profit them little when they came there unless they -could provide themselves with some money.</p> - -<p>The whole of Gervase’s property had passed into the -hands of the wicked man who had borne false testimony -against him. This man was his uncle, Simon Heriot, -who had succeeded to his personal effects and his estate -in the west of England. These had been confiscated by -the Crown. And in that age it was customary to bestow -the spoils of successful prosecution upon the person or -persons who had procured the conviction of the offender!</p> - -<p>Gervase knew that he was the victim of a very wicked -conspiracy. Simon Heriot, cunning, covetous, unspeakably -vile, had laid his plans only too well. So deftly -woven the plot, so wisely chosen its instruments and so -skilful their use of forged proofs and false evidence -that from the first the unlucky Gervase had had little -chance of escape.</p> - -<p>He had been caught securely in a trap. The charges -had been laid against him with such diabolical skill that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>it was almost impossible to disprove them. It was in -vain that he had cast himself upon the mercy of the -Queen. Simon Heriot, ignoble as he was at heart, was -a person of some place, and not without consideration -at Court; and he had always been able to mask his -cunning well enough to pass for a high-minded and honorable -man.</p> - -<p>It chanced, however, that as thus Anne and Gervase -lay together in this golden afternoon, whiling away the -sweet hours that were likely to be so few, this intense -desire for life suddenly found expression in a desperate -resolve. Gervase remembered that the house of Simon -Heriot was but a matter of ten miles or so from the city -of Oxford. And no sooner did this fact occur to him -than he was taken with the idea that it might be possible -to go there and force his uncle to disgorge enough of -his ill-gotten gains to enable Anne and himself to fly -the country.</p> - -<p>This bold scheme began to exert a strange fascination -over him. The more thought he gave to it the stronger -grew its hold upon him. Certainly it must prove very -hazardous; it was the wild design of a desperate man, -but it appealed to his mood.</p> - -<p>When he came to confide the plan to his comrade she -too approved it. To Anne it opened up a new world -of possibility. The spirit of desperation urging her, -she could see no reason why they should not break into -the house of Simon Heriot in the middle of that night -and seek the means to carry them into safety across the -seas.</p> - -<p>Yes, let that be their project! Both saw, however, -that one fatal drawback confronted them. To put such -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>a design into execution it was of vital importance that -they should go armed. Thus they now regretted bitterly -that the silver-hilted dagger was no longer in their keeping.</p> - -<p>It would be sheer folly to present themselves unarmed -at the house of Simon Heriot. A weapon of some kind -must be procured if the project was to have any chance -of success. Gervase hoped that, with a little luck, he -might be able to barter his flute for a pistol but, unhappily, -by so doing he was likely to deprive them of their -sole means of getting food.</p> - -<p>This question of arms was a sore problem. However, -they decided to take a night’s rest before coming -to grips with it in earnest. And they may have been -moved to this wise course by the fact that the house -of Simon Heriot lay out upon the Banbury road, and that -in order to come to it, it would be necessary to retrace -their steps and pass through the town of Oxford.</p> - -<p>They bought a bowl apiece of bread and milk of a -kindly farmer’s wife, and this made them a delicious -supper. And for the sum of twopence they were allowed -to lie snug in the barn during the night. And as -they lay thus, discussing the prospects of the strange -hazard upon which they were determined to embark -on the morrow, a new expedient came into the mind of -Gervase.</p> - -<p>Ever since their meeting that morning with the man -at the Crown, the thoughts of Gervase strayed continually -toward him. He was not a man to forget. -And now as Gervase lay in the straw in the darkness -considering what must be done, his mind reverted to him -again.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span></p> - -<p>All his instincts seemed to tell him that this was an -honest man; moreover a man capable of rare kindness -and instant sympathy; a man whom it would seem possible -for even a couple of hard-pressed fugitives to trust -implicitly.</p> - -<p>Yes, let them return to Oxford to the Crown. Let -them seek out this man Shakespeare and tell him as much -of their story as might serve to win his help. As Gervase -lay that night he took a resolve to do this. He -would confide in the man as far as might be necessary. -Perchance this friendly player might approve sufficiently -this hazardous excursion to the house of Simon Heriot -to provide him with a weapon to serve the occasion.</p> - -<p>When the morning came, however, this plan seemed -to err a good deal on the side of boldness. In broad -daylight it appeared very far from wise to put such -trust in a man, who, after all, was no more than a total -stranger. Might he not prove, when their story was told -to him, one of those zealots whose devotion to the Queen -would cause him to betray these fugitives from justice?</p> - -<p>Still, in spite of all misgiving, Gervase finally determined -to take the risk. Even when every argument had -been urged on the other side of the question, he still felt -that if only they dared to put their faith in this man -who had already shown them such kindness, they would -not appeal in vain for his friendship.</p> - -<p>They were about seven miles from Oxford. Having -laid out their remaining store of pence on a frugal -breakfast they trudged forth and in less than two hours -had re-entered the city.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">M</span>R. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE had had a bad -night. Indeed he had hardly slept at all. For -the life of him he could not rid his mind of that -tragic matter in which by fate’s unkindness he had come -to be an unwilling actor.</p> - -<p>His thoughts reverted continually to those hapless children -of destiny begging their bread in the hamlets round -Oxford, while their lives hung by a thread; and to the -luckless falconer, man of high instincts and strong tormented -soul, pursuing them relentlessly from place to -place. To this man, moreover, whatever his God and his -conscience might have to say to him, he had been tempted -to lie.</p> - -<p>It was now eight o’clock of another glorious summer -morning, and the playwright, looking rather wild-eyed -and haggard, sat on the bench before the door of the -Crown Tavern as he had done the previous day. But now, -instead of holding a mass of papers on his knee he was -seeking solace from a thick brown folio lately from the -press, North’s noble translation of the Lives of Plutarch.</p> - -<p>It is strange how events repeat themselves. As on -the previous day at that hour, the player suddenly looked -up from the page and beheld the identical sight upon -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span>which his eyes had then rested. Two nut-brown wanderers -were coming towards him, without a noise of music -this time, but walking hand in hand as if each desired -the sustenance of the other’s courage.</p> - -<p>Clearly the player was more than a little startled by the -sight of them. A curious look flitted across his face. It -was almost that of one who has seen a phantom in the -daylight.</p> - -<p>The fugitives were quick to notice that the player’s -manner towards them had changed. For all their raggedness -his address was far more considered than it had been -the previous day. In lieu of the air of light, graceful -badinage that had charmed them then was a grave tone -which was not without a note of respectfulness. It was -as if he had learned since last he had seen them that they -were not as they appeared.</p> - -<p>“I give you good morrow, sir,” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>He kept the humble tone he was wont to use in his -present condition. But now a look of pity came into the -face of the play-actor.</p> - -<p>Somehow this entire change in Shakespeare’s manner, -together with the nature of the errand on which they had -come, served to embarrass discourse. On the side of -neither was the lightness and ease of the day before. The -few lame sentences they exchanged seemed further to -increase the difficulty.</p> - -<p>But at last said the player suddenly, fixing them both -with his gentle but somber eyes: “Sit here, my friends, -on the bench beside me and tell me a little of yourselves.”</p> - -<p>The look of the man was so gravely beguiling that they -were fain to do as he desired.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span></p> - -<p>How to begin his strange, his incredible story was now -the problem for Gervase. How much should he tell? -He would take this man fully into his confidence in all -that concerned himself, but in regard to Anne it was another -affair. Indeed, so little did the part she had borne -relate to their present need of this man’s kindness that -Gervase was determined not to mention her unless circumstances -forced him to do so.</p> - -<p>It was not easy to begin the story. But, after a moment -of awkwardness in which there was a slow gathering -of all he had of resolution, the young man took the -plunge. “First,” he said, turning his own candid eyes -full upon those of the player, “I would have you to know -that I am about to intrust my life to your hands.”</p> - -<p>The player did not speak except that which his eyes -spoke for him.</p> - -<p>“My name is Gervase Heriot,” said the young man. “I -am being hunted for my life. I broke out of my prison -three hours before I was to die by the ax.”</p> - -<p>“You say you were to die by the ax,” said the player -in a tone so low as hardly to be audible. “For what reason -had you to meet a death so sharp and so shameful?”</p> - -<p>“For the reason,” said Gervase, “that a wicked, covetous -man has plotted away my life.”</p> - -<p>“Why has he done this?”</p> - -<p>“It is merely because he would succeed to that to -which he is not entitled.”</p> - -<p>“He has sworn away your life, you say?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he has himself borne false testimony. And he -has suborned others as vile as himself to swear a tissue -of lies in order to prove me guilty of a crime of which I -am incapable.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> - -<p>“Who, pray, is this infamous man?”</p> - -<p>“He is my uncle, Simon Heriot.”</p> - -<p>“And have you no means of disproving this black conspiracy?”</p> - -<p>“None, alas. My Uncle Simon has a very cunning and -subtle mind. His design has been laid very deep. It is -a matter of my unsupported oath against those of specious -knaves who are well found in the trade of swearing away -men’s lives.”</p> - -<p>The play-actor grew silent. Not for a moment could -he doubt that Gervase Heriot was innocent of the crime -alleged against him.</p> - -<p>It was a grievous story. And one-half of it had not -been told. And he knew it to be all compact of those -elements of which his own mind was formed. It was -such a tale of passion, of poetry, of high romance as the -imagination could not surpass, and the living evidence of -it was before him.</p> - -<p>A great desire to help these hapless wanderers surged -in this man’s soul. There were those who were seeking -them far and near; a price was on the head of Heriot; -yet if he were allowed to get clear it might be that a -cruel and shameful penalty would be paid by a man of -stainless honor. All these swift thoughts were thrown -into the alembic of that wonderful mind. But the call -of nature was too strong; his heart went out to these -fugitives in their tragic need. Cost what it may, he -must render any help that lay in his power.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot,” said the player after a long interval of -silence had passed, “I would fain save your life?”</p> - -<p>The young man shook his head gravely. “There’s little -chance of that unless I fly the country.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> - -<p>“I was thinking so,” said the player.</p> - -<p>“But in order to do that I must have some money. -And I will now tell you, sir—” Gervase sank his voice -very low—“the manner in which I propose to get it.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon the young man divulged the plan he had -formed of visiting his uncle that night.</p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot lives in solitude in his gloomy old -manor-house but ten miles off, with only a few decrepit -old servants to take care of him. And my design is to -break into his house in the middle of this very night, to -frighten the wits out of the old knave and make him -disgorge money enough for mine and my brother’s journey -across the seas.”</p> - -<p>This hasty and ill-considered scheme, however, did not -appeal to the player. It was too clearly the expedient -of a thoroughly desperate man. There were many reasons -which seemed to make it impracticable. “No, Mr. -Heriot,” he said, “I do not think that way is to be commended. -Let us try to find a better. I will go and think -upon this matter. And in the meantime do you and your -friend remain here and I will send you out some food, -which I have no doubt will come not amiss to you.”</p> - -<p>For that surmise at least the player had good warrant. -Soon a stately pigeon pie and a noble flagon of October -ale were laid on the bench before them. And they were -able to eat without misgiving. They had given this man -all their trust, and they had staked their lives on the -fact that he was incapable of betraying it.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">M</span>EANWHILE William Shakespeare had gone in -quest of Richard Burbage, that <i>fidus Achates</i> -whose counsel was often invoked by this eager, -but, at times, irresolute spirit. Now, however, Shakespeare -was fully determined to help these ill-starred fugitives -to the utmost of his power.</p> - -<p>To render aid that should be in any way effective was -likely to prove a supremely difficult matter. The most -obvious thing to be done was to give them money enough -to enable them to fly the country. Such a course offered -a strong temptation at the moment. But when Shakespeare -came to consider all the consequences that would -follow upon it he put it out of his mind. At the back -of his thoughts was ever the distraught figure of the falconer, -the unhappy man whom he had been compelled to -deceive. If Heriot fled the country Sir John Feversham -would lose his life. No, the hour was not yet for such -an irrevocable step. “But, my friend,” whispered a sinister -voice, too often heard in that overwrought brain, -“you of all men have reason to know that delays are -dangerous!”</p> - -<p>Alas he was face to face once more with the old sore -problem—the problem of how to make up his mind. Once -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>more he began to see too much of this grievous matter, -as he saw too much of all things. He owed it to himself -that he should do all in his power to help this unlucky -pair. But no hurt must be done to the falconer, -or to the honorable man his master, who lay in the Tower -in such tragic case.</p> - -<p>The playwright, in the toils of an irresolution as great -as he had ever known, went to seek the tragedian in his -favorite place, which was the pleasant garden at the -back of the inn. Fortune favored him, inasmuch that -Richard Burbage was found to be seated on a bench in -the ample shade of a yew tree.</p> - -<p>The manager was alone, and with the aid of a pipeful -of the new Indian weed which seldom failed to excite -the wit of his peers, was diligently conning the acting -parts of the new comedy to be given a fortnight hence in -the Queen’s presence.</p> - -<p>“William Shakespeare,” said Burbage, looking up as -the shadow of the playwright was cast across the page, -“let these young fools say what they please, but my belief -is you have never written anything choicer.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad to hear you say that, Dick,” said the playwright, -who spoke, however, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. -“If I could have taken another fortnight to it -perhaps it might have been tolerable, but as it is I am -afraid it is a poor thing.”</p> - -<p>“The thing is good enough,” said Burbage robustly. -“It is full of most excellent fantasy. The fact is, some -of these fools have not wit enough for a thing of such -delicacy.”</p> - -<p>The playwright shook his head. “Yes, Dick,” he said, -“but a man makes a great mistake when he gets above -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>the crowd. There should be something for all the world -and his wife in a comedy.”</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage, one of the intellectuals of his day, -was a little shocked by such a banal observation. Had it -been possible for the god of his idolatry to seem less than -himself, he had never been in such imminent danger. But -the true prince must ever be allowed to speak as it -seemed good to him.</p> - -<p>“We will thank God that Gloriana has at any rate a -shrewd and seizing mind,” said Richard Burbage, with -enthusiasm. “At least, it will not be above <i>her</i>.”</p> - -<p>The playwright smiled the little sad smile that was so -often his when others chose to refer to his writings in his -presence. None had ever been able to interpret that -gesture; none ever would, but it was a smile of pain -rather than of happiness.</p> - -<p>With a sudden effort of the will the playwright cast -these trivialities out of his thoughts. “Dick,” he said, -“I am come to talk of a matter of more account than this. -I would have you know that our poor young Egyptians -are returned.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, a murrain on them!” The face of the tragedian -grew startled and discomposed. “Plague take them,” he -said, “I had hoped we had seen the last of them.”</p> - -<p>“Poor souls!” said the playwright.</p> - -<p>Never had Burbage seen his too-sensitive comrade—to -whom he had come to stand in the relation of a protective -elder brother—in such a state of distress. The tragic -story had torn his heart. But the counsel of the tragedian -was sadly discouraging.</p> - -<p>“If you will be ruled by me, my friend,” said that sage -and practical man of the world, “you will take precious -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>care to keep out of this matter. Let them go their ways. -The times are perilous. And he who touches affairs of -state generally finds it easier to lose his head than to -keep it.”</p> - -<p>“You are right there, Dick,” said the playwright, with -an odd light in his eyes. “But better a man should lose -his head than forswear his soul.”</p> - -<p>Burbage knew that it was vain to argue with William -Shakespeare in a matter of this kind. There were certain -things in which he was not as other men. For all his -childlike simplicity of character, he had yet the power, -as he had proved many times, to take a line of his own -when occasion called.</p> - -<p>“Dick, we must help them,” he said.</p> - -<p>“The surest way to do that is to give them money -enough to quit the country,” said the tragedian.</p> - -<p>“But what of Sir John Feversham?”</p> - -<p>Burbage threw up his hands impatiently. “He concerns -us not,” he said. “And I beseech you, my dear -Will, to give not another thought to him.”</p> - -<p>The playwright shook his head. “Nay, my friend,” he -said, “let us not leave a brave and honorable man to -die.”</p> - -<p>“To that I would say amen if in any sort we could -avail him.”</p> - -<p>“The Queen should learn the truth, I think.”</p> - -<p>“How, pray, is she to learn it?”</p> - -<p>“On Thursday se’nnight, if this unlucky man still lives, -we must find a way to tell her.”</p> - -<p>But Burbage dissented strongly. “It would be madness, -Will, sheer madness for us to breathe a word on -the subject. You know what the times are. And when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> -it comes to treason it takes but a very slight thing to undo -the best man alive.”</p> - -<p>The playwright had sadly to admit that that was true -enough. But his face showed clearly that he could never -be the slave of mere worldly wisdom. And Burbage -knew it. He might do his best to dissuade his friend -from touching this ill-starred affair, yet from the outset -he had little hope of success. William Shakespeare’s -mind was made up already.</p> - -<p>“Come what may, Dick, we must help these poor souls -to the utmost of our capacity.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but how will you do it, my master?”</p> - -<p>But now that the sympathy of the playwright was fully -engaged he was proof against all scepticism. “First I -would have you give me the key of the tiring-room,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“For what purpose, you mad fellow?”</p> - -<p>“An uncivil question breeds an uncivil answer. Whatever -the purpose it is nothing to it.”</p> - -<p>With many misgivings and great reluctance, Burbage -gave Shakespeare the key of the tiring-room.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">W</span>HEN Shakespeare returned to the fugitives, -they had finished their meal. They were still -sitting on the bench by the tavern door.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Heriot,” said the player, “I have been thinking -very deeply upon your pass. First let me say that I have -a great desire to help you—and your friend—to help you -as far as lies in my capacity.”</p> - -<p>Gervase thanked him simply.</p> - -<p>“But in order to do that,” said the player, “I have to -ask you to yield yourselves entirely into my care. I -would have you do in all things as I desire. It is not -that I can promise your deliverance. It may be that your -pass is beyond my aid or beyond the aid of any man. -But if it is possible for help to be given, that will I do -my utmost to render—that is, if you are prepared to trust -me to the full.”</p> - -<p>Gervase knew that it was his life he was giving into -the care of this man, but not for an instant did he hesitate.</p> - -<p>“I trust you to the full,” he said. “And may God requite -you for all that you may do.”</p> - -<p>“Alas, it may be but little. But no failure on my part -can make your case more unhappy than it is now. And -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span>one matter at least is imperative. You must find a better -disguise than your present one. Happily, there is the -means at hand. Perhaps you and your friend will come -with me to the players’ tiring-room, which is across the -inn yard?”</p> - -<p>Gervase and Anne rose from the bench in order to accompany -the actor.</p> - -<p>As they did so, however, their attention was for a moment -diverted. A man, attended by two servants and -whose style was that of a gentleman, rode up to the inn -door. He dismounted within three yards of where the -fugitives stood, and as he was about to enter the tavern, -he turned his bold eyes upon them.</p> - -<p>It was hardly more than a glance in passing, and not -more than he would have bestowed on any other pair of -picturesque vagabonds, but brief as it was, there yet -seemed in it a kind of subconscious recognition. The -glance was withdrawn instantly to alight on Shakespeare, -on whom it dwelt long enough for the recognition openly -to declare itself. In this case it was followed by a shrug -of insolent contempt. The newcomer then entered the inn.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Gervase had grown as pale as if he -had seen a ghost. But it was not until he was half-way -across the inn courtyard that he revealed the cause of -his emotion.</p> - -<p>“Did you, by any chance, recognize that fellow?” he -asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I did,” said Shakespeare. “He is a man well -known about the Court, a certain Sir Robert Grisewood.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Gervase. “And it -was he, at the instance of my Uncle Simon, who swore -away my life.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span></p> - -<p>The player stopped abruptly in the middle of the inn -yard, an exclamation upon his lips.</p> - -<p>“That’s undoubtedly the man,” said Gervase, “by all -that’s unlucky. Or may be it is not unlucky, since Providence -works in ways so dark and strange.”</p> - -<p>“Wherein I fully agree,” said the player. “And it may -be that even in this Providence is working for us in a -mysterious way. But I hope this man did not know you.”</p> - -<p>“I think he did not,” said Gervase. “His eye would -have dwelt longer if he had. But you he certainly recognized; -moreover, he did not seem to approve you.”</p> - -<p>Shakespeare smiled.</p> - -<p>“He is one of a hundred bullies who ruffle it about -the Court. When they are not cringing before their betters, -they are generally browbeating those whom they are -pleased to consider their inferiors.”</p> - -<p>“He is a very dangerous man,” said Gervase, “And -if I cross his path, my life will not be worth an hour’s -purchase.”</p> - -<p>“Well, the tiring-room is not far away,” said the player. -“And there, I think, we can find you a disguise that will -tax the wit of Sir Robert to penetrate.”</p> - -<p>The inn was a large, rectangular building, provided -with galleries which overlooked the spacious courtyard. -It was in this that the Lord Chamberlain’s servants had -arranged to give the first of their performances that afternoon. -The room to which the actor now led Anne and -Gervase opened on to one of these galleries, at the extreme -end of the yard.</p> - -<p>Here were all sorts of stage properties. Not only was -there a number of costumes, but also there were wigs, -powder and cosmetics and other trappings of the theater. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>Much searching among this apparel was necessary before -clothes could be found which Shakespeare deemed suitable -for Gervase and Anne. Many of these costumes -were very rich; and at last an elegant suit of boy’s clothes -was found for Anne. She went into a room adjoining to -put it on. And, in the meantime, Gervase was provided -with a much more elaborate disguise.</p> - -<p>First, he was put into a suit of plain black velvet, -modest in appearance, but excellent in quality, very similar -to the player’s own. Then his eyes were carefully -darkened and lines painted under them to add to his -years. A pair of fine moustachios was fixed to his upper -lip and a short beard to his chin. Finally, he was accommodated -with a hat with a plume, a ruff for the neck, -and at his own request, a very serviceable sword, which -he buckled to his waist with a feeling of keen satisfaction.</p> - -<p>The transformation Gervase had undergone was so -complete, that when Anne returned wearing her own excellent -suit, which fitted her admirably except that it was -a little loose in the shoulders, she did not know him.</p> - -<p>“Allow me to present Signor Bandinello,” said the -player. “A famous music master from Italy.”</p> - -<p>Anne, in the surprise of the moment, so far forgot her -own disguise as to curtsy. Whereupon, greatly to her -discomfiture, Gervase and the player fairly shouted with -laughter.</p> - -<p>Anne’s clothes really became her very well indeed. -They could hardly have fitted her slender form better -had they been made for her. She, too, was given a ruff -for her neck, a hat with a plume and a dagger to wear -at her waist. Thus accomplished, she made a particularly -handsome and modish boy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span></p> - -<p>Gervase’s disguise, which had added at least thirty -years to his age, was so complete, that the player had no -fear that he would be recognized. Accordingly, he led -him boldly into the inn and duly presented him to Burbage, -Kemp and one or two other members of the company -as a celebrated musician who had consented to take -charge of the music at Richmond on Tuesday week. -Anne was introduced as his son. And it was suggested -that Arrigo, a name bestowed upon her by the playwright -on the spur of the moment, should understudy Parflete -for the character of <i>Rosalind</i>. Indeed, the author of the -new comedy seemed to be clearly of opinion that the -young Signor Arrigo had been designed expressly by -nature to play that delicate and exacting rôle.</p> - -<p>Burbage guessed at once who Signor Bandinello and -Arrigo his son really were. But he was far too loyal, -even if he had not been too astute, to share his knowledge -with the other members of the company. These, to be -sure, were a little surprised at such an unexpected addition -to their number. Yet not for a moment did they -suspect the truth.</p> - -<p>Thus, for the time being, a very remarkable change -was wrought in the fortunes of Gervase and Anne. No -longer need they seek a roof or a meal. No longer need -they go footsore and hungry. Providence once more had -taken them into its care. It was true that, in some ways, -they had added threefold to their dangers. They had -given their lives into the keeping of a man of whom they -knew little or nothing. But having burnt their boats, -they had the courage wholeheartedly to embrace this new -way of life.</p> - -<p>They entered into the doings of these new friends with -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span>spirit and amenity. And Shakespeare sustained the deception -with great tact and wit. Moreover, Gervase and -Anne were ever ready to second him in all his inventions -and contrivances. Indeed, Gervase, who was familiar -with Italy, was able to counterfeit a slight accent, which -heightened the illusion of his broken English; while Anne, -although not a little shy, bore herself with a modest grace, -that made the young Signor Arrigo extremely popular -with all the members of the Company.</p> - -<p>It chanced, besides, that when these two Italians had -made their appearance but a few hours among the Lord -Chamberlain’s servants, an incident occurred which added -greatly to their prestige.</p> - -<p>It had been arranged that the chief members of the -Company, who were lodged at the Crown Tavern, which -was reckoned much the best in Oxford, should dine together -at noon in the large parlor. This would allow -plenty of time against the performance of “The Merchant -of Venice,” which was to be given in the inn courtyard at -two o’clock that afternoon.</p> - -<p>The players had sat down to their meal. Shakespeare, -at the head of the long table in the center of the room, -was carving a sirloin with the dexterity of one who had -been a butcher’s apprentice in his youth. Burbage, at -the foot of the table, was dealing with a couple of roast -fowls with an air of manly conviction. Anne had already -been given a wing, and William Kemp, that famous -comedian, was cutting a piece of ham to accompany -it, with a flourish of wit as well as of knife, when the -door of the dining-parlor was flung open suddenly. A -man entered rudely and roughly with a clank of sword -and spur. He had not even the grace to remove his hat.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> -<p>One glance he cast round the room, saw no place was -set for him, and then called loudly for the landlord.</p> - -<p>“The place is full of these stinking play-actors!” he -cried out. “The best inn in Oxford is now the worst. -These mimes have taken all the best rooms, they infest -the place like vermin. They are sticking up a filthy stage -upon filthy trestles in the middle of the courtyard, so -that a man hasn’t even room to water his horse, and now, -by God’s blood, they crowd their betters out of the dining-parlor!”</p> - -<p>The man was Sir Robert Grisewood, whom Shakespeare -and Gervase had seen already. He was an insolent -bully, of a type common in that day; a man of -brutal and dangerous character, who lived by his wits and -his sword, with just enough surface manners when it -suited him to pass muster with those with whom he -wished to consort, but whose chief pleasure was to ruffle -it through the world and take the wall of those less well -placed than himself.</p> - -<p>This morning, however, Sir Robert was a little out of -his reckoning. The man with the mild face who was -carving the sirloin paused to look at him. And if ever -a high scorn was expressed in the human countenance, -it was here to be seen.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I mean you as well as the rest, you paper-faced -potboy,” said Grisewood, having failed to stare him down. -“Go back to your filthy playhouse in the stews, and don’t -come among your betters until they send for you, unless -you want to get your nose pulled.”</p> - -<p>The coarse bully had drunk a cup of wine too much -already that morning. He was bitterly angry, besides, -that his favorite chamber overlooking the garden was in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>the occupation of this mean fellow, who lived by the -public favor instead of by cheating at cards. With a -string of oaths, he advanced upon Shakespeare and shook -a fist in his face.</p> - -<p>In an instant, several of the players had risen to their -feet. But foremost was Burbage. He laid down his -knife, and then, white with anger, he came over very -deliberately to where the man stood and touched him on -the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Have a care, my friend,” he said. “Keep a civil tongue -in your head. And lay but a finger on that man, and -you go into the horse-trough.”</p> - -<p>“But you go to perdition first, you calf-livered merry-andrew.”</p> - -<p>Grisewood had swung round with a face of fury. He -drew his sword. But in almost the same moment Heriot, -who had risen with the rest, had drawn his.</p> - -<p>Grisewood had not meant to make use of his weapon. -Yet in the next instant, and quite without expecting it, he -was having to use it for dear life.</p> - -<p>Gervase at once struck up the weapon with his own -and then engaged it. Grisewood was a man of formidable -reputation. More than one good life had paid the -toll of his exceptional skill. His adversary was aware -of this. But he also was an accomplished swordsman. -Moreover, an intense and furious hatred had armed him -suddenly. This was the man who had sworn away his -life.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE sound of the clashing steel, of chairs overturning, -of shouting and scuffling, brought John -Davenant into the room. The sight that met him -turned him sick. A man of whom he went in mortal fear -was defending himself as best he could from the furious -lunges of a tall, elderly foreigner, who yet used his sword -with all a young man’s address and agility.</p> - -<p>“Oh, stop ’em, for the love of God!” cried John Davenant.</p> - -<p>But the players knew better than to intervene. The -bully was being pressed so close and with such a bitter -animosity, that for any man to have attempted such a -task had been highly dangerous. Also they knew the -man for what he was. And now was as fair a chance -as was ever likely to offer for him to pay his dues.</p> - -<p>The Italian music master was pressing Grisewood at the -point of his weapon all over the room. But only one of -those present was aware that he had murder in his heart. -And this was the man who knew what was the real issue -between them. That agile mind, moreover, had the -power to look swiftly ahead. In an instant, it had -grasped the full significance of that which was happening -and of the grave danger that threatened.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> -<p>In the stress of the moment, Shakespeare threw discretion -to the wind. He approached far nearer than was -wise to the combatants. Their breaths were coming in -fierce, low grunts. Sweat was on their white faces. Murder -was in the eyes of both.</p> - -<p>Utterly heedless of his peril, Shakespeare went to the -side of Gervase.</p> - -<p>“Have a care,” he said. “For God’s sake don’t kill -him.”</p> - -<p>Well it was that Gervase was of those who can keep a -hold upon themselves, even when a savage blood-lust -has them in its toils. Desperately as he was fighting, he -heard the words of his friend, and well he understood -them. But he was out to kill. With a contained rage -that was terrible, he meant to pierce that strong and -resourceful guard, and then should the man pay the -penalty of his crimes.</p> - -<p>Grisewood was not a coward. He was among the -coarsest and most brutal of his kind in a coarse and -brutal age. His life had been ignoble, but he was a -man, in any circumstances, to sell it dearly. Yet as this -tall and furious fellow drove him all over the room, he -felt that now his hour was come.</p> - -<p>This would have been the case without a doubt, had -not Gervase realized the importance of the player’s warning. -He must lay aside his revenge for a season. This -man was a link in the slender chain that one day might -save him. But he was determined that the ruffian should -not go scot free. By sheer vigor, he drove Grisewood -finally against the wall. And once there, he broke down -the man’s guard and drove the point of his sword -through his arm.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span></p> - -<p>It was the end of the fight. Grisewood was totally disabled. -Suffering great pain and bleeding fiercely and -streaming curses, he was glad enough to have his hurt -attended to and then, under a chirurgeon’s advice, to be -put to bed by John Davenant.</p> - -<p>From that hour, the Italian music master was a hero in -the sight of the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. To be -sure, his son, Arrigo, disgraced himself utterly by going -off into a dead faint as soon as the fight was over, and although -such behavior was felt perhaps to be ultra-Italian, -it did not lessen his popularity among his new comrades.</p> - -<p>Two o’clock that afternoon was the hour fixed for the -Lord Chamberlain’s players to give their first performance -in Oxford. Much of the morning had been spent in -erecting a stage in the center of the spacious courtyard -of the Crown. It seemed that the visit of this famous -company had given rise to grave controversy. Shakespeare -had applied for leave to play three pieces in the -large hall of Balliol College, or of some other convenient -place within the precincts of the University. The question -was referred to the Vice Chancellor. “Yes,” said -that worthy, “after giving the matter anxious consideration, -as we have a favorable report from London touching -your band of comedians, and we learn that her Grace -the Queen has approved them on divers occasions, the -University will accede to your request, provided the -pieces are given in their original Greek or Latin.”</p> - -<p>Upon this, the playwright made the modest rejoinder -that, much as he regretted the circumstances, it was, in -point of fact, impossible to play the three pieces in either -of those chaste tongues, since he himself had written -them in the vulgar English language, which unfortunately -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span>was the only tongue with which he could claim an acquaintance, -and that a very imperfect one. Such a statement -was very shocking to the University. The permission -was at once withheld, but in language of great -politeness and dignity. “We do not well understand,” it -said in effect, “how one who is not even a member of -this University or of the sister foundation of Cambridge, -who, we are credibly informed, is a mere hackney writer -for the theaters, and who, we are further informed, is a -little better than one of the illiterate, can prefer such a -request.”</p> - -<p>After this rebuff, the playwright, quite undaunted, applied -to the city authorities for permission to use the -Town Hall. In the meantime, however, the news had -been carried to the bench of aldermen that the University -had rebuked this importunate fellow. And if the vulgar -English tongue was beneath the dignity of the Gown, how -much more was it beneath the dignity of the Town, which -had a reputation to maintain and so much less upon which -to maintain it. “No, sir,” said the bench of aldermen, -“we would have you to know that that which is not -deemed worthy for only a part or moiety of this fair -city, is deemed still less so for the whole of it.”</p> - -<p>Thus there was nothing left for the poor playwright to -do but to seek permission of honest John Davenant, mine -host of the Crown, to set up trestles and boards and rig -up a curtain in the middle of his large inn yard. And -John Davenant, having less in the way of learning than -the Gown and less in the way of dignity than the Town, -and being promised, moreover, a full ten percentum of -the takings at each performance, was nowise averse from -such a proceeding.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span></p> - -<p>The play to be given that afternoon was “The Merchant -of Venice,” a pleasant comedy that had already been -played several times with success in Shoreditch. The -author of the piece had not to play in it himself, a contingency -for which he expressed himself devoutly thankful. -“A bad play is doubly damned,” he said, “if the author -himself has to preen and strut in it.”</p> - -<p>That afternoon, the more congenial and not less onerous -rôle was to be his of sitting at the receipt of custom. -But his friend, Richard Burbage, had for his sins to play -the Jew. And the famous tragedian was fain to declare -that the playwright as usual had got the best of the bargain, -inasmuch that it was far easier to play the Jew in -the box-office than it was upon the boards.</p> - -<p>These players were a high-spirited, light-hearted, genial -crew. The incident in which they had been concerned -in nowise affected their gaiety. They lived in and for -the moment; they took life as it came to them; theirs was -the sovereign faculty of being able to lay care aside. -They were prone to set all sorts of tricks upon one another, -and to crack jokes and tell tales at one another’s -expense. They seemed to have no particular respect for -anybody, not even for Shakespeare himself, but Anne -and Gervase noticed that only one man in all that merry, -careless company ever ventured to break a lance with -him.</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage was the man in question. The tragedian -was a short, powerfully-made man, with a solemn -face of much good-humor and an organ-like voice that -was both rich and deep. When the playwright and his -friend crossed swords, which they did pretty frequently, -the whole table would cease to ply knife and spoon in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span>order that it might attend the combat. These duellos, -to be sure, were carried off in the highest style of pleasantry, -but the play was very keen while it lasted.</p> - -<p>The dramatist sat at one end of the long table, and his -trusty henchman at the other.</p> - -<p>“They do tell me,” said the tragedian, in his slow, -rolling speech, and bestowing a wink on those that were -near him, “that this plaguy piece we have all got to play -in for our sins this plaguy afternoon is the work of a -certain court gallant by the name of William Shakespeare.”</p> - -<p>At this, the dramatist at the other end of the table -laid down his knife very deliberately, and after gazing -around as if in search of a thing he could not see, said, -“I wonder whence that growl proceeds. I do believe -there is a dog in the room. Young Parflete”—this to the -youngest and smallest member of the company—“young -Parflete, I will thank you to pitch it out with your foot -behind it.”</p> - -<p>“A friend,” proceeded the tragedian, in a very audible -whisper for all that he spoke behind his hand, “of the -Queen’s most gracious majesty. This is no reflection -upon the Queen, still it must have been a sore trial to -her friendship when such a burden was laid upon it.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it is a dog,” said the dramatist, very gravely. -“One of those brindled, flop-eared, yellow-coated, squab-bellied -mongrels by the sound of it. It is the kind of -dog that is only fit for a blind pedlar to trundle at the -end of a string. Hi, Thomas!”—addressing a servant -who had entered with a dish—“there is a dog in the -room.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t see it, sir,” said the servant, looking round.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> -<p>“Oh, but there is, I tell you. One of those squat brutes -all body and no legs. One of those half-begotten starvelings -that lies all day by the hob and whines all night -to the moon.”</p> - -<p>“I see no dog, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Have you looked under the table, Thomas?”</p> - -<p>Thomas looked under the table, but still could see no -dog.</p> - -<p>“But I heard it, man, I tell you. There is no mistaking -such a voice as that.”</p> - -<p>“There is no dog here, sir,” the servant assured him, -solemnly.</p> - -<p>“Upon your oath, there is no dog?”</p> - -<p>“No dog, sir, upon my oath.”</p> - -<p>“Then the sound must proceed,” said the playwright, -“from that queer, rude fellow who sits at the foot of -the table there, of whom I am credibly informed that, -since he retired from the theater, he gains a precarious -livelihood by training bloodhounds to sing like canaries.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE inn courtyard was seething with excitement -long before the play began. Handbills had been -distributed in the town for some days past, and -notices of the performance had been set up in prominent -places.</p> - -<p>A love of the drama, amounting almost to a passion, -had taken hold of all classes. From the Queen in her -palace to the village idler in his hedge alehouse, provided -he could raise a penny to buy standing room in the yard -of the Crown Tavern, all took the keenest delight in the -new and wonderful drama that was rising in their midst. -Every phase of these strong and moving plays was followed -with a breathless excitement. They were given -without scenery or the thousand and one devices that -help to sustain illusion in a modern theater. There was -literally nothing between the play and the audience, not -even the lure of sex, since all the women’s parts were -played by boys, but the success of these performances -was extraordinary.</p> - -<p>The Lord Chamberlain’s men were known to be a famous -company. Their headquarters were the Globe Theatre, -the playhouse that had been built recently on the -Bankside in Southwark. But as their provincial tours -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>were numerous, their reputation had spread up and down -the country. They were already known as the best players -of the time, and the plays in which they appeared -were held to be the strongest.</p> - -<p>The stage had been set up at the end of the inn yard. -Standing room could be had for a penny on the cobblestones -of the yard itself, but the best and most comfortable -places were those in the galleries, which ran -round three sides of it and commanded a full view of -the stage. A shilling was the charge for places here. -But the most coveted place of all was a stool on the stage, -which was reserved for a few persons of distinction.</p> - -<p>Among those who had been given a seat on the stage -this afternoon, were three who had come in a spirit of -scepticism. They were men of dignified and authoritative -bearing, keenly alive, no doubt, to their condescension -in gracing the proceedings with their presence. -Much discussion had taken place among these personages -as to the importunity which had sought to gain the sanction -of the university for the play about to be given, also -for two others by the same uneducated hand.</p> - -<p>There is little doubt that the subject would not have -been thought worthy of discussion in such exalted circles, -would in fact have been dismissed as a matter of -not the least consequence, had it not been that quite recently -that august man, the Dean of Christ Church College, -had enjoyed the privilege of eating with Gloriana in -her palace at Greenwich. And she had spoken in his -hearing with high approval of the man Shakespeare, and -was even pleasantly anticipating his new interlude, which -was to be given for the first time in her presence on some -fine summer’s afternoon in Richmond Park.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p> - -<p>In Ascalon they never referred to the fact that Gloriana, -with all her merits, was an unlettered woman, whose -taste was robust. For a queen is a queen even in the eyes -of a Dean of Christ Church College; and when this -curious, little bald man in a furred gown confided to -the Master of Balliol, his distinguished coadjutor, that -this mime whose name he forgot was undoubtedly <i>persona -gratissima</i> in royal palaces, they agreed that while such -clowning could receive no sanction from the University, -it would hardly be seemly in the circumstances to drive -the mummers out of the town.</p> - -<p>It happened, at that time, that the Master of Balliol -had staying with him in college a young man of promise, -Mr. Francis Bacon by name, who knew his way about -the Court. And when the Dean chanced to mention that -this man, whose name he had forgotten, desired to perform -three of his interludes within the precincts of that -ancient home of learning and that the Queen approved -him mightily, Mr. Francis Bacon, who even at that time -had taken all knowledge for his province, exclaimed, -“By God, it must be that plaguy fellow, Shakescene, that -all the Court is mad about!”</p> - -<p>“Shakescene is the man’s name, undoubtedly,” said the -eminent divine, gravely. “An importunate Shakescene, -moreover, who would play three of his rustical interludes -within the precincts of this old foundation.”</p> - -<p>“Importunate enough, I grant you,” said Mr. Francis, -taking snuff with a great air. “Wat Raleigh tells me the -numskull comes to Court in a barred cloak and affects -the style of a gentleman. However—fine feathers make -not fine birds. But why not let the rogue play his interludes, -eh, Master? How say you, Mr. Dean? And -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>we will go ourselves and witness ’em. I have long sought -the opportunity to watch one of the performances of this -ripe scholar.”</p> - -<p>“The rogue shall perform in the town, Mr. Francis,” -said the Dean of Christ Church, “if perform he must, -but not, I promise you, within the precincts of this old -and honorable foundation.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt not he would perform still better at the whipping -post, where such knaves more truly belong,” said -the Master of Balliol, taking a prodigious pinch of snuff -from the box of the Dean. “But as you say, Francis, -let the rogue set up his booth in the city, and thither -we will repair of an afternoon. We can then judge for -ourselves what it is that the taste of Gloriana the peerless -approves.”</p> - -<p>Thus it happened that Gervase and Anne, who had been -stowed away in a corner of the gallery out of the sight -of the multitude, were able to gaze directly down upon -these three grave and serious gentlemen, who were seated -upon the stage itself.</p> - -<p>Grave and serious they might be. Yet as they decked -the proscenium, their demeanor was spiced with not a -little levity. Not only their surroundings, but the whole -of that which was taking place, seemed to provide food -for their sly mirth.</p> - -<p>Gervase had marked one of the three in particular immediately -upon his entrance.</p> - -<p>“I know that man,” he whispered to Anne. “Yes, the -fellow in the feathered bonnet and the blue cloak. He is -always about the Court. Sit close, dear soul. He’s got -the eye of a hawk, but, thank God, he won’t look to see -me like this.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> - -<p>Indeed, Mr. Francis Bacon had eyes for nothing save -the comedy that was being performed for his benefit. -Greatly condescending, the future Lord Chancellor had -come in the company of two learned pundits with no better -intention than to deride the piece and its author.</p> - -<p>Now there never was yet a critic since the world began -who accosts an author in such a mood who has the -least difficulty in making good his intention. If the man -has wit, he lacks propriety. If he has invention, he lacks -art. If his writing is marvelously alive, it is of course -barbarous. If it is poetical, it is not true to nature. If -it should happen to be true to nature, the whole performance -is so flat, stale and mediocre as to be unworthy -of the pains spent upon it. Whichever way the -author turns, the critic is ready for him. Every merit -he possesses serves as a fresh weapon to assail him.</p> - -<p>Had these gentlemen had the good fortune to live two -hundred years later, when the reputation of the author -was already secure, they would have been among the -first to make him the standard of comparison. It would -have then been quite legitimate to admire “The Merchant -of Venice,” and even to have taken credit for doing so. -But how was it possible for men of polite learning to -treat seriously the production of a shabby fellow who took -your half-crown at the entrance to the inn yard?</p> - -<p>Yet, in spite of themselves, Mr. Francis Bacon and his -two august friends were not a little diverted by the briskness -of the piece. But any entertainment there was to -be derived from it had, of course, to be laid to the door -of the actors. The acting was undoubtedly excellent, -but the less said of the play, the better.</p> - -<p>Still, notwithstanding the fact that the opinion of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>critics who graced the proscenium was not very favorable, -all the rest of the house appeared mightily to approve the -play. The afternoon had turned wet and there was -no roof to the inn yard, but those who were packed in -it so closely that they could hardly breathe, followed the -whole of the piece with ever-growing excitement. They -roared with delight at its humors. <i>Portia</i>, who was -played by young Parflete, enchanted them. They execrated -the Jew, yet Richard Burbage, as became the great -actor he was, invested his defeat with a pathetic dignity -that almost drew their tears.</p> - -<p>“Ha! now, that is the man,” said Mr. Francis Bacon. -“I ask you, what had the play been without such incomparable -acting?”</p> - -<p>“What, indeed!” said the learned doctors.</p> - -<p>“I must make that fellow my compliments upon his -performance,” said the Master of Balliol College.</p> - -<p>And a few minutes afterwards, when the delighted audience -was streaming out of the yard, these great men -condescended to approach the tragedian and express their -approval.</p> - -<p>“Fain would I make you my compliments, sir,” said -Mr. Francis Bacon, in his highest style, in order to impress -the person he addressed, “upon the inimitable art -you have used this afternoon. The performance would -have been barren enough without it. Never have I seen -acting so choice lavished on a play so inferior.”</p> - -<p>The tragedian looked very doubtfully at Mr. Francis -Bacon.</p> - -<p>“By your leave, sir,” he said, “I would not have you -exalt me at the expense o’ the piece.”</p> - -<p>“To be sure, sir, your modesty does you honor,” said -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>the Master of Balliol College. “But your genius, if I -may so express myself, is deserving of something far -better than the clumsy work of this rude journeyman.”</p> - -<p>The tragedian shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Nor would I have you exalt me at the expense of the -writer,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah, my friend, you are too modest,” interposed the -Dean of Christ Church in an amiable manner.</p> - -<p>“If it is the part of modesty,” said the tragedian -bluntly, “to decline to be praised by the ignorant, then I -grant you that modest I may be. Because I would have -you to know, you learned doctors in your furred gowns, -that the play you have just witnessed is by the first dramatic -author of this age or of any other.”</p> - -<p>The three gentlemen were unable to repress a polite -snigger.</p> - -<p>“What!” said the Master of Balliol College, “that <i>odd</i>-looking -fellow with the beard who sat in the pay box and -bit my half-crown as if he feared it was a counterfeit?”</p> - -<p>“The same, sir,” said Burbage. “And if you can put -a counterfeit upon him, you are an abler man than I have -yet cause to consider you.”</p> - -<p>“No doubt, sir,” said the Master of Balliol College, -with an air of pained dignity. “But, pray, convey my -compliments to your Johannes Factotum, and inform him -that if he will give his days and nights diligently to the -study of Aristotle, he may, by the time he is a very old -man, be able to produce a passable play without doing -grave violence to the dramatic unities.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you will be kind enough, sir,” said the tragedian, -“to pay William Shakespeare your own compliments,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> -for here he comes staggering under the receipts -of the performance.”</p> - -<p>The playwright, his face beaming with satisfaction, -came towards them.</p> - -<p>“We had near ten pound in the yard, Dick,” he said, -with a frank disregard of all things except the business -in hand. “That is, unless a half-crown that a little half-faced, -chapt-shot, under-hung mouse of a fellow in a -furred gown put upon me is a counterfeit. And I am -sore afraid it is, unless my pooh old teeth have lost -their integrity. Do you try it, Dick.”</p> - -<p>The playwright handed the dubious coin to the tragedian.</p> - -<p>“I presume you refer to my half-crown, sir?” said the -Master of Balliol College, with great dignity.</p> - -<p>“I hope, sir, I may presume to refer to it as your half-crown,” -said Mr. William Shakespeare, “if my friend -Shylock here adjudges it to be one. How now, Usurer, -what say you?”</p> - -<p>“If that is a half-crown,” said the tragedian, who had -already bitten the coin nearly through, “I’ll never be -paid in anything but five shilling pieces as long as I live.”</p> - -<p>“But I protest, sir,” said the Master of Balliol College, -warmly, “that coin was paid to me last evening by my -much-honored friend here, Mr. Francis Bacon, over a -game of primero.”</p> - -<p>“The more shame to Mr. Francis Bacon, then,” said -the tragedian, “that he should use such a coin for such a -purpose in such a company.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Francis Bacon examined for himself the dubious -currency.</p> - -<p>“It cannot be the one I gave you, Master,” he said, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>as soon as he was able to assure himself that the coin -was false.</p> - -<p>“Certainly it is, Francis,” said the Master of Balliol -College, with a pained air.</p> - -<p>“I cannot believe it, Master. However—” Mr. Francis -put the coin in his pocket with the quiet dignity of one -who realizes the force of the old adage, <i>noblesse oblige</i>: -which, in plain English, may be taken to mean that it -ill becomes gentlemen to argue among themselves in the -presence of the commonalty. “However, as I was saying, -Master, to return to Aristotle, that much-overrated -sciolist, I do most cordially approve your critical acumen -when you say that if our friend Master Shakescene——”</p> - -<p>“Master Shakespeare,” interposed the tragedian, -solemnly.</p> - -<p>“I beg his pardon. If our friend, Master Shakespeare, -here would study the drama <i>ad hoc</i>, and give his days -and nights to that matchless work, the “Ars Poetica,” of -Aristotle, there is indeed no reason why, in the process of -nature and always under the courtesy of providence, he -should not one day produce a work of the imagination -that pays some little regard to the laws that govern such -quaint abortions of the human mind.”</p> - -<p>Mr. William Shakespeare listened with an air of grave -courtesy to this sage counsel. Like all men of parts, he -was at heart a very humble man, with a deep reverence -for true learning. It was too late in the day for him to -hope to acquire it. He had never known the want of wit, -yet in his mind was ever the thought of how much better -his plays would have been could he have fashioned his -rude verses after the manner of the ancients.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Lord Chamberlain’s servants were in the highest -spirits. The remarkable success of their first -performance in the famous city of Oxford had -pleased them greatly. They had been put upon their -mettle by their cold reception at the hands of town and -gown. Seldom had they acted even one of their most -effective plays with such force and sincerity.</p> - -<p>Long before the play was at an end, a triumph was -assured. They had a proud sense of having struck a -shrewd blow to prejudice. Those in the thronged galleries -and the close-packed press all about the stage had -shouted themselves hoarse. The author of the play, who -had a share in the profits of the company, lost no time -in turning the flood tide of popular favor to account. -His mind was a remarkable blend of business acumen -and high poetic genius. He arranged at once that -the Lord Chamberlain’s servants should extend their -visit by three days, in order that other of his pieces -might be given. And among these was to be a first -performance of the new, pleasant, conceited comedy -of “As You Like It,” which in the following week -was to be given at Richmond Palace in the Queen’s -presence.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> - -<p>There is nothing like a sense of success to uplift the -heart. When a man goes from triumph to triumph, his -wit becomes more nimble, his fancy expands, his talent -runs the more free. And at this time, all these happy -conditions were fulfilled in the career of William Shakespeare. -He was at the zenith of his mental and physical -power. All things to which he turned his hand ministered -to his fame and affluence.</p> - -<p>The unlucky Gervase Heriot, lying in the shadow of -a peril that would have wrecked the strongest will, had -come upon this man in an hour when nothing seemed -beyond the scope of his invention. The tragic history of -this young man, and of the noble girl who had forfeited -all in order to save his life, had wrought deeply upon -the player’s pity.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare had resolved to help the fugitives to the -utmost of his power. Such a decision in circumstances of -such grave peril and difficulty could only have sprung -from the large generosity of a great nature. He had all -to lose by mingling in the affairs of one in this grim pass. -Nothing could be more perilous than to help a convicted -traitor to escape his doom, but in spite of the -solemn warnings and even the earnest prayers of his -devoted friend, Burbage, the playwright’s mind was now -set upon this task.</p> - -<p>It was easier, however, to form this resolve than to -give it practical expression. But the outcome of much -anxious thought upon the matter was to make one fact -clear. If the life of Heriot was not to be spared at the -expense of a man as blameless as himself, an appeal must -be made to the Queen. And in order to do that with the -smallest hope of success, the young man must be able to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span>adduce a strong proof of his innocence and, at the same -time, engage the Queen’s sympathy.</p> - -<p>There lay the crux of the whole matter. And as soon -as this conclusion had been reached, the keenly practical -mind of the playwright began to grapple with this sore -problem. At first, it seemed hopeless to do anything. -There appeared to be no means of obtaining the all-important -proof of Gervase Heriot’s innocence, without -which it would be the height of imprudence to bring the -matter to the notice of the Queen. For none knew better -than William Shakespeare, that she was a woman of -harsh and imperious temper.</p> - -<p>Thus was it beyond all things necessary that a proof -of Heriot’s innocence should be found. The playwright -sat late that evening in a secluded corner of the inn -parlor, anxiously discussing with “Signor Bandinello” -every aspect of his unhappy case. It was true that he -deemed it wise to withhold all mention of the falconer’s -visit and the sinister news he had brought. Shakespeare -was convinced that such information had only to come -to the ears of Gervase Heriot for the fugitive to give -himself up at once. This was not the kind of man to -allow another to suffer in his place.</p> - -<p>Many were the questions with which the player plied -Gervase, in the hope of finding some way out of this -tragic coil. The natural starting point of this search for -a means of escape was the presence in that inn of the man -Grisewood. In a sense, it would almost seem that the -hand of providence lurked in such a coincidence. But -how to turn it to account, that was the problem.</p> - -<p>Would it be possible to make him play false his ignoble -partner, the man Simon Heriot? A very little reflection -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>convinced Shakespeare that any such hope was vain. To -begin with, nothing was less likely than that Grisewood -would run the risk of putting his neck in a noose by confessing -the truth; again, having very recently experienced -the thrust of the sword of “the Italian music master,” he -had now the best of reasons for nursing an implacable -hatred against the man whose life he had sworn away.</p> - -<p>From a consideration of the man lying upstairs sick -with the pain of an ugly wound, it was a natural transition -to the sole author and inspirer of the whole tragic business. -The house of Simon Heriot was but ten miles -away. And if hope of any kind was to be derived from -the nearness of the chief actors in the sordid drama, it -seemed to lie in this fact.</p> - -<p>Quite apart from the pass of Sir John Feversham, the -playwright was too wise a man to approve the wild -scheme that Gervase had formed, which indeed was the -cause of his return to Oxford. The risk would be great, -the gain slight and uncertain. But indirectly, it was Gervase’s -crude plan which now set the subtle brain to work. -Many were the questions Shakespeare asked touching -the character, the habits, the mode of life of Simon -Heriot.</p> - -<p>Among other things he learned was that this man was -of a morbid imagination, holding himself aloof from his -kind. Of late, he had mixed but little in the world. It -was even thought by some that his mind had at last -turned against itself, and that it had begun to show signs -of a failing sanity.</p> - -<p>It was not at first that the significance of these things -revealed themselves to the playwright. It was not at first -that he realized the use to which they might be put. Unconsciously,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> -however, they were stored in his brain -against the time they should be cast into the crucible of -its invention.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare learned much that evening from his talk -with Gervase Heriot. Keen as had been his pity for him -from the moment he had first heard his tragic history, -their present intercourse deepened it rather than made it -less. He was quick to recognize the depth and the valor -of this young man’s soul, and that of the great-hearted -girl who had dared all to save him from the scaffold. -Theirs was a wonderful story, all compact of the very -life-blood of drama. And when Shakespeare was told -very simply that upon the arrival of that hour in which -they could no longer hope to put off their foes, they had -a plan whereby they might die together, such a declaration -had the power to thrill the heart of one who spent -his life in the devising of plays.</p> - -<p>Long they talked together. On the one side was an -intense sympathy, a fervent pity; on the other, a clear and -manful courage that was not afraid to trust its instincts. -And in this case those instincts were to put implicit faith -in this stranger by the wayside, the power of whose personality -was so compelling.</p> - -<p>It happened about midnight, while Gervase and the -player still talked together, that a traveler came into the -inn parlor. Shakespeare saw at once that it was the -falconer returned weary and despondent from his quest. -The man came over to where they sat. His face and -bearing were very tragic.</p> - -<p>“You don’t happen to have seen anything of those -gypsies I spoke to you about?” he said to the player.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare shook his head.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span></p> - -<p>“I have lost all track of them now,” said the falconer. -“My belief is, they are somewhere in Oxford. At least, -they were last seen outside this inn. And, in any case, I -can go no farther to-night.”</p> - -<p>“What gypsies are you seeking, friend?” asked Gervase.</p> - -<p>The falconer and he had only seen each other once, and -then only for a moment. Thus neither knew who the -other was. The falconer gave a brief description of those -whom he sought, but it was explicit enough to tell Gervase -that Anne and himself were the objects of his quest.</p> - -<p>“What might you be wanting with them?” asked -Gervase.</p> - -<p>“It is a long story,” said the falconer. “I am too weary -to tell it to-night. But to-morrow, perhaps.”</p> - -<p>Thereupon, he went out of the room. Shakespeare -was much relieved to see him go. But the man’s inopportune -return had much increased the difficulties of the -situation.</p> - -<p>“I have seen that man before,” said Gervase, “yet, for -my life, I cannot think where. And I have not the least -doubt that it is my brother and I he is seeking. To-morrow, -I must have a talk with him.”</p> - -<p>“Might it not be well,” said the player, “first to find -out whether he is a friend or an enemy.”</p> - -<p>“In any case, he is not likely to recognize me in this -guise,” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>“It would be wise to take no chances, my friend,” said -the player.</p> - -<p>The task he had set himself was now beginning to press -very heavily upon William Shakespeare. He well knew -it would be fatal to any plans he might evolve if the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>fugitives learned what the business was that had sent the -falconer scouring the country-side. He must do all that -lay in his power to prevent the man conversing with -Gervase Heriot. And he must also contrive a means to -keep Anne Feversham out of his sight, lest he recognize -her in spite of her boy’s dress.</p> - -<p>Thus it was in a state of dire perplexity that the player -sought his bed that night.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">M</span>R. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE rose early, -after a troubled night. Throughout its interminable -watches his mind had been dominated by -the necessity of keeping the falconer and the fugitives -apart. It was almost certain that the man would recognize -his young mistress. And if this came to pass, she -would learn at once her father’s tragic peril.</p> - -<p>Soon or late, the news would have to be told her. At -least, that was the view Shakespeare had now come to -hold. But this was not the season for the Constable’s -daughter to learn what had happened. As the playwright -had lain sleepless that night in his bed, with the -eager brain racing courser-like over the whole matter, -the core of a plan had come to him. It was little more -than a shadow at present. It had yet to take shape, yet to -acquire a hue of reality, but it might be that under -providence it would develop into a scheme that could -offer some hope of their deliverance. Yet he must have -time in which to mature it; and if by a mischance the -fugitives learned at this moment Sir John Feversham’s -peril, nothing was more likely than that a self-sacrificing -impulse would cause them to give themselves up to justice -before anything could be done to help them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> - -<p>All that day the falconer hung disconsolate about the -Crown Tavern. There was reason to believe that the -fugitives were still in the vicinity of Oxford, but for the -time being all further trace of them had failed. A number -of persons in and about the town appeared to have -seen the young gypsies. Among others, John Davenant, -the landlord of the Crown, had a clear recollection of -having seen them early the previous day on the bench outside -the tavern door. They could not be far away, yet -for the present the falconer’s inquiries yielded no result.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare was careful to keep Gervase and Anne out -of the man’s way. He hardly let them out of his sight, -and during the performance that afternoon they were -given a secluded corner in one of the galleries where -they could enjoy the play without being seen by the -audience.</p> - -<p>The piece was “Romeo and Juliet,” and its success was -as great as that which had been gained on the previous -day by “The Merchant of Venice.” News of that brilliant -performance had spread, so that the press in the inn -yard was greater than ever, there being hardly room to -squeeze another soul inside. This play was finely acted, -and it was received with bursts of rapturous applause.</p> - -<p>It was part of the scheme that was being formed in -Shakespeare’s mind that Anne should play <i>Rosalind</i> before -the Queen. He knew that such an innovation would -be perilous, and he foresaw that it would arouse the opposition -of his colleagues. But that shy and slender grace -was the ideal of his fancy. He knew now that it was the -sight of her in hawking dress in the tailor’s shop that had -set his mind upon the forest of Arden. Parflete was an -efficient actor, but no member of the company could have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>the charm and delicacy of this gracious thing, if only she -could be taught to play the part at so short a notice.</p> - -<p>The playwright was too astute even to tell Burbage of -the fantastic scheme that had come to lurk in his mind. -But he lost no time in giving Anne a copy of the play to -read. She declared herself enchanted by it. It was not -then, however, that he ventured to reveal to her his design. -And, in the meantime, perils were multiplying.</p> - -<p>The man Grisewood remained three days in the privacy -of his chamber, suffering much pain during that time in -his disabled arm. And when at last he emerged with his -wound dressed in bandages, he hovered about the tavern -like a brooding and vengeful presence. If ever a man -might be said to be biding his hour in order to work mischief, -this was he. Yet for the present, it was little he -could accomplish. Moreover, he was constrained to keep -a civil tongue in his head, since Richard Burbage, who -was no respecter of persons, was fain to inform him that -the horse-trough was still likely to be his academy of -manners.</p> - -<p>Grisewood, it appeared, had come to Oxford for a particular -purpose. That purpose was to seek out Simon -Heriot, his partner in infamy. He wished to inform him -of the prisoner’s escape, which was not generally known to -the world, and incidentally to learn what prospect there -was of being able to replenish a depleted exchequer. -This indeed was its permanent condition, so far as Sir -Robert Grisewood was concerned. But now that his foul -work was accomplished he looked to it to provide a source -of revenue for many years to come.</p> - -<p>In the course of the day Grisewood chanced to inquire -of John Davenant, in the falconer’s hearing, whether he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>could direct him to Greenfield Manor, the house of Simon -Heriot The falconer’s attention was attracted, and presently -he entered into conversation with Grisewood. Both -men, at first, were not a little wary of each other. The -business of neither enabled them to open their hearts to -a chance acquaintance, but a few cautious questions -judiciously answered were enough to prove their common -interest in a matter which concerned them both very -deeply.</p> - -<p>Grisewood had more cunning, and therefore less frankness, -than the falconer. Thus he asked questions rather -than answered them. And it was not long before he had -learned the nature of the falconer’s mission.</p> - -<p>Markham, to be sure, was very loth to tell his story. -But once upon the track of it, Grisewood was not a man to -be gainsaid. On a pretence of being able to tell far -more than he knew, he drew the main particulars, word -by word, out of the reluctant falconer. Thus he learned -the manner of Gervase Heriot’s escape, and how the -fugitive was roaming the country-side in the company of -Sir John Feversham’s daughter.</p> - -<p>This was high and strange news for Grisewood. Indeed, -Markham was one of the very few who knew this -fact. Not even the Queen herself was aware of it.</p> - -<p>Had Markham been in a mood less desperate, he would -not have divulged the share of his young mistress in the -prisoner’s escape. But this man had affected to know -far more of the matter than, in point of fact, he did know; -besides, the falconer did not see how any words or any -act of his could make the affair more terrible than it was. -His one desire was to overtake the fugitives in order that -he might inform his young mistress of her father’s dire -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>peril. This was neither more nor less than the morbid -craving of an overburdened conscience. It would not -be at his instance even if Gervase Heriot was given up to -justice. His wish was merely to make known to the -prisoner all that had occurred, and then leave any -further action in his hands. By this means the falconer -hoped to rid himself of the stain of his master’s blood.</p> - -<p>As soon as Grisewood had heard the falconer’s story -he brought the whole force of his cunning mind to bear -upon the matter.</p> - -<p>“You say, my friend, this traitor and Sir John’s young -daughter in a boy’s dress are roaming the country in the -guise of gypsies?”</p> - -<p>“That I do,” said Markham.</p> - -<p>Grisewood strove to amplify in his mind a picture the -falconer’s story had conjured up in it. At last he was -able to do this.</p> - -<p>“By God’s life!” he said, “that was the pair of vagabonds -I saw in the company of that accursed play-actor -at the tavern door on the morning I came here.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you call him accursed?” said Markham, remembering -with a pang that this player was a man in -whom he had already confided.</p> - -<p>“Why do I call him accursed?” said Grisewood. “All -the world knows him for a notorious rogue, as are all men -of his sort. And I’ll wager a golden angel he is concealing -these fugitives in order to serve some purpose of his -own.”</p> - -<p>“But why should he conceal them,” said the falconer, -“when there is a large sum on the head of Mr. Heriot?”</p> - -<p>“A large sum, eh! The rogue may not know that.”</p> - -<p>It was more to the purpose, perhaps, that the rogue who -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>spoke had not known it. He grew silent. In this business -he must go cautiously indeed. It might be possible for -one who lived by his wits to take profit from this strange -business. At least, in his own mind, he was reasonably -sure of two things. The first was that the fugitives were -near at hand, the other that the play-actor was in a position -to throw light on their whereabouts.</p> - -<p>The effect of this conversation was to keep Sir Robert -Grisewood very wideawake, and also to implant the seed -of distrust in the mind of Markham. It might be, after -all, that the player was not so open and honest as he -seemed. At any rate, the falconer determined to watch -him narrowly. With that end in view he marked all that -Shakespeare did. And he soon found more food for his -suspicions.</p> - -<p>Close observation of the player’s comings and goings -enabled Markham to learn that there was a certain room -in the upper part of the inn, which claimed a large share -of his attention. Much of Shakespeare’s time was spent -in it. Another person who had recourse to it was a certain -tall man profusely endowed with a beard and moustachios, -said to be a foreigner, who had lately joined the -Lord Chamberlain’s Company. He was reputed to be a -swordsman of much skill, and in proof of it he had lately -given Grisewood a thrust through the arm.</p> - -<p>The falconer was able to learn that this man, an Italian -who went by the name of Bandinello, had a son. And -although he, too, had joined the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, -and was staying at the Crown, Markham found it -impossible to get a sight of him. For one thing, neither -of these Italians took their meals with the rest of the -players in the dining-parlor, but as the falconer contrived -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span>to learn, these were served to them in this upper chamber.</p> - -<p>This fact deepened Markham’s suspicions. He did not -think, well, however, to confide them to Grisewood. Inquiry -of the landlord had been sufficient to fix a very -evil reputation upon the man. And it had also served, in -a measure, to reassure Markham in respect of the player. -The landlord, who seemed a shrewd and honest fellow -enough, had no hesitation in affirming that William -Shakespeare was a very upright man.</p> - -<p>Markham kept to himself his growing belief that the -player, for purposes of his own, was concealing the fugitives. -But the falconer, once engaged by this train of -thought, began to grow more and more certain that he -had good ground for his suspicion. A close scrutiny, -moreover, convinced him that Signor Bandinello was by -no means the individual he gave himself out to be.</p> - -<p>Upon reaching this conclusion, Markham determined -on a bold course. By hook or by crook, he would get a -sight of this boy who was kept so close. Yet only one -means seemed to offer of doing this. He must choose a -favorable moment, and boldly invade this private room. -Doubtless the best time would be when the players were -assembled at supper in the dining-parlor.</p> - -<p>In accordance with this plan he watched a servant ascend -with a tray of food, and then a few minutes later he -walked fearlessly into the room.</p> - -<p>As John Markham had surmised would be the case, he -found two persons seated at supper. One was the so-called -Italian music master, and the other was doubtless -the person who had passed as his son. But, with a single -glance of an almost terrified swiftness, the falconer was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>able to pierce the disguise. For all her close-clipt curls -and her boy’s dress, the second occupant of the room was -undoubtedly his young mistress.</p> - -<p>In spite of the fact that the falconer was fully prepared -for the discovery he had made, he uttered a cry.</p> - -<p>Signor Bandinello sprang to his feet.</p> - -<p>“What is your pleasure?” he asked sharply, and in an -English as pure as any man need wish to use.</p> - -<p>For an instant, the two men stood looking at one another -blankly, while Anne’s dismay was so great that she -could neither speak nor move. But each of these men -had recognized the other already.</p> - -<p>Beyond a doubt this was the man the falconer sought. -Also this was the servant of Sir John Feversham, whom -Gervase had encountered in the meadow.</p> - -<p>Gervase laid his hand to his sword.</p> - -<p>“Nay, sir,” said Markham, simply. “I am here as your -friend, and as—and as the humble servant of my mistress.”</p> - -<p>The sound of the falconer’s voice broke the spell that -had been laid upon Anne. She rose from the table, and -in spite of all that she had undergone of suffering, something -of the old imperiousness was in her tone.</p> - -<p>“What do you here, John Markham?”</p> - -<p>“I bring news, mistress.”</p> - -<p>“Of whom?”</p> - -<p>“I bring news of your father, mistress.”</p> - -<p>“Of my father!”</p> - -<p>It seemed almost too great an effort for Anne to cast -back her mind to the stern man whose very existence she -had nearly forgotten. In the stress of those terrible -weeks, which had called for all that she had of endurance, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>her former life had grown so vague, so remote that it was -almost as if it had never been.</p> - -<p>“What of my father?”</p> - -<p>Tragedy unspeakable was in the falconer’s face. For -the moment, a power outside himself forbade his answering -the question. Days and nights had he given to this -quest, that a load of misery might be taken from his heart. -But now that at last his tireless wanderings had achieved -their purpose, a force beyond his own will held him -captive.</p> - -<p>The falconer knew as he gazed at his young mistress -that it was her life he was about to sacrifice in order to -save his master’s. It was her youth and her high devotion -in the scale, against one who had lived the flower -of his years. Surely it behoved him to have a care.</p> - -<p>“What of my father?”</p> - -<p>The man shook his head impotently.</p> - -<p>“Is he dead?”</p> - -<p>“No, mistress, he is not dead.”</p> - -<p>But in the falconer’s tone was that which sent a chill -to the heart of Sir John Feversham’s daughter. In spite -of himself, Markham had told her that which he would -now have concealed.</p> - -<p>“My father is in peril?”</p> - -<p>Again there was silence. But the woman’s swift instinct -all too soon divined its meaning.</p> - -<p>“In peril. And it is because—because——!”</p> - -<p>A shudder went through her veins. She buried her -face in her hands.</p> - -<p>A dreadful anguish came upon the falconer. Any -words he would have spoken died on his lips.</p> - -<p>In the midst of this unhappy scene Shakespeare entered<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> -the room. His eye fell on the somber figure of -the falconer. And then he saw the piteous face of -Anne.</p> - -<p>“Oh, what have you done!” The player’s bitterly reproachful -words were heard only by the falconer.</p> - -<p>Markham shook his head dismally.</p> - -<p>Gervase turned a distracted face upon the player.</p> - -<p>“This man is concealing something,” he said. “What -it is, I do not know. Perhaps you can tell us.”</p> - -<p>In spite of the fact that Markham’s presence in the -room had taken Shakespeare altogether by surprise, he -seemed to realize the situation almost at once. Gervase -Heriot’s air of bewilderment and the falconer’s look of -pitiful irresolution served to make it clear that the man’s -will had failed when it came to the telling of his story.</p> - -<p>But it was equally clear to that powerful intelligence -that Anne had come very near to divining the grim truth. -She was the picture of woe. And her distress could only -proceed from one cause.</p> - -<p>“You say my father is in peril!” Heedless of the player’s -presence her words were addressed to John Markham. -“And it is because of me.”</p> - -<p>The falconer did not answer. But his white face answered -for him.</p> - -<p>“Tell me all, John Markham. I must, I will know all.”</p> - -<p>In the presence of that instancy of will which now as -ever held the falconer in thrall, he could not do less than -obey. It was in vain that the player sought to check him.</p> - -<p>In a few broken, brief words, the dismal story was -told.</p> - -<p>“Sir John lies in the Tower, mistress, in peril of his -life. He is accused of complicity in his prisoner’s escape. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>On Monday next, as I understand, he is to be brought to -his trial. And it is likely to go hard with him if he makes -no effort to clear himself. And that, I am sure, he will -not do.”</p> - -<p>Gervase interposed sharply.</p> - -<p>“Why do you say Sir John Feversham will not attempt -to clear himself?”</p> - -<p>“For the reason, sir,” said the falconer, gravely and -simply, “that in such a case as this, it would not be my -master’s character.”</p> - -<p>“How can you possibly know that?” asked Gervase.</p> - -<p>The falconer shook his head sadly.</p> - -<p>“You are not acquainted with my master,” he said. -“Even to save his life, he is not the man to tell all that -he knows of this matter.”</p> - -<p>“That is to say,” said Gervase, “he has withheld a certain -fact from the Queen?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>Despair closed upon Gervase and Anne. They did not -need to be told that Sir John Feversham had taken upon -himself the whole responsibility for his prisoner’s escape, -and that not a word had crossed his lips in regard to the -share his daughter had in it.</p> - -<p>One thought sprang at once to the minds of the fugitives. -It was impossible in such circumstances to leave -Sir John to his fate. All the laws of honor, of filial duty -forbade such a course.</p> - -<p>“Oh, why did you tell them!” said the player to John -Markham. The too sensitive soul felt the stab of tragedy -in its inmost fiber.</p> - -<p>“It was right that he should,” said Gervase. “It was -his bounden duty.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> - -<p>Gervase had grown as pale as death, but already resolve -had braced his will. He saw at once that only one -course was open to him, and that was the one the player -himself had foreseen.</p> - -<p>Yet no issue could have been more tragic. It was death -for Gervase, and in the circumstances of the case, it -was also death for Anne. All this the player understood, -and even the thrice unhappy falconer seemed to -realize it.</p> - -<p>Gervase’s mind was soon made up. He would go at -once to London and surrender himself to the Queen. He -would start that night or at dawn at the latest, since it -seemed to him there was not an hour to be lost.</p> - -<p>The player, however, had only to learn this impetuous -resolve, in order to declare himself strongly averse from -it. A plan which promised some hope of deliverance, a -very slender one, it was true, had been taking shape in -his mind for three days past. Any such precipitancy of -action would destroy it. Therefore, he entreated Gervase -to defer a step that must prove irretrievably fatal -until such time as his scheme might have a chance to -mature.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare well knew how hazardous, indeed how -fantastic his plan was. And he was far too honest a man -to promise more than its desperate character warranted. -But he did all that he could to dissuade Gervase from his -intention. He implored the young man not to act until -that day week, at which time the Lord Chamberlain’s men -had to appear before the Queen. It might then be possible -to gain her ear. Gervase, however, would not consent -to this. His thoughts were dominated completely by -the peril of a brave and chivalrous man. Indeed, it was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>as much as the player could do to persuade him to defer -his departure for London until the next day.</p> - -<p>Finally, Shakespeare was able to wring a reluctant -promise from Gervase that he would not act upon his resolve -the following morning, until such time as they had -met to discuss it again. And for the time being, at any -rate, that was the utmost the play-actor could contrive.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HERE was little sleep that night either for -William Shakespeare or for Gervase Heriot. The -early morning found them together in the inn -garden. And as they walked up and down its box-bordered -alleys, they talked long and very earnestly and in a -manner utterly heedless of their surroundings.</p> - -<p>In this last matter, they were unlucky. Several of the -tavern windows overlooked the garden, and one at least -was open wide. This belonged to the room which was -occupied by the man Grisewood, who lay sleepless on a -comfortless pillow, still tormented by his wound. Unable -to rest, he chanced to rise from his couch in the early -hours, and thrust his aching head out of the window in -order to get a breath of fresh air.</p> - -<p>His attention was caught at once by the sound of -voices and of footsteps on the gravel path below. Then it -was he saw the play-actor in deep conversation with the -man who had run him through the arm. The sight was -enough to summon all that Grisewood had of cunning, -and in his case, as it happened, this was a commodity of -which nature had been lavish.</p> - -<p>At once, he knelt down by the casement, in order that -he might see without being seen. Then he listened very -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span>intently. The process was irritatingly difficult He was -only able to hear brief, disjointed fragments of the conversation -that was passing below. But it was continued -long enough to enable the listener to weave into some -kind of a context the few scraps of talk which he was able -to glean.</p> - -<p>Without any sort of doubt, the man who had run him -through the arm was Gervase Heriot in a cunning disguise. -Such a thrill of joy passed through the heart of -the listener as almost to compensate for the pain and indignity -he had recently undergone. It would appear that -the fugitive was bent upon a course of action from which -the play-actor was doing all in his power to dissuade him. -Exactly what it was that was passing between them, -Grisewood could not for the life of him make out. Long -they talked together as they slowly paced the garden, yet -even when they left it at last, the listener was unable to -gather the full gist of their conversation.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, he returned to his bed a very well satisfied -man. Opportunity for revenge lay under his hand. -Moreover, he hoped to be able to pay off his score with -the player. And even beyond this doubly welcome prospect, -there was the further consolation of the high price -that had been set on the head of a condemned traitor.</p> - -<p>These prospects were very dazzling in the sight of Sir -Robert Grisewood. And such scope did they offer that -gentleman for the exercise of his peculiar faculties, that -he was almost afraid he would not be able to grasp them -to the full. He must not act hastily. Let him give the -whole force of his mind to the great possibilities of revenge -that were spread before it. Let him strike at his -leisure, and only after ample consideration of the case in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>all its bearings. Justice, full and complete, must be done -to the really wonderful opportunity that had been given -him.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, Shakespeare’s long conversation with -the fugitive in the inn garden had borne fruit. With infinite -difficulty had he been able to persuade the young -man to forego his surrender to the law for that day, at -least. And with even this small concession, the player -was not dissatisfied, for it seemed that during the watches -of the night the scheme in his mind had developed considerably.</p> - -<p>Its nature was certainly very complex and hazardous. -And the player asked of Gervase that he would trust him -to carry it out without calling upon him to furnish details. -Shakespeare desired the young man to await the -issue of his plan with an open mind. And as there was -all for Gervase to gain, and there was nothing he could -lose, and as he had already learned to have faith in this -man who had certainly played the part of a friend, he -consented to do the will of the actor, and at the same -time to ask as few questions as need be.</p> - -<p>It was a strange situation. And if Gervase had not -an implicit faith in the player, it could never have arisen. -But the man’s intense sympathy wrought upon him. And, -after all, it was not a matter of his own life alone, or -even of the life of Sir John Feversham. He had to consider -that of the girl who had dared and done so much.</p> - -<p>Thus, for one day more, he was willing to defer his -surrender to the Queen. And to this he was impelled by -the knowledge that whatever course he took, it would not -now be possible to avoid bringing Sir John Feversham to -his trial. The law must inevitably take its course, but -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>there would still be time and opportunity to save the Constable -even after he was condemned.</p> - -<p>It had been Grisewood’s intention to pay his visit to -Greenfield Manor that day. But the discovery he had -made caused him to alter his plan of action. He felt he -must take time to consider the new position which had -arisen. Therefore, he decided not to see Simon Heriot -at once. It would be well, he thought, to stay where he -was in order that he might watch affairs closely and gain -a further knowledge of that which was taking place.</p> - -<p>Delays, however, are dangerous. Grisewood was not -aware of the fact that his change of plan was very welcome -to the play-actor. Indeed, nothing could have better -suited Shakespeare’s design. From the many inquiries -he had recently made in regard to Simon Heriot, -there was good reason to suppose that the man believed -his nephew to be dead. And as this belief was essential -to the fantastic design that was maturing in the subtle -brain of this maker of plays, it was beyond all things -necessary that, for the present, it should not be disturbed.</p> - -<p>Thus when, in the course of that morning, Shakespeare -learned from the landlord that Grisewood had decided -not to visit Greenfield Manor until the next day a weight -of anxiety was taken from his mind. Nothing could have -accorded better with his purpose. Moreover, it put him -in great heart for his enterprise, and provided a further -reason for its being carried through without delay.</p> - -<p>To be sure, the scheme was whimsical, extravagant, -fantastic. It was of a kind that could only have sprung -from a daringly original invention. And perhaps only -the optimism of one whose life was largely that of the -fancy could have expected it to yield any material result.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> -But it was with the zest of a schoolboy that the -playwright drew his friend, Burbage, aside before that -morning was out, and over a tankard of October ale -with a toast in it, inquired “whether he was ripe for a -midnight frolic?”</p> - -<p>“Ripe as a medlar, my old lad of Stratford-on-Avon -in Warwickshire,” said the tragedian, heartily.</p> - -<p>“Then we will give what we are pleased to call our -minds to a stratagem, dear shrew, which I hope we may be -able this night to put on a dark knave.”</p> - -<p>“I care not so long as there is mirth in it,” said the -tragedian.</p> - -<p>“Mirth enough in it, I promise you, if we can but draw -this badger out of his hole. But we must go well armed, -in case of trouble, and we must have horses for a journey -ten miles out and home.”</p> - -<p>“What! more Charlecote adventures?”</p> - -<p>“Nay, you egregious mime, a thing of more account -than a coney or two. It is to save the life of an innocent -man and, as we will hope, to lose a foul knave his -head.”</p> - -<p>The tragedian, in accordance with a cautious, practical -and sagacious disposition, began to look dubious.</p> - -<p>“I am by no means clear,” he said, “that Richard -Burbage was designed by nature for knight errantry.”</p> - -<p>“No harm shall come of this adventure, I promise you. -But all I ask is, that your dove’s voice shall roar a little -like the Nubian lion; and that your large assemblance -shall make us look valiant in the light of the moon.”</p> - -<p>“That will I promise, if I have but a flask of canary -within me.”</p> - -<p>“It is a choicely pretty stratagem. And if there is no -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span>miscarriage, I think we may obtain a night’s honest -amusement at the expense of one who looks not to provide -it.”</p> - -<p>“What is your plan, you mad maker of plays? And -what is its aim and object?”</p> - -<p>“All in a good season you shall be told. But first, we -must prick our band for the wars. I name myself captain -generalissimo, and I name Richard Burbage, a large -man, frowardly given, for my ancient. And for my -squire, I name young Parflete, whose light limbs and -smooth face and gentle air make innocence herself seem -a baggage. And then I will name Lowin, an honest, -good fellow with wit enough not to ask questions, and -stout Kemp who is a wag but not a fool, and of course -Heriot, this poor ill-used young man whose life I will -save, I am determined upon it.”</p> - -<p>“All the same, my William, I would learn the nature -of your stratagem,” said Burbage, tenaciously.</p> - -<p>“Nay, Richard, possess your soul in patience for the -nonce. The stratagem is a good stratagem, else may I -never drink sack out of a bombard again. But I must -now seek young Mr. Heriot and assemble horses for -our troop.”</p> - -<p>It was part of the man’s character, and a strong part, -that when once the mind was fully aroused, it could -combine the power of action with an infinite faculty of invention. -It was not always easy for him to see his way -at the beginning of an enterprise. Like so many upon -whom the heavy burden of imagination has been laid, -the will was apt to be weak at times. But if only the -occasion called imperiously, he had a power of concentration -that enabled him to overcome the indecision -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>which is the cruel curse that nature has laid upon the -thinker.</p> - -<p>Now that William Shakespeare had conceived the high -project of saving the life of an innocent man, mind and -will were working in full harmony to compass this end. -He saw clearly what had to be done; and a blend of -many high qualities lent him the power to conceive and -to carry out a scheme which few men would have had -the audacity to undertake.</p> - -<p>He bade Gervase and Anne be of good heart. Yet -he withheld the main particulars of his design. He told -them merely that his purpose was to ride at sundown -to the house of Simon Heriot, that was some ten miles -off, in the company of Burbage, Kemp and other of -the players. It would be necessary for Gervase to accompany -them. With a light of humor in his eye, the -playwright assured him that if fortune was kind he had -a plan that might prove very pleasant, whimsical and -diverting to all except him against whom it was to be -directed.</p> - -<p>“But, tell me, what it is, I pray you?” said Gervase.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare shook his head.</p> - -<p>“The hour is not yet,” he said. “I’ faith, it is one -of those whimsical matters which endure the performance -better than the description. I only ask that you trust -me to the full and do my will, whatever it be; and, for -my part, I will promise that your case shall not be made -in anywise worse than it now is, and under Providence -shall be made a good deal better.”</p> - -<p>Knowing so little of the plan, Gervase found it hard -not to be sceptical. But this man had already gained -his confidence. He was hardly likely to promise that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>which he had no prospect of being able to perform. -Moreover, there was no reason in the world why he -should put a trick upon one in so sorry a plight as Gervase, -unless he was an emissary of his enemies. And -this the fugitive had no reason to suppose. For had -he not treated Anne and himself with unfailing kindness, -nay, with something beyond kindness—with a tenderness, -a delicacy of compassion which no gratitude -could ever repay?</p> - -<p>Shakespeare presently delivered a solemn charge to -the melancholy-visaged John Davenant, of whom there -was a tradition that he had never been known to -smile.</p> - -<p>“Right excellent host,” said the player, with a whimsical -air, “I would have you place at our disposal about -the hour friend Phoebus enters his cradle, the eight -trustiest and lustiest steeds to be found in this city. -John Davenant, on your honor as a licensed victualler, -do I charge you to give the whole of your mind to this -matter. An affair of great pith and moment is toward -as soon as the sun has gone down.”</p> - -<p>“Is it that you are leaving us to-night, Will?” said -the host of the Crown Tavern, in some alarm.</p> - -<p>“Nay, mine host. But a choice little pleasantry is -afoot, and it demands that all who bear a share in it -should be well horsed.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you are ever a mad faggot,” said John Davenant. -“And a man never knows what whimsey you will -take next.”</p> - -<p>“Peace, honest vintner. And upon your life as a famous -Christian man, do I charge you to do my behest.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span></p> - -<p>Thoroughly mystified, John Davenant went to carry -out these instructions, perhaps a trifle unwillingly. -But he was an old friend of William Shakespeare, and -although a somber fellow enough on the outside, there -was a light of humor within. Besides, he had a very -real respect for the moving spirit of the Lord Chamberlain’s -Company.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">G</span>REENFIELD MANOR was a very old house -about ten miles out of Oxford. It lay in a secluded -spot, but the road to London ran past -the high walls of its park. A heavy growth of trees -surrounded the house itself, which was in a state of -neglect and disrepair.</p> - -<p>A gloomy and forbidding place enough. The very atmosphere -which invested this mass of decaying stonework -seemed to invite ghosts to walk. Its chimneys -rocked continually; its windows rattled. When the vane -over the decrepit stables swung in the wind of the summer -night, it was as if some lost soul was seeking to -escape out of Hades.</p> - -<p>As a fact, the house was certainly inhabited by a -lost soul. Simon Heriot, its master, lay in the belief -that he had done his nephew to death by a subtle, -mean and cruel device. And no worthier purpose than -greed had been in his heart. It had been his life-long -passion to hold the fair manor and the broad lands in -the west country, which generations of his name had -held before him. These, however, had descended to -the son of his elder brother. And the knowledge -that there was only one life intervening between him -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>and his great ambition, in the end, became too much for -him.</p> - -<p>The means to do ill deeds oft makes ill deeds done. -It was by chance that the design was unfolded to Simon -Heriot of swearing away his nephew’s life. But when -occasion came to him he did not resist the call. The -pent-up forces of his covetous envy rose up and slew -him.</p> - -<p>If ever a man might be said to have sold himself to the -devil, that man was Simon Heriot. He had a cunning -and subtle mind; moreover, he was very well acquainted -with the world in which he lived. He was clever enough -to make the entail of his nephew’s estates the price of -his testimony. And, indeed, it was no uncommon thing -in that day to reward those who brought and proved -charges of high treason with the property of the people -they had hounded to the scaffold. The times were very -perilous for all men. The life of no man was safe. Black -hatred and superstitious fear of the Pope, and his emissaries -were rife throughout the land. In such circumstances, -it was easy for a cunning and unscrupulous man -to remove a rival from his path by some form of legal -process. The character of the evidence was seldom -tested. It was enough if it served the purpose it had -in view. Gervase Heriot was not the first by many -who had been done to death under the ready sanctions -of the law.</p> - -<p>Howbeit, Simon Heriot, with all his knowledge of -men and of the world, was without knowledge of the -power of God. As soon as the news was brought to -him that his nephew was condemned to the block, a -singular change came over his life. The success of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>his design gave him not a crumb of satisfaction; indeed -he took a morbid, an overmastering distaste for the -society of his fellows. He shut himself up in his gloomy -manor house with his old and stupid servants. He -shunned the light of day. His one desire was to avert his -face from all men and from the sight of Heaven.</p> - -<p>A brooding lethargy fixed itself upon his soul. A -kind of slow horror stole into his brain. He could not -settle his mind to anything. Asleep or awake, he knew -no peace. He would have undone his deed could he -have found the courage that such an act demanded.</p> - -<p>This night was as many others. After a solitary meal -in a large, dim, comfortless room, Simon Heriot -sat long at the table, staring straight before him at the -huge open fireplace, whose emptiness was like a yawning -chasm. At his elbow had been set a large flagon of -wine, of which he drank continually.</p> - -<p>There was not a sound in the old house, save that -made by an occasional mouse behind the paneling. The -servants had gone to bed; it was near eleven o’clock of -a perfectly still and moonless summer’s evening; and -Simon Heriot was alone with his thoughts.</p> - -<p>Wine, it is true, did a little to soften their sting. -But when the hand of God has been laid upon a man, -it is not amenable to human resources. Behind that -dull lethargy of spirit was a never-ceasing pressure. -Strange phantoms had begun to lurk on the edge of the -outer darkness, away beyond the flickering half-light of -the candles on the table.</p> - -<p>At last, in sheer fatigue, the unhappy man began to -doze. Worn out in mind and body, he fell presently -into a troubled sleep. But his unquietness of spirit would -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>not let him rest. He awoke with a start. There was a -sense of a continual presence, unseen but all-pervading, -in the room.</p> - -<p>He strained his eyes beyond the circle of light made -by the candles set on the table at which he sat. But -away in the ghostly outer darkness of the large room, -he could discern no visible shape. He strove to fix some -faint and remote sound that thrilled in his ears. But, -after all, it was only the little sound of the summer -wind stirring in the trees.</p> - -<p>Again the jaded brain tried to pierce together the -slender core of will that might disperse these phantoms -and perhaps enable it to sleep. But it was not to be. -Each night as he sat there, besieged by this horror -that had entered his soul, the will grew more inert. -There was a faint voice within that had begun to whisper -to him that he would never sleep again.</p> - -<p>Yes, it was true. He would never sleep again. He -was tormented by unseen phantoms. Never again -would he know peace in this life and perhaps never in -the life to come.</p> - -<p>Once again he strained his ears to listen. It was only -the little voice of the summer wind in the wide chimney-place. -All was silence save for that. Yet there was an -abiding sense of an unseen, all-pervading presence in -the room. And then, quite suddenly, without warning -of any kind, a thing happened that made the very soul -of Simon Heriot recoil.</p> - -<p>He was sitting at the table, his head resting on his -hand. His back was to the wide chimney-place, but -as he sat his body was half turned towards it. On his -right hand was a long, low casement. It was curtainless,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> -but was covered on the outside by a wooden shutter. -On his left hand, at the opposite end of the room, -was another casement precisely similar except that it was -smaller.</p> - -<p>All at once, without warning and without any apparent -cause, the shutters of the right-hand casement were -flung to the ground. Simon Heriot turned his head -with a startled cry. His wild eyes stared out into the -night. At first, he could see nothing but the cavernous -darkness. Yet as he was still gazing, a light was flashed -suddenly across the window, and then he saw that a -white, ghostly face was pressed against the pane and -was looking into the room.</p> - -<p>The apparition was so real, so vivid, that Simon Heriot -rose half swooning with terror and walked across to the -window.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?” he gasped.</p> - -<p>He had no need to ask. It was the face of the young -man, his nephew, whom, as he believed, he had done to -death.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?” shrieked the wretched man.</p> - -<p>He stumbled forward to the window. But when he -came there all was dark again. The light was gone, and -the face of his nephew had vanished.</p> - -<p>Like a lost soul, trembling upon the verge of unreason, -he stood at the window gazing far out into the -void. But there was only the darkness of the night -and the little voice of the summer wind. Yet if he -was not in a dream, or if he was not yet bereft of -his wits, the shutters were indubitably prone on the -ground.</p> - -<p>After a moment, the unhappy man turned away from -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>the window, unable longer to endure that cavern of -darkness which confronted him. Yet, hardly had he done -so, when the shutters which covered the window at the -other end of the long room were flung to the ground -with a violent crash.</p> - -<p>Simon Heriot screamed with terror. There again was -the flash of the light. There again was the face of his -nephew pressed against the window. Like one possessed, -the unhappy man stumbled across the room to this other -window. But by the time he had reached it, the light -and the face were gone.</p> - -<p>There was nothing but the night. All was silence. -And there was nought to be seen out in the darkness. -He uttered another wild scream of terror.</p> - -<p>Shuddering in every vein, he withdrew his eyes from -the window. As he sought the table for support, he -almost fell. And then as he reached it, his heart seemed -to stop beating. For a voice deep and terrible filled the -room, echoing and re-echoing in it, making its spacious -gloom resound.</p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot!”</p> - -<p>He heard his name.</p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot!”</p> - -<p>The voice of the unseen re-echoed high in the wide -chimney-place. The heart of the unhappy wretch was -already dead within him.</p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot has murdered sleep!”</p> - -<p>In a frenzy that seemed to tear his soul in pieces, -he pressed his hands to his ears that they might be -closed against the sound. But it was in vain. No human -agency had the power to shut out those terrible words, -or the awful voice that gave them utterance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot, if ever you would sleep again, attend -that which is said to you.”</p> - -<p>With the shred of will that remained to him, the guilty -man strung all his faculties in order to heed the words -that were spoken.</p> - -<p>“Do you attend, Simon Heriot.” The voice was low, -deep and terrible. “Do you take a candle and sit at -yonder table, upon which materials for writing are set, -and do you write as you are now directed.”</p> - -<p>It was true that quill, inkhorn and foolscap were laid -out on a small table at the other end of the room. At -the beck of that which he was powerless to disobey, the -unhappy man tottered very slowly towards the table. -After a moment of indecision, he sat down and took up -the quill. He was as one in a dream, except that his -head seemed to be bursting.</p> - -<p>“Simon Heriot, write as you are directed.”</p> - -<p>The terrible voice had now grown so loud and so -compelling, that it seemed to tear his brain asunder. -When he took up the pen, his trembling fingers could -hardly hold it.</p> - -<p>Very slowly and very clearly, the voice then uttered -the following:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>“I, Simon Heriot, in the presence of Almighty God -and with the shadow of death upon me, hereby solemnly -declare, that I have caused to be borne to our Sovereign -Lady the Queen, false testimony in the matter of my -nephew, Gervase Heriot. I further declare that I suborned -three men, Robert Grisewood, John Nixon and -Gregory Bannister by name, to bear false testimony -touching the complicity of the said Gervase Heriot in -the Round House Plot, by reason of which alleged complicity<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> -the said Gervase Heriot has been condemned to -death. In the presence of Almighty God, and as I -shortly hope for eternal rest, I do hereby most solemnly -avow what I have written to be the truth, the whole -truth and nothing but the truth. Given under my hand -this second day of July, 1599—Simon Heriot.”</p></div> - -<p>Under the goad of terror, the guilty man gathered -every fragment of his crumbling will in order that he -might set pen to paper. No less slowly than the grim -voice pronounced the words, Simon Heriot wrote them -down with a kind of automatic precision. It was as if -his highly wrought state had become susceptible to a -process of hypnotism.</p> - -<p>When at last the task was finished and he had signed -the document which made full confession of his crime, -he was commanded to open a window and to fling out -the paper into the night.</p> - -<p>He would have had neither the strength nor the courage -to do this of his own volition. But the dread voice -compelled him. He rose from the writing-table, but -now such was his condition that he could hardly stand. -A palsy was on his limbs; he was as one who has lost -all control of his mind.</p> - -<p>“Take heed, Simon Heriot.”</p> - -<p>He knew not whence the voice came, yet a power -beyond himself compelled implicit obedience. Scarcely -able to walk, he tottered toward the casement at the -other end of the wide room.</p> - -<p>He was destined never to reach it. With a dismal cry, -he stopped midway. The paper fluttered out of his hand. -Suddenly, he fell face down on the stone floor, a slight -foam on his lips.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">H</span>ARDLY had this thing come to pass, when a -number of startled faces appeared on the outer -side of the shutterless window. Shaking -and rattling did not serve to force an entrance, but by -the time the combined pressure of four or five vigorous -and determined men had been applied, the framework -began to yield. Very soon they had made their way into -the room.</p> - -<p>Simon Heriot was dead.</p> - -<p>One glance at the horrible distorted face was enough -to tell Gervase Heriot what had occurred. There was -no need for the young man to get down on his knees, -candle in hand, and loosen the man’s clothing. Simon -Heriot had already breathed his last.</p> - -<p>The men who had come with Gervase into the room -belonged one and all to the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. -The first of these was William Shakespeare whose fantastically -ingenious device had been fraught with such -tragic consequences. It had succeeded beyond hope or -expectation. Richard Burbage’s had been the voice which -had re-echoed down the wide chimney with such ghastly -effect.</p> - -<p>“Dead?” said the playwright, looking round at the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>circle of astonished and half-terrified faces. And then -he said, with a passionate solemnity, with a look of terror -in his own dark-glowing eyes, “God rest his soul. -His crime was black, but he has paid for it with usury. -God rest his unhappy soul.”</p> - -<p>A chill of silence fell upon all who had entered the -room. In a sense, they had done this man to death, -and perhaps that thought was even more potent in their -minds than the grim and awful tragedy they had witnessed.</p> - -<p>After a while, the spell was broken. Burbage picked -up the paper that had fallen to the floor. He examined -it by the ghostly light of the candles, and then handed it -to the man who had caused it to be written.</p> - -<p>It might have been supposed that the text would have -been expressed in a handwriting barely decipherable, but -such was not the case. The writing was sufficiently -clear to bear no reasonable doubt of its authenticity. -By a process of hypnotic suggestion the man’s mind had -been strung up to a point beyond its natural powers, and -it had not given way until the last word had been -written.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare folded up the paper and put it in his -pocket.</p> - -<p>“I will bear this to the Queen myself,” he said.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, some of the others had raised the -body of Simon Heriot from the ground and had laid it -on a table. But Shakespeare bore no part in all this. It -was not that he was callous; it was simply that the sight -of death revolted him.</p> - -<p>After the body had been placed on the table, one and -all waited upon the word of the leader of the enterprise, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>who had devised all that had come to pass. But now -his power seemed to have gone from him. Having done -so much more than he had meant to do, he was as one -overborne by the sense of his deed. He now confronted -his fellow-players haplessly, apparently not knowing what -to do next or what advice to give.</p> - -<p>As it happened, however, all further decision was taken -out of his hands. While one and all stood awaiting that -masterful initiative that was no longer at their service, -the door of the room was opened very stealthily, and two -of the dead man’s servants entered. Each carried a -candle and a fowling-piece.</p> - -<p>Both men were evidently in deadly fear of their lives, -but a sense of duty had prevailed with them over a desire -for personal safety.</p> - -<p>“How, now, you masterless rogues,” said one, who -was the butler, in a voice by no means valiant. “What -do you here?”</p> - -<p>Before it was possible to answer the question, the -antiquated weapon he carried went off with a loud report, -which seemed to make the room rock to its foundations, -and half choked all those in it with the fumes of smoke -and gunpowder. It was the result of accident, certainly -not of design, but a cry arose from among the players.</p> - -<p>“Oh, God!”</p> - -<p>It was the voice of the young man Parflete.</p> - -<p>“Put up your weapons, you fools,” cried Gervase.</p> - -<p>The unlucky Parflete had fallen against the table. -Anxiously they crowded round the man who had been -hit, while the butler and the old serving man who was -with him, seeing their master’s nephew of the company, -laid down their weapons.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span></p> - -<p>The young actor had been hit in the arm. It hung -helpless and bloody by his side. Suddenly he fainted, -and Gervase had only just time enough to catch him in -his arms.</p> - -<p>William Kemp, the famous comedian and creator of -the rôle of <i>Falstaff</i>, who was one of those who had borne -a part in this tragic conspiracy, had the presence of -mind to seize a horn of brandy that was on the table. -Having first, by a free application to his own throat, -been able to satisfy himself that the liquor was capable -of stimulating the heart’s action, he poured a goodly portion -of it down the throat of his wounded comrade.</p> - -<p>There was virtue in this remedy. But the unlucky -young player lay shivering with pain in the arms of -Gervase, while Burbage attended an ugly wound with -considerable skill.</p> - -<p>First he cut away the dripping sleeve of the doublet -with his clasped knife. Then a basin of water was -brought and he bathed the wound, and finally bound -up the arm tightly in a clean handkerchief. But by the -time this had been done, Parflete was again insensible.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, the two servants had discovered that -their master was dead. And the horror of that discovery -was increased by the presence of his nephew, whom -they had presumed to be dead also. Furthermore, they -were not acquainted with the black part their master -had played. Thus their grief and horror were perfectly -sincere.</p> - -<p>The arrival of what certainly appeared to be a lawless -company of lawless and masterless men, had -plunged already the entire household into a state of -alarm. The cries and the noise of firearms had at once -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span>aroused the rest of the indoor servants. In a few minutes, -these had come crowding into the room. And as -soon as they had learned what had occurred, matters -began to take an ugly shape.</p> - -<p>The steward of Simon Heriot, who had now appeared -on the scene, was a man of resolute character. He declared -that he would hold in custody those who had -been responsible for his master’s death, notwithstanding -that one among them was his master’s nephew. Accordingly, -he sent one man to call the outdoor servants; he -sent another to procure a horse from the stables and -ride with all haste to the nearest justice; also he proclaimed -the fact that he would suffer no man to escape.</p> - -<p>In that, perhaps, although his intention was excellent, -he was not wise. The players, including Gervase and -the falconer, mustered nine men in all, against seven -men and four women. To be sure, one of the intruders -was sorely disabled and would require the careful tendance -of his friends if he was to be brought securely -away. But, in the matter of arms, the advantage was -with the players, inasmuch that most of them were -provided with swords, and they had only to fear one -undischarged fowling-piece and divers staves and short -daggers.</p> - -<p>Gervase now took command of affairs. He approached -his uncle’s steward coolly enough, for all that the man -preserved a very threatening attitude with his weapon -pointed ominously at the players.</p> - -<p>“Put it up, you curst fool!” said Gervase, roundly. -“Haven’t you done mischief enough already?”</p> - -<p>“Not half the mischief you have done, sir,” said the -man. “Come not an inch nearer or I——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> - -<p>Before the steward could complete his threat or carry -it into effect, Gervase suddenly struck up his arm. The -piece went off with a tremendous report. This time, -happily, its contents were discharged into the air.</p> - -<p>In the midst of the smoke and the general confusion, -Gervase flung himself upon the steward and, with the -strength and the address of youth, soon wrenched the -clumsy weapon from his hands. Then, with a blow on -the head from the butt of the weapon, he laid the man -insensible.</p> - -<p>“Through the window, my friends,” he cried to his -comrades. “Let us get out of this while we have the -chance.”</p> - -<p>Gervase had now become the leader of the players—for -a time at least. Already he had shown that faculty -of quick initiative which belongs to the man of -action. The others obeyed him instinctively. His swift -decision, and the manner in which his deed leaped with -his thought, showed them clearly enough that they would -do well to follow him.</p> - -<p>Burbage was first through the window. He was a -powerful and active man. He lifted out Parflete bodily -and then, hoisting him on his broad shoulders, began -to run with him in the direction of the horses which -were tethered in the lane. It was well that the wounded -actor was very light of weight.</p> - -<p>Meanwhile, the others were rendering a pretty good -account of themselves. A general mêlée had ensued, in -which blows were given freely and given as freely again. -And in all this, Gervase was foremost. Many shrewd -knocks he delivered with the butt of his weapon, and -one of these undoubtedly saved Shakespeare a broken -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>head. John Markham, the falconer, also did considerable -execution with the flat of his short sword.</p> - -<p>The onfall of the players had been so swift as to take -Simon Heriot’s servants by surprise. And, after all, -the resistance they had to offer was not very stout. -Thus those who had forced so irregular an entry were -soon in excellent shape for making good their escape -by way of the window through which they had come.</p> - -<p>The breach in the casement their entrance had caused -was a large one. And with far less difficulty than they -had reason to expect were they able to withdraw from -the room. Also, they suffered no further casualty beyond -a few ill-directed blows that did them little hurt.</p> - -<p>The dead man’s servants were less fortunate. Several -were laid low, although none of their injuries was serious. -But these early mishaps had killed any desire that might -have lurked in the others to press the conflict beyond -the point of discretion. No very serious effort was made -to impede the flight of Gervase Heriot and his friends, -whom one and all of the dead man’s household honestly -believed had done his uncle to death.</p> - -<p>It was not a difficult matter for the players to reach -their horses which had been left in the lane. Shakespeare, -who was a good horseman, and who had contrived -to be well mounted, had the wounded man lifted -on to the front of his saddle.</p> - -<p>Parflete was still very weak from loss of blood and -the shock of his wound. He was quite unable to take -care of himself. But the playwright was full of solicitude -for the young man. Also it was fortunate that they -both rode light. Shakespeare, although well knit of -figure, was hardly more than a ten stone man.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span></p> - -<p>The horses were soon untethered and their heads -turned in the direction of Oxford. No time was lost -in making for the Crown. It was most likely there -would be the devil to pay for that evening’s tragic work. -The law would certainly be invoked against them; indeed, -already it was in process of being summoned. -As far as the players themselves were concerned, their -chief hope was that none save Gervase Heriot had been -recognized. If that happened to be the case, and the -young man could lie perdu for a few days, the hue -and cry might pass, always provided that no evidence -was forthcoming against the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s -Company.</p> - -<p>Not a word was spoken as they rode to the Crown. -The minds of all were filled with a sense of vague horror. -The sinister trick they had put upon a blood-guilty -man had turned to a grim tragedy. Full many a grisly -scene had these men enacted in the process of their calling. -Full many a scene of pity and terror had the master -mind among them devised. But never in all their -play-acting had they approached the sheer horror of the -human soul which had been tormented so ruthlessly that -night.</p> - -<p>It was in vain they reflected that even with his callous -crime heavy upon him they had not meant to do the man -to death. The world was undoubtedly a better place -for his quittance; it was necessary that his soul should -be wrung to its extremity if an innocent man was to -escape the ax; but let them urge in extenuation all -that was possible, and there was still not one among -them who would ever forget the dreadful thing with -which he had been face to face that night.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> - -<p>As they rode along the moonless lanes in the stifling -silence of a midsummer night, the weird shapes of the -trees far spreading in their heavy leafage seemed to -affront their eyes with phantom shapes. The eerie darkness -that lay like a pall on the fields and woods and the -grim sentinel hedgerows oppressed them almost beyond -endurance.</p> - -<p>Never once did they ease the pace of their horses, -not even to listen for sounds of pursuit. And to more -than one among that band of conspirators, perhaps most -of all to the mind of William Shakespeare, it was a real, -an unspeakable relief when a sudden bend in the dark -road showed two or three fugitive lights twinkling a little -ahead where Oxford lay.</p> - -<p>Luckily, it was not a difficult matter to get through -the city gate. Still, it was necessary to knock up the -porter, who rose from his couch in no civil mood and -asked why virtuous men rode so late. But a gold angel -that was thrown to him reassured him wonderfully.</p> - -<p>They came into the city unmolested. And thus far -there was never a sign of pursuit. But they had a deep -sense of relief when, at last, they turned round by the -Cornmarket and alighted under the oil lamp that had -been kept burning for them before the door of John -Davenant’s hostelry.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">P</span>ARFLETE was put to bed at once, and late as -was the hour a chirurgeon was sent for. He -dressed the wound, and inclined to the opinion -that the limb might be saved. But the injury was so -severe that weeks must pass before the young actor -could hope to appear again in the theater.</p> - -<p>Now this accident and its consequences had filled -Shakespeare with consternation. On the Thursday following, -but six days hence, the new comedy was to be -given by the Queen’s command in Richmond Park. The -chief female character, that of <i>Rosalind</i>, had been written -and designed for this rising young actor. It was -impossible at such short notice to fill his place. There -was no other member of the company who came near -Parflete in fitness for the part. The author felt that -much depended on a graceful, slender and attractive -<i>Rosalind</i>. It was with such a personage ever in his mind -that the play had been composed for the delectation of -an exacting critic.</p> - -<p>The next morning, when the full extent of the calamity -was known, Shakespeare bitterly lamented the -lack of judgment which had allowed Parflete to bear -a part in the perilous transactions of the night before. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span>It was vain to repine, but the playwright would now -have given much to be able to undo this grievous accident.</p> - -<p>There was also another aspect of the case that filled -him with concern. Gervase Heriot had been recognized -by his uncle’s steward. The aid of the law must already -have been invoked. If the young man remained -at the Crown, it was doubtful whether his present -disguise would be a sufficient concealment, and if taken -he would certainly be charged with the murder of his -uncle. Not that that mattered particularly to one already -under sentence of death. But it might matter very much -to those who had associated themselves with the young -man in the harebrained enterprise which had ended so -disastrously.</p> - -<p>Truly the reflections of William Shakespeare were not -of roseate hue this morning. Looking back on the night’s -adventure, it seemed to be as grimly fantastic as a scene -out of one of his own plays. When he had planned the -weird scene that had been enacted to the very letter of -his invention, he had had a very special object in view, -yet he had not looked to the matter to be pushed to that -extremity. It was hardly in human nature to mourn -the occurrence, for the world was undoubtedly well rid -of a bad man. Moreover, the object of the playwright’s -audacious stratagem had been achieved. He held in his -hands a paper, which even if obtained by means so irregular, -was enough to clear Gervase Heriot, always provided -that the Queen could be brought to reconsider his -case. But the feeling now uppermost in the mind of the -dramatist was one of distress. He feared that he had -drawn his companions into one of those sinister transactions<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> -in which no man in that age could afford to be -involved.</p> - -<p>Two things must be done, and they must be done -speedily. It was imperative for the Lord Chamberlain’s -players to leave Oxford at once. And an efficient substitute -for Parflete must be found immediately if the -comedy was to be given in its integrity before the Queen -on the Thursday following.</p> - -<p>In the stress of these urgent matters, the playwright -took counsel of Richard Burbage. That worthy was in -the middle of a substantial if belated breakfast.</p> - -<p>“In the first matter, I agree with you,” he said, upon -hearing what his colleague had to say. “There will be -security for none of us until we are out of Oxford, and -perhaps not even then. As to who is to play <i>Rosalind</i> -now that Parflete is sick, heaven help us but I know -not.”</p> - -<p>“Tarbert might play the part,” said the author of the -comedy. “He has a light womanish voice, but then his -legs do not match and he has no more grace than a -soused mackerel. As I see my sweet <i>Rosalind</i>, she should -be all grace and limberness, all delicacy, tenderness and -fantasy.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I grant you it would be asking too much of Tarbert,” -said the tragedian, addressing himself very seriously -to a quart of ale. “It would be asking too much -of any of us except Parflete. I am afraid, William -Shakespeare, this is going to be a sad detriment to your -play.”</p> - -<p>The playwright agreed.</p> - -<p>“With a good <i>Rosalind</i>,” he said, “the play might pass. -But without a good <i>Rosalind</i>, it is like to be a plaguy -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>poor thing. I confess I had Parflete in my mind from -the first. The lad has not yet had scope for his talent. -He is a youth of most excellent refined wit and very neat -and comely besides. I am sure if Gloriana could but -have seen him as <i>Rosalind</i> to young Warburton’s <i>Celia</i>, -she would have been very well pleased with him.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and with the play, too,” said Burbage. “’Tis -a thousand pities. For between ourselves, my William, -if <i>Rosalind</i> fails us, there is mighty little substance in -our new comedy to set before such an appetite as -Gloriana’s.”</p> - -<p>“That’s true enough,” said the playwright, gloomily. -“And a writer is a fool who leans too heavily on a -single character. Yet I love that sweet saucy quean, but -God help us all if Tarbert plays her.”</p> - -<p>“Would it offend Gloriana if you put on one of your -older pieces?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, accursedly—you know that, Dick, well enough. -It is her whim to have something entirely new as a midsummer -masque, and if she is fobbed off with an old -thing, we shall none of us ever be forgiven.”</p> - -<p>“‘Measure for Measure’ she has not seen.”</p> - -<p>The playwright shook his head.</p> - -<p>“It moves too slow for Gloriana,” he said. “It is too -much the work of the apprentice. And she’d smell out -its weakness before we were half through the first act, -for that crabbed old woman—whom God protect!—has -got the keenest nose in the realm in matters dramatical. -The old harridan is wonderful in some ways.” The tone -of the playwright was more reverent than the words it -expressed.</p> - -<p>“Well, it is a plaguy ill business, William Shakespeare,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> -said the tragedian, again having serious recourse -to his tankard. “A plaguy ill business altogether, -what with this affair of last night, which is very like to -land us all in the Jug, and young Parflete’s hurt, and -now this offence to Gloriana. However, it is a poor -heart that repines. ’Tis all in the great comedy, my -William, ’tis all in the great comedy. Sit ye down, man, -and cut yourself a piece of this most excellent pasty, -and I’ll call the drawer, who shall comfort you with -an honest quart of this right excellent ale.”</p> - -<p>Mr. William Shakespeare, however, had little use just -now for this robust philosophy. Mutton pasties and -tankards of ale did not appeal to him this morning. -Far more serious matters were afoot.</p> - -<p>At this moment, Anne Feversham chanced to enter the -inn parlor. And it was almost as if that sweetly forlorn -figure had been conjured up by the instancy of the poet’s -thoughts. She was still in her boy’s dress. Here was -the natural grace, the delicacy of limb and feature, the -perfect harmony of mind and mansion of the true <i>Rosalind</i>.</p> - -<p>Indeed, that shy and slender grace was the ideal of the -poet’s fancy. He knew now that it was the sight of her -in hawking dress in the tailor’s shop that had set his -mind upon the Forest of Arden. And now her presence -in that room kindled once again the eager mind. An idea -sprang into it; an idea audacious, impulsive, extravagant, -yet not wholly outside the region of the possible.</p> - -<p>If only this creature, all charm and grace, could be -taught to play the part at so short a notice!</p> - -<p>There was no need for the poet to put into words -that which had flashed through his brain. Nay, hardly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span>did he need to look at Richard Burbage for his friend -to read that which was published already in a face so -expressive that it declared his lightest thought.</p> - -<p>“Yes, why not?” said the playwright suddenly, without -context.</p> - -<p>Burbage shook his head. He had a clear perception -of the idea that had kindled the mind of his friend, but -it was hardly to be taken seriously.</p> - -<p>“Why not, I ask you?” said the playwright. “I am -sure there is a ready wit in that face, and if she has -a quick apprehension, there is no reason why she should -not learn the part in a week. Besides,”—the poet began -to pace the room in the stress of the excitement the idea -was generating in his brain—“it would be a means of -bringing her to the Queen’s notice.”</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage, however, lent no countenance to -this fantastic idea. He knew Anne’s tragic story. But -he had a sufficient awe of the Queen’s displeasure to -have a grave regard for the peril of such a course.</p> - -<p>“No, no,” he said, “I pray you dismiss so wild a -thought. No one knows better than you the temper -of the Queen. And if she took this matter amiss, it -would bode as ill for us at it would for Mistress Feversham.”</p> - -<p>But already the idea had sunk deep. The playwright -was alive also to its possibilities from another point of -view. It might prove a means of gaining the Queen’s -sympathies for Gervase Heriot.</p> - -<p>“Dick,” he said, “do not forget that now we hold a -proof of Mr. Heriot’s innocence. And should we adduce -it in the right season, as I have good hope of -doing, there is every reason to suppose that Gloriana, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>who at heart is a just woman, will view the matter tenderly.”</p> - -<p>“I beg leave to differ from you there, William Shakespeare,” -said Burbage. “As far as I can see, there is -precious little reason to believe anything of the kind. -No one has yet fathomed the Queen’s caprices. And -it ill behooves us of all men, who exist by favor of the -public, to be mixed up in treasonable matters. Besides, -after what happened last night I for one have no longer -a stomach for them.”</p> - -<p>The poet, however, was not to be deterred by these -counsels of prudence. His sympathies were too deeply -engaged. He had taken this ill-starred pair to his heart. -Assured that Gervase Heriot was the victim of a callous -conspiracy, he was fully determined not to rest now -until his wrong had been redressed.</p> - -<p>Like Burbage, however, he was fully alive to the peril -of mixing in matters that could so readily be construed -as treason. And none realized more clearly than he the -danger that lurked in any affront to the Queen. Poet -as he was, and a dreamer of dreams, he owed his position -among his fellows primarily to the fact that he was -a remarkably able man of affairs. His was the vision -that could see, the wit that could mold, the tenacious -power of will that could compass the design.</p> - -<p>Thus in spite of his friend’s caution, the playwright -went presently in search of Anne. Ultimately, he found -her in the inn garden sitting by the side of Gervase -Heriot, within the shade of its single yew tree. Taken -by surprise, she had barely time to disengage her arms -from about the young man’s neck, let alone to check the -tears that were flowing down her cheeks.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span></p> - -<p>Gervase, it seemed, was bent on going to London that -day. Now that he had learned Sir John Feversham’s -peril, he felt it impossible to stay longer in hiding. To -do so would surely cause the Constable’s life to be forfeit.</p> - -<p>The player did his best to reassure the young man. -Sir John’s peril was undoubtedly great, but hardly so -immediate as all that. As he had not yet been brought -to his trial, there was hardly reason to suppose that -he would have lost his head six days hence, when the -player would have the ear of the Queen.</p> - -<p>At the same time, Shakespeare agreed that after the -unlucky business of the previous night, Oxford was no -place for any one of them. The sooner they quitted -it the better, since at any moment a hue and cry was -likely to be upon them. A play had to be given at two -o’clock that afternoon by the Lord Chamberlain’s servants. -But Shakespeare had already come to the conclusion -that as soon as it was at an end, the Company would -do well to lose no time in setting out for London.</p> - -<p>The player now proposed that Gervase should keep -his present disguise and return that evening with the -others. Particularly anxious not to lose sight of the -young man, and hoping also to prevent his doing anything -unwise, Shakespeare entreated him to stay with -the Company and accept the hospitality of his lodging on -the Bankside until such time as his case could be brought -to the Queen’s notice.</p> - -<p>Much persuasion was necessary before Gervase could -be brought to accede to this course. But when Shakespeare -gave a solemn promise that he would return to -London that evening, and that he would take care to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>keep well informed of all that related to the position of -Sir John Feversham, the young man gave a reluctant -consent. He would lie in hiding in the player’s lodging in -Southwark, until a favorable moment came to present -his case to the Queen.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare was glad to have obtained this promise -from Gervase Heriot. And he then unfolded the design -that was in his mind. Having referred to Parflete’s accident -and its disastrous effect upon the new comedy which -depended so much on the part that young actor had to -play, the author made so bold as to suggest to Anne -that she should undertake the chief female character in -her boy’s dress. Nature, he said, had equipped her perfectly -for the part of <i>Rosalind</i>, if only she could -learn to play it at so short a notice. Moreover, it -would be a golden opportunity to bring her to the favorable -consideration of the Queen. Would Mistress -Feversham venture upon a task so delicate and so difficult?</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Anne, “I will, indeed, if you think my -doing so may help to save the life of Gervase.”</p> - -<p>She spoke with a candor, a simplicity, a decision which -told the playwright that here was a firm will and a high -courage. And such evidence removed at least half of -the risk he was about to run. One who could take such -a resolve with such a clear determination was not likely -to fail in the critical hour.</p> - -<p>“Mistress,” said Shakespeare, “you shall receive instruction -at once. And if you can make yourself reasonably -perfect in the part by next Thursday, you shall -play before the Queen.”</p> - -<p>Gervase, however, was strongly averse from the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>scheme. Still, the event of the previous night had furnished -signal proof of the player’s wisdom. Such a -design might appear far sought, yet surely not more so -than the one which a few hours ago had been brought to -such a terrible issue.</p> - -<p>Gervase, therefore, was bound to heed the proposal. -And, after all, the most grievous of his many misgivings -were those concerning the fate of Anne herself. In -the event of his own sentence being carried out, she was -determined to die, too. Even if now he went to London -to give himself up, her whole mind was set on accompanying -him. All that dissuasion could do had -failed to move her from that clear design. Wherever -he went she would go with him, even into eternity -itself.</p> - -<p>In the end, it was perhaps the resolved attitude of -Anne that enabled Shakespeare to get his way. And, -after all, if she had the courage to embrace a plan so -desperate, it was hardly for Gervase to dissent.</p> - -<p>And she, it seemed, with a strange faith discerned -some slender hope in it. Such a faith could only spring -out of the depths of her despair. But with the dauntless -courage that had carried her through everything, -she began at once to bring the whole force of her will -to bear on the matter in hand.</p> - -<p>Little as she knew of the man who had made this -singular proposal, she could not remain insensible to his -personality. It appealed to her in a subtle way. This -man, with his gentle voice and face of sad expressiveness, -had masked depths of power that few men and fewer -women were able to resist.</p> - -<p>Thus it was that the luckless fugitives came to yield -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span>themselves to the player’s care. Their pass was desperate, -indeed. Whatever happened now could not -make it worse. God knew, the expedient offered was -forlorn enough, but for the sake of the slender hope -it bore, they would submit themselves entirely to this -man’s hands.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">A</span>S if to lend color to Shakespeare’s fears, he was -soon to hear disquieting news. Finding himself -in the course of the morning in the tavern -parlor, he overheard the conversation of those -assembled there. A sturdy yeoman, it seemed, was -full of information concerning a murder that had -been committed during the night at the Grange, -the house of Mr. Simon Heriot, along the Banbury -Road.</p> - -<p>“They do say that Mr. Heriot himself has had his -throat cut by his own nephew,” said the bearer of the -news.</p> - -<p>“What’s that you say?” sharply interposed a man who -sat in the corner drinking his morning flagon.</p> - -<p>The man was Grisewood. Instantly, he was all attention -and alertness.</p> - -<p>The countryman repeated his story, to be sure with -a number of embellishments that were very wide of -the truth. But the essential fact was there, that Simon -Heriot had been done to death by his nephew in the -course of the previous night.</p> - -<p>Grisewood’s interest was very great. He knew as a -fact that Gervase Heriot was close at hand, and that he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>had a powerful motive for taking even a course so desperate -as the murdering of his uncle.</p> - -<p>“Has the nephew been arrested?” asked Grisewood, -with an excitement he did not attempt to conceal.</p> - -<p>“No, he’s not taken yet,” said the news-bearer. “But -he will be precious soon, else call me a rogue. They -do say that young villain lies here in Oxford, but I’ll -wager Justice Pretyman and his posse will mighty soon -rout him out o’ this home o’ learnin’.”</p> - -<p>“Who the devil is Justice Pretyman?”</p> - -<p>“The Justice is a great man hereabouts. There’s none -better than he at tracking down the evil doer. I passed -him and his men along the road as I came up. They are -going to search every tavern and alehouse in this city -from cellar to attic for this wicked young man, Gervase -Heriot.”</p> - -<p>“Well, here’s luck to their errand,” said Grisewood, -piously, draining his tankard.</p> - -<p>In the next moment, plunged in deep thought, he left -the tavern parlor. Shakespeare soon left the parlor also.</p> - -<p>This news was very disquieting to the player. He was -in such a state of grave uneasiness, that he could have -wished to start from Oxford immediately. But it would -not be possible to do this until the Lord Chamberlain’s -men had given their final performance that afternoon. -Therefore he must possess his soul in patience until that -time, but also he must be fully alive to all contingencies. -Of one circumstance he was ignorant, and well it was -for his peace of mind that this was the case. He did -not know that Grisewood had penetrated the disguise of -the Italian music master.</p> - -<p>Happily, there was no reason to suppose that the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>dead man’s steward had associated the members of the -Lord Chamberlain’s Company with the tragedy of the -previous night. At least, as yet there was no evidence -of this fact. But the playwright felt they must be -prepared for all untoward things that might befall.</p> - -<p>Fortune was kind, inasmuch that the officers of the -law did not pay their visit to the Crown Tavern before -the final performance had taken place. Indeed, as luck -would have it, they went away at first on a false scent -as far as the neighboring town of Banbury, so that by the -time they found their way to the Cornmarket the play -was over, the audience had dispersed, and the members -of the Company were about to sit down to a well-earned -meal.</p> - -<p>As was sometimes their habit in such circumstances, -they had not troubled to change their clothes. The -principal players were thus arrayed with the magnificence -of gallants and courtiers. And a little group of -these sat sunning themselves outside the tavern door, -waiting patiently for the summons to the board within, -when Justice Pretyman and his posse made their long-expected -appearance.</p> - -<p>It was well that Shakespeare had already informed -Burbage and Kemp, and one or two of the others, that -this untoward visit was to be expected. Thus, as soon -as the officers of the law came into view, the quick-witted -playwright was ready to meet the situation.</p> - -<p>A shrewd observer of men and things does not take -long to find out what a man is worth. And a glance -at Justice Pretyman was enough to assure the dramatist -that he might have stood for the prototype of Justice -Shallow.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span></p> - -<p>The magistrate arrived with a number of sheriff’s -men. And he was armed with an authority to enter -and search every likely place in the city and county -of Oxford which might harbor the notorious traitor, -Gervase Heriot, who had not only broken out of prison, -but who had also murdered his uncle the previous -night.</p> - -<p>John Davenant had been told beforehand of Justice -Pretyman’s coming. Therefore he met him at the inn -door. And the demand that a house of such repute -should be searched for so dark a purpose appeared to -fill the heart of the worthy vintner with grief and consternation.</p> - -<p>“You may search my tavern, sir,” he said, “but I -would have you to know that, upon my honor as a -licensed victualler, this is the most reputable tavern betwixt -here and The Pump in Aldgate.”</p> - -<p>“That I don’t doubt, sir,” said Justice Pretyman, with -official asperity.</p> - -<p>He was a pompous, overbearing little man, very conscious -of the dignity to which it had pleased Providence -to call him.</p> - -<p>“As <i>custos rotulorum</i> of this country, as one armed -with the Queen’s authority——”</p> - -<p>“Aye, God protect her,” suddenly interposed a man -who stood by in a voice of fervent piety. “But I would -beg you, sir, to abate all instancy of demeanor and likewise -all of the same on the part of your bumpkins, -whom I doubt not are excellent fellows in the right place -and season, but who at this moment will best serve -the Queen by bearing themselves with all the modesty -they can command.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p> - -<p>The man who had ventured these somewhat haughty -remarks was dressed in a cloak of plum-colored velvet -and a feathered hat, of such style and dimension as is -seldom seen out of a court. He had come up with an -air of nonchalant ease, and had interposed his remarks -in a manner which seemed to claim for them the highest -possible consideration.</p> - -<p>At the opprobrious term “Bumpkin,” it had been on -the tip of Justice Pretyman’s tongue to retort, “Bumpkin -yourself, sir.” He was a hotheaded little man, also -he was vain, also he was very self-important. But he -was thwarted in this natural desire by the very patent -fact that whatever else this haughty personage was, he -was evidently not a bumpkin.</p> - -<p>Now Justice Pretyman was a small gentleman, who -would like to have been thought a great gentleman. And -those who are thus afflicted, however much they may -browbeat their inferiors, however much they may ruffle -it among their equals, are of all men particularly wary -when it comes to a question of their superiors.</p> - -<p>By the courtesy of Providence, it chanced that before -Justice Pretyman was able to make the proper, necessary -and entirely satisfactory rejoinder of “Bumpkin -yourself, sir!” his small, birdlike eye lit upon the plum-colored -cloak and the hat with the feather, and further, -it caught a glimpse of a wonderful doublet of black satin -barred with yellow. Therefore, was his rejoinder reduced -from “Bumpkin yourself, sir!” to “I beg your -pardon, sir,” with as little in the way of asperity and as -much in the way of dignity as he could command.</p> - -<p>The personage in the plum-colored cloak smiled with -a benign gravity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> - -<p>“If you are upon the Queen’s business, sir,” he said, -“heaven forefend that I of all men should come between -you and your high and honorable occasions. But, to -be plain with you, I am bound to say you and your -ragged robins have come here in a plaguy ill season.”</p> - -<p>“Od’s life, sir!”</p> - -<p>The hand of Justice Pretyman strayed involuntarily -to the hilt of his sword. But again his eye caught the -plum-colored cloak, and he thought the better of the -matter.</p> - -<p>“I have written and signed authority,” he said, “to -search this house for one Gervase Heriot, a notorious -traitor, and that is a course I am determined to follow.”</p> - -<p>The man in the plum-colored cloak lowered his voice.</p> - -<p>“If such is your intention, sir, by all means pursue -it,” he said. “But, before you do so, there is a matter -of grave concern with which you will do well to make -yourself acquainted. Perhaps, Master Davenant”—he -turned to the innkeeper—“you will have the goodness -to inform this gentleman of the matter in question?”</p> - -<p>Mine host demurred in a manner of obsequious reverence.</p> - -<p>“God forbid, sir, that I should expound the matter -to the worshipful justice when you yourself are by,” he -said, in a tone of awe.</p> - -<p>“As you will,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak. -“The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, turning to -Justice Pretyman, who by this time was fully primed for -some startling announcement, “a certain lady who is of -the highest—I may say of the very highest—consideration -has just arrived at this inn on her way to the north, -and is lying here one night.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span></p> - -<p>Justice Pretyman nodded with the gravity of a man -who fully grasps the significance of such a piece of news.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, sir,” he said. “Is that the case? And may -I presume, sir, to ask the name of this personage?”</p> - -<p>The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a finger to his -lip.</p> - -<p>“Forgive me, Master Prettyfellow,” he said, “but your -style and assemblance assure me that you are not unacquainted -with the Court. Correct me if I err.”</p> - -<p>Justice Pretyman did not correct him.</p> - -<p>“And that being the case, I have the less compunction -in withholding the name of the high personage who, at -this moment, sheds upon this humble roof-tree the lively -radiance of her presence. Master Prettyfellow, you take -me, I trow and trust. You understand me, Master Prettyfellow?” -The man in the plum-colored cloak laid a confidential -hand upon the Justice’s sleeve.</p> - -<p>“By God’s life, I take you, sir.” A subtle but delightful -sense of flattery had been engendered in the little -peacock’s brain. “That is, I think I take you. It is—that -is—she is—”</p> - -<p>The man in the plum-colored cloak checked the threatened -indiscretion of Justice Pretyman with an uplifted -and much-bejeweled hand.</p> - -<p>“For heaven’s sake, Master Prettyfellow!” He gazed -around him apprehensively. “We are in danger of being -overheard.”</p> - -<p>For this surmise, the man in the plum-colored cloak -had full warrant without a doubt. Others, attired with -a flamboyance and a glitter that went well with his own, -were standing a little apart. And their almost excessive -gravity of manner could not disguise the fact that they -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>had both ears and eyes for all that was going forward.</p> - -<p>There was one, however, who watched this play with -a sour smile. He was a man more sober in dress, but -whose attire was yet that of a person of quality. He -stood quite apart from all the rest, and carried his arm -in a sling. The look on his face clearly showed that -he, too, had ears and eyes for all that was taking place. -Moreover, he stroked his chin with an air of grim but -deeply pensive satisfaction.</p> - -<p>“If you are determined to have search made of this -tavern, Master Prettyfellow,” said the man in the plum-colored -cloak, “it is not for me to gainsay you. But I -am sure you will readily understand how necessary it -is that this matter should be pursued with the utmost -decorum.”</p> - -<p>“Sir, that I do promise,” said Justice Pretyman.</p> - -<p>“That is well,” said the man in the plum-colored cloak, -“with the utmost decorum. And as I understand, you -have figured at Court, Master Prettyfellow”—here the -voice was raised to a level that drew the attention of -the group near by—“And, as I understand, you have -figured at Court, Master Prettyfellow”—the words were -impressively repeated.</p> - -<p>“You may take it, sir, that I have.” The tone of Justice -Pretyman was full of dignity.</p> - -<p>“I am very glad indeed to hear that.” The man in -the plum-colored cloak spoke with a sudden accession of -feeling. “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear that. -Now there will not be the least difficulty about the whole -matter. I will send in your name at once to this most -distinguished lady, who must remain without one. My -lord——”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> - -<p>George Taylor and William Kemp, arrayed in the -robes of the theater, stepped forward together in answer -to this summons. Such zeal, however, in nowise -embarrassed the man in the plum-colored cloak.</p> - -<p>“My lord duke”—he turned to William Kemp—“will -you have the good kindness to take in the name of Master -Prettyfellow——”</p> - -<p>“Pretyman,” corrected the justice, beginning, however, -to perspire freely.</p> - -<p>The officious provincial was not a little uncertain as -to the ground upon which he stood. Judging by the demeanor -of these gayly-attired gentlemen and the high -tone that went with it, he began to fear that the Queen -herself had arrived at the Crown Tavern. And his vanity -having allowed him to claim a familiarity with the -Court when he had never been there in his life, he had -merely to be received in audience by her to incur the -risk of a grave exposure.</p> - -<p>“One moment, sir,” he said, desperately. “If this -unknown lady is the high personage I take her to be, I -have no desire——”</p> - -<p>But William Kemp, in his ducal trappings, was already -away on his errand.</p> - -<p>Justice Pretyman felt the situation to be growing desperate. -And, to make matters worse, the man in the -cloak was fain to misread his attitude of mind.</p> - -<p>“I have not the least doubt, sir,” he said, “that if this -lady—whom we shall both do well not to name more -explicitly—is informed that you are familiar with the -Court, she will gladly give you an audience, although -you must please remember she travels incognito.”</p> - -<p>By this time Justice Pretyman was fully convinced -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>that it was the Queen herself who was lying one night -at the Crown Tavern.</p> - -<p>“You mistake me, sir,” he said, desperately. “I never -said that I was familiar with the Court.”</p> - -<p>“You never said you were familiar with the Court, -sir!” The man in the plum-colored cloak was the picture -of polite indignation. “But, ods my life, sir! this -is a very grave matter.”</p> - -<p>Justice Pretyman thought so, too. At least, his perspiring -red face belied him if he did not.</p> - -<p>“How I wish, sir,” said the man in the plum-colored -cloak, “you had had the grace to make yourself more explicit. -This lady is a bad one to cross, as all the world -very well knows.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” said Justice Pretyman, -beginning already to wish himself well out of the -affair.</p> - -<p>The richly caparisoned figure of William Kemp -emerged with slow dignity from the tavern interior. He -bent to the ear of the man in the plum-colored cloak. -A good deal of confidential whispering followed, of which -Justice Pretyman could only catch the ominous words, -“Her Grace.”</p> - -<p>But it was the man in the plum-colored cloak who -addressed the uneasy magistrate.</p> - -<p>“The fact of the matter is, sir,” he said, “this lady -does not remember your name, but she hopes she may -remember your face. She is not unwilling to grant you -an audience of five minutes, but—strictly between ourselves—if -you will take the advice of a friend, you will -think twice before you run any risk of incurring her -august displeasure.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span></p> - -<p>Justice Pretyman’s mind certainly seemed to recognize -the wisdom of this sage counsel. And the result of -a very little deliberation on his part was that he gathered -his men and made off down the street with the least -possible delay, leaving the members of the Lord Chamberlain’s -Company to enjoy the triumph of their audacity.</p> - -<p>To be sure, they little knew on how slender a thread -it hung. Not ten yards from them, during the whole -time in which this comedy had been played, a man stood -marking sourly every phase of the proceedings. He -could have undone them with a word.</p> - -<p>The word, however, was not spoken. Grisewood -judged the hour to be not yet. Still, he had marked -very closely all that had passed. And he had been at -pains to make himself fully acquainted with the matter in -all its details. There and then, he could have laid his -finger on the man these blundering rustics sought. But -that would not have suited his purpose at the moment. -For he was too astute not to realize the immense advantage -his knowledge gave him, and far too cunning -not to be fully determined to take some high profit out -of it.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">N</span>O time was lost now in moving out of Oxford. -Within an hour of Justice Pretyman’s visit, the -Lord Chamberlain’s men were on their way to -London. They were accompanied by Gervase and Anne, -who were still disguised as the Italian music master -and his son, and also by the falconer, John Markham. -None of them was aware that, less than a mile behind, -rode Sir Robert Grisewood and his two servants.</p> - -<p>The players traveled that night as far as Reading, -where they lay, and reached Southwark without misadventure -in the course of the following afternoon, which -was Sunday. Shakespeare felt a keen sense of relief -when he had placed the fugitives in the comfort and -security of his lodgings on the Bankside, which he shared -with his friend Burbage.</p> - -<p>The tragedian, on his own part, it must be confessed, -was terrible uneasy of mind. He knew the situation -to be one of great peril and difficulty. And he viewed -with a feeling little short of horror Shakespeare’s determination -to concern himself with a matter of high treason. -He had a deep pity for the fugitives, but he felt -how futile and how perilous it was for men such as -themselves to mingle in their sinister affairs.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p> -<p>Parflete had been left at Oxford, as he was in no -condition to travel. And over the question of a substitute -for that unlucky young actor, the author and the -manager came to the verge of a quarrel. Shakespeare -kept to his determination that Anne should play <i>Rosalind</i> -in the new comedy, while Burbage affirmed that -it was contrary to all precedent and was courting disaster.</p> - -<p>In spite of this, however, the author began at once -to instruct Anne in the part. And she brought to her -study a keenness of grasp and a quickness of apprehension -that delighted her mentor. Her progress was very -rapid under his wise guidance. In two days, she was -almost word perfect. Moreover, she discovered a natural -faculty for acting which she shared in common with -her sex. All her gestures were simple, unforced, appropriate; -and her bearing had an ease and grace that -Parflete himself could not have equaled.</p> - -<p>The author was delighted. It was in vain that Richard -Burbage shook his head and indulged in all manner -of dark prophecy. Here was the perfect <i>Rosalind</i>. Besides, -there lay behind this project a higher and deeper -motive than even the pleasuring of the first lady in the -land.</p> - -<p>Never for an instant was there absent from a noble -and humane mind an intense desire to serve these hapless -children of destiny. William Shakespeare was determined -at all hazards to arouse the Queen’s interest -on their behalf, and if possible to excite her pity. Yet -none knew better than this supreme judge of human kind -the peril and the difficulty of such a task. The Queen -was a woman of dangerous and vindictive temper.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> - -<p>But Shakespeare was pledged to do all that lay in his -power to save the lives of these fugitives. Burbage -and Kemp and Heming, and others of his colleagues, -might be full of alarm for the consequences likely to -attend his interference, but they were powerless to turn -him from his purpose. The matter had become a point of -honor with him now.</p> - -<p>In accordance with the promise made to Gervase, -Shakespeare kept himself fully informed in regard to -Sir John Feversham. On the morning following his return -to London, the playwright went to Greenwich to -the Queen’s palace, and there sought an interview with -a man with whom he was on terms of intimacy, who held -high office in the Royal Household. From him he learned -that the Constable was held a close prisoner in the Tower, -that the Court of Star Chamber had condemned him -already to the block, but that there was good reason -to believe the sentence would not be carried out for -another week at least, since Cecil, the Queen’s all-powerful -minister, felt it was not a case for undue haste.</p> - -<p>The high official with whom William Shakespeare conferred -shook his head sadly over the whole matter. It -was very ugly, he said, and was strongly inclined to -deprecate the player’s interest in it. He gave him a -word of advice. Let him dismiss the subject from his -thoughts as soon as possible. It was one of those dark -things in which no man who set a value upon his life -and liberty could afford to concern himself.</p> - -<p>The man to whom this excellent advice was given well -knew that it was sound enough. But he was pledged -too deeply; besides, he was not a man to count the cost. -He bore the news back to Gervase, who was fretting out -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span>his heart in his hiding-place in the player’s lodging on the -Bankside, and told him he could possess his soul in patience, -at least, until Thursday.</p> - -<p>The three intervening days were fraught with much -anxiety for Shakespeare. The fate of the new comedy -hung in the balance. The absence of Parflete from the -cast was felt by all, except the author himself, to be an -irreparable blow to its prospects. And the announcement -that the all-important part of <i>Rosalind</i> was to be intrusted -to one who had absolutely no experience of the -theater filled the other players with dismay.</p> - -<p>Burbage alone knew the true identity of the Italian -music master’s son. And even in such a crisis as this, -he was too loyal to his friend to make others a party -to his knowledge. But the great actor was sorely uneasy. -His misgivings were many, not only as to the fate -of the comedy, but also as to that of the author himself, -now that he had taken this unlucky resolve to concern -himself with treason.</p> - -<p>A rehearsal of the play was called for Tuesday afternoon. -And here a surprise awaited those who were -prophesying disaster. Complete tyro as the young Signor -Arrigo was known to be, his impersonation of <i>Rosalind</i> -showed a most surprising talent. Anne had been strung -up to a high pitch of excitement. She brought all her -high courage and her quick woman’s faculties to bear -upon the task and the result was far beyond all expectation. -There was no denying such grace, such beauty, -such natural aptitude. Not once did she falter in her -lines. And then the voice was so clear and musical, that -it might have been that of <i>Rosalind</i> herself.</p> - -<p>Indeed, had not the other players known the new -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span><i>Rosalind</i> to be the Italian music master’s son, they must -have been convinced that she was a woman! They were -bound to agree with the author that young Signor Arrigo -was born to play the part. And their spirits rose accordingly. -Even the staunchest adherents of Parflete were -compelled to admit that fortune had provided them with -a substitute of quite remarkable powers. That gifted -young player himself could not have surpassed the new -<i>Rosalind</i>.</p> - -<p>It was only promise, to be sure. Let them withhold -the verdict until Thursday. These were men of experience, -who knew that the happy augury of the rehearsal -was not always borne out by the performance -itself. But they were put in excellent heart by the brilliant -aptitude of the young Signor Arrigo, which so far -transcended their expectations. John Heming, one of the -Company’s managers, a man of parts with a well-developed -faculty of criticism, was particularly delighted. He -had never seen such a precocious genius for the stage. -And he could not help admiring the perspicacity which -had enabled the author to take a step so bold, which had -led to a discovery of such importance.</p> - -<p>All now promised well for the momentous day. If the -new <i>Rosalind</i> fulfilled the promise of the first rehearsal, -there need be no fears for the success of the piece. The -author had yet to know failure. It was true the subject-matter -of the new comedy might be flimsy enough, -but Burbage and Heming declared, and these were men -of ripe judgment, that it had all the qualities which had -made the playwright famous.</p> - -<p>Still, before that fateful Thursday dawned, there happened -a sinister thing. Late in the evening of Wednesday,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> -Shakespeare returned alone to his lodgings. He had -been ceaselessly occupied during the day with the final -preparations for the morrow. Everything was now in -readiness for the journey to Richmond, a few hours -hence. The playwright was feeling dog-tired and had a -longing for rest, as he turned the key in the door of his -dwelling.</p> - -<p>He was surprised to find a light showing through the -shutters of the little parlor in which he wrote and read. -The room, it was true, had been placed at the service -of Heriot and Mistress Feversham. But the hour was so -late, that he had supposed they had retired long ago to -their rest.</p> - -<p>As a matter of fact, this was the case. But when the -playwright entered the parlor, he found a man sitting -there in expectation of his arrival. It was a warm evening -of July, but the face and the form of the visitor -were hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak.</p> - -<p>The unbidden guest, whoever he might be, received -Shakespeare coolly enough. He did not even take the -trouble to rise from his chair when the poet came into -the room, but merely held up his hand as if to imply -a need of caution and secrecy, and then in a tone of -studied insolence told him to close the door.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare was quick to recognize the voice of his -visitor. The man was Sir Robert Grisewood.</p> - -<p>“To what is due this honor?” said the poet with a -courtesy that was deeply ironical.</p> - -<p>He knew well enough that his visitor was not likely -to be inspired by any good motive. But long ago he -had taken the measure of the man, and he did not fear -him in the least. Indeed, for that matter, he feared no -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span>man, but with that prudence which springs from an intimate -knowledge of the world, he was at once upon his -guard.</p> - -<p>“You do well to ask that question, my friend,” said -Grisewood, unmuffling his face in order that Shakespeare -not only might see it, but that he might also be disconcerted -by the sight of it.</p> - -<p>“What is your business with me, Sir Robert Grisewood?” -said Shakespeare, coldly and contemptuously.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you.” The eyes of the unwelcome visitor -were full of menace. “I will tell you in a very few -words, good Master Actor and Versifier. Your precious -life is not worth five minutes’ purchase.”</p> - -<p>The dramatist was wholly unaffected by the announcement.</p> - -<p>“That may be so,” he said, coldly. And he gave his -shoulders a shrug, which implied that the information -was of very little consequence.</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell you why it is not?”</p> - -<p>“As you please.”</p> - -<p>“Well, to be brief and round with you, good Master -Poet, the whole of your doings, your exits and your -entrances, as you would say, of the past fortnight are -perfectly well known to me. And I would fain inform -you that, at this moment, you are harboring under this -roof the notorious traitor, Gervase Heriot, and also the -young daughter of Sir John Feversham, who conspired -with him to break prison.”</p> - -<p>Grisewood had the air of one who looses a thunderbolt. -But if he looked for the dire effect, which may -reasonably be expected to attend such a Jove-like feat, -he must have been sadly disappointed. The man to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span>whom his words were addressed showed not the least -sign of fear.</p> - -<p>“All that you say is true enough,” said the playwright, -“if it is any satisfaction to you to know it.”</p> - -<p>“Make your mind easy on that score, my friend,” -said Grisewood sourly. “It is a very considerable satisfaction -to me to know it.”</p> - -<p>“And I presume you would gain a profit from your -knowledge?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Master Actor, to be brief and round with you, -that is certainly my intention. And further, I would -inform you that the reward I have in my mind is not -one to be despised. Because you will do well to understand -that I have ample evidence to implicate you and -your fellow-players in the murder of my friend, Mr. -Simon Heriot, who was foully done to death in his own -house in the course of last Friday night.”</p> - -<p>“In other words, Sir Robert Grisewood,” said Shakespeare, -with a biting coldness that seemed to exasperate -his visitor, “you propose to take profit from the murder -of your friend.”</p> - -<p>“Have a care, you ranting, play-acting swine!”</p> - -<p>Although one hand of the bully was done up in bandages, -the other instinctively sought the hilt of his sword. -But this action did nothing to modify the stern contempt -of the actor.</p> - -<p>“You are here, Sir Robert Grisewood, to seek a price -for your silence?”</p> - -<p>The tone seemed to bite like an acid.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my friend, that assumption is a true one, and I -propose to fix just as heavy a price as you can afford -to pay. And as I understand your penny peep-show -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>tricks are making you a fortune, the sum I intend to -exact shall not be unworthy of your figure in the -world.”</p> - -<p>“Name it.”</p> - -<p>“What do you say to the sum of a thousand pounds, -good Master Playwright and maker of verses?”</p> - -<p>Less of disdain than of pity entered the face of the -poet.</p> - -<p>“The sum seems little enough,” he said, “for the deed -it would purchase.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, little enough, Master Moralist, as you say, but -still a fairly substantial figure for those who have to -earn it by the sweat of their brains. And, of course,” -Grisewood added with an ugly sneer, “other opportunities -may arise of adding to the price of my silence, since you -incline to think it too little.”</p> - -<p>“I think it neither too little nor too much,” said the -playwright. “For, to be as frank with you, Sir Robert, -as you have been with me, I care so little for your -silence, that I would not stoop to buy it if even a single -word were its price.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, then, my friend, you shall hang at Tyburn.”</p> - -<p>The blackmailer rose from his chair.</p> - -<p>“I promise you,” he said, and his eyes were those of -a beast of prey, “my first business to-morrow shall be -to seek out my Lord Burleigh. The whole of the information -I possess shall be laid before him, and you can -depend upon it, my friend, you and your infernal company, -upon being lodged in jail as soon as your precious -interlude has been performed before the Queen. It will -be a pleasant guerdon to look forward to, will it not?”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span></p> -<p>Grisewood realized already that his choice scheme had -fallen to the ground. He saw at once that he had -counted on too much. He had looked for an easy prey. -This highly strung, emotional temperament would yield -readily to his threats. It would be easy enough to -frighten the very life out of what was doubtless a craven’s -heart.</p> - -<p>The knowledge that he was now free to do his worst, -and that in Shakespeare’s opinion the worst he could -do was of such little account as to be a subject of his open -scorn, filled him with fury. Also he was amazed at the -utter indifference of the fellow. He had the power, as he -firmly believed, to take away this man’s life, and yet this -half hackney-writer, half merry-andrew was too proud -to sue for his life with civility, let alone to pay for it -with current coin of the realm.</p> - -<p>Grisewood withdrew with a snarl and a sneer. The -morrow should see them all lodged in “The Jug.” Within -a month from that day, he would answer for it that the -noose should be round their necks.</p> - -<p>He swaggered out of the house on to the Bankside. -Here his two servants joined him, for at that hour of -the night it was unsafe for any man to be abroad unattended. -Thinking his ugly thoughts, he walked slowly -in the direction of the Falcon stairs. There he hailed -the waterman, who was awaiting him with a wherry to -bear him to his own lodging in a more aristocratic quarter -of the town.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE morning of the great day broke mistily, with -a promise of summer glory. Poor unhappy -Anne, lodged in a cool and clean chamber overlooking -the river, was awake at the first peep of -dawn. Her few hours of sleep had been terribly disturbed. -She awoke with a start and sprang out of -bed as soon as the light touched her eyelids. Only too -well did she know that further sleep would not be for -her.</p> - -<p>Yes, the dread day was come. It might be the last -she would know of liberty. Nay, it was most likely. -And it was the day on which the fate of Gervase would -be irrevocably sealed.</p> - -<p>She dare not give her mind to the grim matter, which, -asleep or awake, encompassed it. Dressing in a fever -of haste, as if she feared to be overtaken by the thoughts -she dare not face, she went out of doors into the keen -morning air. She walked up and down by the banks of -the mist-enveloped river, and in the hope of composing -her over-wrought mind, she began to repeat the lines of -her part.</p> - -<p>Suddenly she was aware that a figure was emerging -dimly from the mists ahead. It was that of a man. A -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>moment afterwards she had recognized the author of -“As You Like It.”</p> - -<p>The playwright came toward her. He too had slept -but little. And in that somber and wonderful face was -a haggard weariness that made the soul of the girl recoil. -It was the face of a man besieged and tormented by a -thousand devils; of a man who had never known a moment -of peace in this life, and who hardly looked to -know it in the life to come.</p> - -<p>Not so much as a word of greeting passed between -them. But as the player saw the face of young and -delicate fairness, seared already by the anguish of the -soul, he placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder with a gentleness -of pity that meant very much more than speech.</p> - -<p>“Be of good courage, mistress,” that gesture seemed -to say.</p> - -<p>Without speaking a word, the player passed on like a -wraith into the mists that hung as a pall upon the river.</p> - -<p>Gervase also was early abroad. He too had slept -little. Seated at the window of his room, brooding -with a sick heart on the chances of his fate, he had -seen Anne go forth, so that presently he followed her.</p> - -<p>For long enough they walked together, and for the -last time as they believed. A few hours hence all would -be decided. And in their hearts their hope of life and -perhaps their desire of it was very slender.</p> - -<p>Their sufferings of the past few weeks had been bitter. -This morning they were overborne. Whatever fate held -in store for them now they felt they had reached the -nadir of the soul.</p> - -<p>Soon after nine o’clock that morning the Lord Chamberlain’s -servants embarked in two of the royal barges -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>that had been placed at their disposal. The progress -was slow but comfortable, and by noon of a glorious -July day they had come to the palace at Richmond. All -the players, with one exception, from the most important -to the humblest member of the Company, betrayed -evidences of anxiety and nervousness. William Shakespeare -alone was so cool and collected that the occasion -might have been of the most ordinary kind.</p> - -<p>Those few among the players who shared the dark -secret which was to make this day so memorable in -the life of the author of the new comedy, were astonished -by a calmness that was to them unnatural. -And they could not help marveling how a man whose -very life depended on the whim of a harsh-tempered -and capricious woman should be able to mask his -thoughts and to control his feelings in a manner so remarkable.</p> - -<p>The terraces of the palace which overlooked the beautiful -park in which it stood were thronging already with -a mob of gallants and court ladies. Their wonderful -clothes gave a very second-rate air to the tawdry finery -affected by most of the players. Even the cloak of -Shakespeare himself erred a little, but that was on the -side of modesty.</p> - -<p>One young fop was quick to turn this fact to account. -Having a reputation for wit, and being surrounded by -those in whose eyes he had an ambition to shine, he -gravely accosted the actor. He removed his plumed hat -with a sweeping gesture and made a low bow.</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in a loud voice -which attracted general notice. “Pray excuse the liberty -I take in addressing you, but I admire the style of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>your cloak so much that I would fain ask the name of -your tailor.”</p> - -<p>In spite of the audible tittering of fine ladies and the -delighted guffaws of gallant gentlemen, the playwright -showed the perfect unconcern of one who has his own -private standard of men and things. He did not reply, -but quietly looked the impertinent coxcomb up and down -as if he were a new species of animal with whom he was -not yet acquainted.</p> - -<p>The fop was nettled by this nonchalance.</p> - -<p>“Well, sir?” he said impudently. “Give me your tailor’s -name I pray you, in order that I may have the great -felicity of taking the air in a cloak exactly its fellow.”</p> - -<p>The playwright shook his head with an air of polite -deprecation.</p> - -<p>“I have too kindly a feeling toward an honest craftsman,” -he said.</p> - -<p>“God’s death, sir! what do you mean?”</p> - -<p>“I mean, sir,” said the player, “that I would not like -so good a fellow to run the double risk of a bad debt and -an even worse advertisement.”</p> - -<p>A roar of laughter followed from those who had gathered -at the pleasant prospect of a little player-baiting -by an accredited wag. Many there were about the Court -who were by no means well-disposed toward players in -general. These actors were claiming far too much attention -from those in high places. Their continually growing -favor was beginning to be a matter of concern to -those whose own existence depended so largely on the -indulgence of the great.</p> - -<p>But the fop was completely taken aback by the player’s -rejoinder. For the moment he did not know how to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>reply. He had not expected to be held up to ridicule -in that place of all others by an humble individual who -had not the least pretensions to fashion. But the laugh -had gone against him heavily. And being in reality a dull -and commonplace fellow enough, in the end he took -refuge in round abuse of “those common jays who would -peacock it among their betters.”</p> - -<p>“Pray, my lord, on what ground do you hold yourself -to be the superior of this gentleman?” suddenly -interposed a harsh and imperious voice.</p> - -<p>It was the voice of the Queen. The group of gallants -and fine ladies had been too much occupied with the -sport that was afoot to notice who it was who had come -into their midst.</p> - -<p>My lord’s confusion was great. And it was not made -less by the look of sour disdain which animated the features -of his sovereign.</p> - -<p>This old raddled woman in farcical clothes and an -auburn wig was by no means a fool. She had lived too -long in the world and had mingled too freely with the -very best the age had to give not to be an uncommonly -shrewd judge of things and men. She had the -rough commonsense which is a far better equipment -than subtlety when it comes to dealings with human -nature.</p> - -<p>“Well, my lord, on what grounds I ask you?”</p> - -<p>“On the ground of birth, your grace,” said the fop, -who by now had time to collect himself a little.</p> - -<p>The Queen’s lip curled contemptuously.</p> - -<p>“A man who takes refuge in that,” she said, “can have -little merit of his own, my lord. And to my mind a man -is twice a fool who, being born to opportunity, can turn -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>it to no better advantage. How say you, Master Shakespeare?”</p> - -<p>“There are those who hold, your grace,” said the -player in his deep and musical voice, “that it is better -to be a fool of pedigree than to be a sage without gules -or quarterings.”</p> - -<p>The Queen laughed. But the ready independence of -the player’s answer pleased her as much as it surprised -her courtiers. There was not one among them who -would have ventured it. There was not one among them -who was not unduly eager to acquiesce in any opinion -that might be expressed by this august lady.</p> - -<p>It was not the Queen’s habit to unbend easily. She -held the exaggerated Tudor view of the status of the -sovereign. Her court was expected to approach her -on bended knee and there were many supple backs in -consequence. But there was not a trace of the sycophant -about this man who conversed with her as modestly, -as readily and as easily as he would have done -with a lounger in a tavern. And while the gallants and -fine ladies were not a little shocked by the unaffectedness -of the man’s bearing and marveled not a little -that one so august should bestow so much notice upon a -common play-actor, the Queen, on the other hand, seemed -almost to forget for the moment the dizzy eminence to -which it had pleased Providence to call her.</p> - -<p>The truth was she dearly loved what she called “a -man.” And this was a scarce commodity in the exotic -atmosphere which surrounded Elizabeth Tudor. Few -there were who dared to hold opinions of their own, -let alone to advance them with the unstudied assurance -of this man of lowly calling, who was yet not wholly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span>unmindful of the fact that he was absolute monarch -of an empire more imperial than Gloriana’s own.</p> - -<p>To be sure, none of those present realized that fact. -Nor was it realized by the Queen herself. Her mind -was strong and shrewd rather than deep and subtle. It -was the player’s independence of judgment and the -clear yet perfectly modest and simple manner by which -he gave it expression which made such an appeal to her.</p> - -<p>It was a sad sight for many an astonished and resentful -eye to observe the Queen and the man “Shakescene”—it -is a foible of the great to affect a becoming -uncertainty in regard to the names of humbler mortals—walking -quite apart from all the rest, up one alley -and down another, talking and laughing heartily upon -terms which perilously approached equality. What the -Queen’s majesty had in common with the merry-andrew -in the barred cloak passed the comprehension of all. -But the harsh and strident laugh of the royal lady, not -unworthy of a raven with a sore throat, could be heard -continually. Many a diligent courtier who had spent -the flower of his years in waiting humbly upon the -Queen’s pleasure without having anything very substantial -in the way of preferment to show for it, was cut -to the soul.</p> - -<p>And it was not here that the scandal ended. A little -later when the Queen dined a place was set for the man -Shakescene at her own table. And many a lisping, lily-white -gentleman narrowly observed the demeanor of this -upstart whose homely style and unaffected air offered -so wide a target for their criticism.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">B</span>Y two o’clock that afternoon all was in readiness -for the performance of the new comedy before -Gloriana and her Court. A pavilion had been -raised in the middle of one of the great lawns, in order -that the spectators might be shielded from the sunshine -which beat fiercely from a cloudless July heaven. At the -edge of the lawn was a thicket of fine trees and heather, -a veritable Forest of Arden in miniature. From the -depths of this glade emerged the performers in this woodland -pastoral.</p> - -<p>It was a great ordeal for Anne. On an occasion of far -less importance she might have been overcome by fear. -But now she was strung up almost to the breaking point. -So grave was her pass and so much was at stake that a -supreme call was made upon her will. And she responded -nobly. No human being could have exercised a greater -power of mind or brought a finer resolution to bear upon -her task.</p> - -<p>The success of the play was never in doubt. To begin -with it was one of the Queen’s “good days.” At this -time Elizabeth was past sixty. And a temper which was -not particularly mild even in the heydey of its youth had -grown severe. But even this old and sour woman could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>not remain insensible to the wit and poetry of this new -“interlude,” performed with the highest skill and grace in -charmingly appropriate surroundings.</p> - -<p>The Queen made no pretensions to literary taste as did -King James, her successor. But she knew what she liked. -And her untutored but extremely shrewd faculty seldom -led her astray. There were those, and Heming and Burbage -had been among them, who had been inclined to deplore -the fact that the author had not prepared stronger -food for Gloriana’s palate. A play of delicacy and fantasy, -all lightness and grace, would surely miss the mark. -She who had held her sides at the broad humors of -<i>Juliet’s</i> nurse and of <i>Hostess Quickly</i> would hardly appreciate -the melancholy <i>Jacques</i>, <i>Touchstone</i> and above -all, the subtle charm of <i>Rosalind</i>.</p> - -<p>But this was not the case. Those finely accomplished -actors, William Kemp and Richard Burbage, had very -wisely been intrusted with the two chief male characters. -To be sure, it was hardly Nature’s design that they should -interpret them, but players of their genius dignify and -embellish every rôle for which they are cast. The noble -voice, the manly bearing, the persuasive ease of style, -that choicest fruit of many a victory hardly won, tells -just as surely in a whimsical impersonation a little away -from the main lines of human development, as in the -delineation of some incomparably drawn world figure -such as <i>Hamlet</i>, <i>Falstaff</i>, <i>Lear</i>.</p> - -<p>Unaided, these great men would have carried through -a weaker play. And yet they did but serve as a kind of -heavy relief, a somber frame for the central figure. -<i>Rosalind</i> has stood for three centuries as the symbol of -womanhood in its youthful glory. That embodiment of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>the divinity of girlhood still remains without a peer. And -none could have given it more powerful, more appealing -expression than Anne Feversham.</p> - -<p>From the moment the slight figure came out of the -depths of the forest and spoke her first magic lines in a -voice as clear as a bell, a hush seemed to fall upon all. -The occupants of the pavilion, no less than the humbler -spectators who were privileged to sit upon the grass were -spellbound. The tall figure, trim and slender, yet exquisite -in outline, looked a little gaunt, a little fine-drawn -in its close-fitting boy’s dress. The eyes shone out of the -pale face with a luster that fascinated those the least sensitive -to beauty. And the voice thrilling with a nameless -music ravished ears which knew it not for a cadence -borne upon the long night of the soul.</p> - -<p>In that great and gallant company, however, were those -who had eyes to see and ears to hear. And when all -was said, the Queen was foremost among them. Harsh, -crabbed, difficult, narrow, insensible to many things as she -was to the very end of that long life that was now so near -its close, she retained her force of judgment and her -power of seeing things in their true relation. <i>Rosalind</i> -spoke to her; spoke to her not in her capacity as the -sovereign of a great people, but of that even more -sacred, more universal thing, which every woman verging -upon seventy has once been herself. Of a sudden -the raddled old cheeks were wet.</p> - -<p>Men, too, were spellbound. Cecil, Raleigh, Pembroke, -Southampton and many others almost equally famous -were gazing upon that scene. These were first-rate minds, -and in all ages, in all countries, the eternal verities address -them in the same way. Sir Fopling knew that the Queen -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span>was weeping, and was amazed that she should not have -more regard for the havoc of her cheeks; Cecil knew -why she was weeping and held her so much more a Queen.</p> - -<p>Anne was strung to the breaking point. And not the -Queen, and not the Lord Treasurer, with all their power -of mind, knew that. Richard Burbage and William -Kemp for all that they evoked the magic phrases from -her lips, for all that they were thrilled by the touch of -her fingers and the luster of her eyes were also unaware -of it. One man alone knew the perilous truth. And he -was the individual in the doublet slashed with bars of -yellow who stood leaning against one of the noble oaks -of the Forest of Arden, in full view of the play but out -of the sight of the audience.</p> - -<p>Shakespeare never once allowed his eyes to stray from -<i>Rosalind</i>. He watched her every movement, her every -gesture. He had an intensity of solicitude that a father -might have shown for a beloved but fragile daughter. -At the end of each scene he led her apart from the others -and made her sit in the inner shade of the thicket. Here -while she rested the playwright encouraged her with word -and deed. He was all kindness, all tenderness, all forethought -and concern.</p> - -<p>Not far away was Gervase. Still in his disguise he -had been placed among the musicians. At Shakespeare’s -behest he was biding his hour. Before that day was out -he had made up his mind to reveal himself to the Queen. -But the hour was not yet. It had been agreed between -Shakespeare and himself that the time and the manner -of the confession should be left to the player. And -among the audience was the man Grisewood narrowly -watching all that passed. He too felt that the hour was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>near in which the truth should be declared. But in his -case he was determined that the dramatic revelation -should turn to his own personal advantage.</p> - -<p>In the meantime all went well with the play. Moreover, -as it proceeded the Queen began to show the liveliest -interest in the personality of the new <i>Rosalind</i>.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, my lord,” she said, turning to Pembroke, an -acknowledged authority in all matters relating to the -theater, “who is that sweet chit in the doublet and trunk -hose who cannot counterfeit manhood for all her strivings?”</p> - -<p>“By the bill of the play, your grace, she is called -<i>Rosalind</i> and is apparently of the sex of which she is so -poor an imitation.”</p> - -<p>“Pshaw, my lord!” said the Queen contemptuously, -“do you think I have neither ears nor eyes? This is a -<i>Rosalind</i> that will never be able to grow a beard. She -is of my own sex and a sweeter chit I never saw in all -my life.”</p> - -<p>“Far be it from me to gainsay your grace,” said Pembroke -with an elaborate air, “but according to the bill -of the play I have in my hand this <i>Rosalind</i> is impersonated -by a young Italian gentleman, one Signor Arrigo -Bandinello by name.”</p> - -<p>“A young Italian fiddlestick!” said the Queen. “I tell -you that girl is as much an Italian gentleman as I am. -She shall attend us when the play is at an end. We will -go into this matter more fully.”</p> - -<p>However, when the play was over, it was the author -who was first honored with a summons to the royal -pavilion. The Queen received him with high good humor. -For the time being she had forgotten the personality of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span><i>Rosalind</i> in the charm and glamour of the play itself. In -the graciousness of her mood she paid many compliments -to the author of “As You Like It” and was fain to admit -“that she liked it very well.”</p> - -<p>“You are a wonderful man, Master Shakespeare,” said -the Queen. “And I think you must be the happiest man -alive.”</p> - -<p>But there was nothing in the face of the player to suggest -that destiny. The somber eyes framed a question -which the august lady was quick to read and in the expansiveness -of her mood was even prepared to answer.</p> - -<p>“You inhabit an enchanted world, Master Shakespeare. -All the persons in it are of your creation. You can order -their natures and their destinies exactly as it pleases you.”</p> - -<p>“Alas, your grace!” The poet shook his head.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, is it not so?” said the Queen.</p> - -<p>“The world I inhabit, your grace, is that of human experience. -It is neither less nor more than that which we -all know. A maker of plays must depict life in its verity, -and that is a hard matter and one which tears the soul.”</p> - -<p>The playwright spoke with the slow precision of one -whom has felt in his inmost fibers the long drawn agony -of mortal life. The Queen was a little amazed. In such -a bearing and in such a speech there was not a trace of -that enchanted mind, all airy lightness, all delicate fantasy, -which had wrought such ravishment. Nor was there -any sign of personal satisfaction in the triumph which had -been gained or in the fruits of success which now he was -beginning to gather in ample measure. The Queen, being -a woman, was a little inclined to be piqued by the -aloofness of the dramatist.</p> - -<p>“Would you have us believe, Master Shakespeare,” she -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span>said, “that the glad world which your inimitable fancy -creates for the pleasuring of your fellow-men is not a -source of joy and delight to its possessor? And would -you have us believe that the homage which all the world -has come to pay to you brings not pride nor happiness?”</p> - -<p>The playwright who stood before his sovereign with a -throng of great persons gathered round him, answered -these rather embarrassing questions with a curiously unstudied -humility. Such a modesty of bearing made an -effect of perfect sincerity. Moreover, there was a complete -absence of self-regard. Few ordeals could have -been more trying for a man of small education, who knew -but little of courts, than to be exposed to the gaze of -many sharp and jealous eyes, and to be compelled to answer -on the spur of the occasion a series of most intimate -questions concerning himself and his art. Such an ordeal -would have been a tax upon the alert readiness of mind -and the self-possession of a highly trained courtier. But -there was not a trace of awkwardness in the bearing of -this singular man in the black doublet barred with yellow. -Indeed, there was nothing to suggest that the situation in -which he found himself was in any way unusual. And -there was no evidence that the presence of others, of even -the highest in the land, was a source of embarrassment -to him. No man could have been more completely at his -ease or more completely master of himself.</p> - -<p>“I will answer the second of your questions first, your -grace,” he said, speaking very slowly and looking directly -at the Queen. “I am indeed a very proud man that the -travail of my mind should have given pleasure to those -whose favorable opinion must ever be coveted by all -honorable men. I unfeignedly rejoice and I am filled -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span>with gratitude that your grace and those about you are -pleased to approve my labors. And whatever of happiness -comes to me comes to me in that.”</p> - -<p>“That is well spoken, Master Shakespeare,” said the -Queen. “You do well to allow that. And now touching -the first of these questions I would put to you. Is it that -you take no happiness from the possession and the exercise -of your most noble gifts?”</p> - -<p>“None, your grace. They are but the mirror and the -counterfeit of life. We makers of plays live in a world -of shadows—a world of shadows woven out of our own -vitals as a spider weaves his web, and from which by -night or day there is no escape.”</p> - -<p>“Would you escape them, Master Shakespeare, these -inimitable children of your fancy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace, I would on occasion; I would almost -yield life itself to do so.”</p> - -<p>The Queen was astonished by the almost passionate -nature of the answer. This man was no shallow -deviser of masques to speed a summer’s day, but one to -whom existence was an almost intolerable burden, which -admitted of very little alleviation. And he was one who -read its riddles with the eyes of a seer.</p> - -<p>“I begin to take your meaning, Master Shakespeare,” -said the Queen. “I had supposed that when these children -of your fancy laughed and made merry, you also rejoiced. -But I had forgotten that even in these plays of -yours the sadness outweighs the mirth as is the case with -life itself, whereby a double burden is laid upon the endurance -of their creator.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace, that is indeed true. And yet that is -not the full measure of a poet’s unhappiness.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span></p> - -<p>“In what does a poet’s unhappiness consist, Master -Shakespeare?”</p> - -<p>“It consists, your grace, in this. A poet sees too much, -feels too much, knows too much. He is stretched perpetually -on the rack of his excess. He reads more into -life than life itself will hold. Of a most private grief he -will make a little song. He will amuse the groundlings -with the tale of some deep injury he has suffered in his -bones. When he moves the crowd to tears, his fees are -paid in blood.”</p> - -<p>There was something in the nature of the answer which -held the Queen. Good sense was her highest quality, and -it was that quality in others which never failed to speak -to her. She was captivated by the bearing of this man, -in whom she recognized not only the master of his craft, -but also what pleased her even more, a mature mind -which had much to say to her own acute and worldly -wise one.</p> - -<p>Indeed, so gratified was the Queen with the demeanor -and the mental quality of Mr. William Shakespeare, that, -as a signal mark of her favor, he was commanded to sit -in her presence. The sovereign was prone to carry her -Tudor sense of importance to ridiculous lengths, but there -was some subtle instinct lurking within her which sought -equality between “the fair vestal throned by the west” and -the monarch of an empire infinitely wider than her own.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>T was such a spectacle as could rarely have been -seen in that place, this homely fellow without airs or -graces or pretensions to fashion, seated in the presence -of his sovereign and treated by her with a respect -she extended to few. But not by word, deed or gesture -did he claim the estate of an equal. He was William -Shakespeare, the play-actor, and she was Elizabeth Tudor, -the conqueror of Spain.</p> - -<p>But the kingdom of the mind is no Venetian oligarchy. -Those who speak the same language are all made free of -it. And queen and mime, alone perhaps among that assembly, -were able to address each other in the universal -tongue. Seldom, of late years at least, had this crabbed, -difficult and arrogant woman, been seen in a mood so -accessible. She spoke freely to this man of things of -which few had heard her speak. And presently she said:</p> - -<p>“I hope, Master Shakespeare, you will devise a new -play for our diversion.”</p> - -<p>“Already, your grace,” said the dramatist, “there is a -new play taking shape in my head. And if on a day it -should have the great good fortune to please the fancy of -your grace, the least of your servants will be the happiest -man in your realm.”</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span></p> -<p>The words themselves may not have been without irony, -but the gentle voice showed no trace of that quality which -the countrymen of Shakespeare so much distrust.</p> - -<p>“That is indeed high news, Master Shakespeare. And -of your bounty do we pray you that your new diversion -be all in the mood of comedy as is this inimitable piece -we have seen this afternoon.”</p> - -<p>“Alas, your grace!” The playwright shook his head. -“We poor makers of plays are no more than mortal men. -And as mortal men are subject to the coils of fate, so are -the characters we weave subject to those laws which govern -our being.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t understand,” said the Queen.</p> - -<p>“We makers of plays, your grace, often have but a -small part in our own contrivances. Many a time have I -devised a play in the spirit of comedy, but it is ever the -characters themselves who spin the plot. And whether -they shall spin it to a comic or a tragic issue none but -themselves shall say.”</p> - -<p>“But you are the moulder and the master of your characters, -are you not, Master Shakespeare?”</p> - -<p>“Alas, your grace, my characters are the moulders and -the masters of me!”</p> - -<p>The Queen was perplexed by so paradoxical a saying.</p> - -<p>“I confess,” said she, “I should ever have thought it to -be otherwise. Now is it that you would have us believe -that although you have yourself devised the characters -and the plot of your new interlude, you have so little hold -upon them that you know not until your play is written -whether it will be in the tragic or the comic vein?”</p> - -<p>“It may not always be so, your grace, to the extent that -it is in this particular case. But in this instance, I will -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span>confess that I have but little hold upon the destiny of the -characters in the story.”</p> - -<p>“That seems very odd, Master Shakespeare. And our -counsel to you is to take a very speedy and secure hold -upon your characters unless you would court our grave -displeasure.”</p> - -<p>“Alas, your grace!” The playwright sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, sirrah, what is your perplexity?”</p> - -<p>“To tell my perplexity, your grace, would involve the -whole plot of the story, and a recital of that your grace -would doubtless find tedious.”</p> - -<p>The Queen, however, in the expansiveness of her mood, -assured the author that he need have no fears upon that -account. On the contrary, she professed herself delighted -at the prospect of hearing it. She avowed, besides, that -her ladies would be immensely diverted by hearing the -argument of the new play fresh from the mint of the -poet’s invention.</p> - -<p>“Do you tell us the story, I beseech you, Master Shakespeare!” -said the Queen. “And although I cannot pretend -that an unlearned woman such as myself has it in her -power to resolve your perplexity, there are about us those -of quick parts who shall hear it, who, I doubt not, will be -able to give you valuable advice upon the conduct of your -play.”</p> - -<p>Doubtless the Queen spoke in mockery, since at heart -she was a despiser of most men and of all women. Mr. -William Shakespeare, however, was fully prepared to -take her at her word.</p> - -<p>The poet, in order to give full effect to his narrative, -rose from the chair upon which he was seated. With perfect -self-possession and an air of supreme mastery which -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>it is given to few men to attain, he stood to confront the -Queen and the expectant and critical throng of her -courtiers.</p> - -<p>The lives of Gervase Heriot and of Anne Feversham -were at stake. And instinctively the poet knew that his -own life was at stake also. No hazard could have been -more perilous than that upon which he now proposed to -embark. He was about to take a very grave liberty with -an august personage who was notoriously quick to resent -even a minor one.</p> - -<p>The mind of such a man, however, moves on a plane -where the mere personal equation is of very little account. -Had the least thought of self entered it, such a hazard -had not been for a moment possible. His own safety and -freedom were as nothing. The whole force of his mind -was centered in the hope of preserving the lives of these -hapless children of destiny.</p> - -<p>“I will give the plot of the play as briefly as I can, your -grace. And under your grace’s favor and that of the -ladies and gentlemen of your court I will beg you to -devise a fitting and proper conclusion for it and thereby -spare the poor author many a sleepless night.”</p> - -<p>The playwright spoke in a clear and measured tone. -His voice was raised so that all might hear every word -distinctly. The air of the man, which was far too much -infused with the play of a noble mind to bear any suggestion -of effrontery, had already made a profound impression -upon all. Such a voice, such a demeanor made -it clear to the Queen, no less than to the youngest page -within earshot, that the recital of this story involved issues -far deeper, far more complex than the mere idle gratification -of an author’s vanity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span></p> - -<p>“An extraordinary man,” whispered the Lord Treasurer -in the ear of his friend, Pembroke. “I have heard -much of his plays of late, but I cannot pretend to be a -judge of ’em. But if they are as remarkable as the writer, -it is no wonder they stand so high in the public esteem.”</p> - -<p>Pembroke made no reply. For one thing he was sadly -uneasy. He had grave fears as to the course the story -would take, for he had reason to suppose that Shakespeare -had actively concerned himself in the affairs of Gervase -Heriot, and that by hook or by crook he was determined -to bring them to the notice of the Queen. In Pembroke’s -view it would be the height of folly to introduce such a -perilous topic in such circumstances, but poets were a -peculiar race, apt to be carried away by an idea. And -the subtle significance of the man’s manner in the telling -of the story led my lord to anticipate the worst.</p> - -<p>An expectant silence fell on this assembly. The playwright -had begun his narrative, and except for the inflections -of the clear, yet low and gentle voice, there -was not a sound to be heard within the precincts of the -pavilion.</p> - -<p>“A certain young man,” the playwright began, “well -born, well favored, well endowed, with every grace of -mind and heart, fair of form as a young god, a very -Antinous among his kind, a beautiful youth who has -thought ill of none, much less having performed it -against any, has yet been born to one signal disadvantage. -And the disadvantage is so uncommon in itself -that it seems strange that he should suffer it. It is merely -that he is too much the favorite of fortune. And -yet I would have your grace remark, for that is the -essence of my story, how this one faint cloud in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>fair heaven of this youth’s tranquility is enough to contrive -his overthrow, to dim all his glories, to rob him -of all hope of peace and happiness in this life.”</p> - -<p>The Queen nodded her head sympathetically. She -was following every word with the closest attention. -And indeed the pregnant manner of the story’s telling -compelled it.</p> - -<p>“The young man’s disadvantage is very great inasmuch -that he has the ill-hap to inspire the covetous -envy of a wicked kinsman. It is a simple stroke of -ill-fortune, as your grace will see, which he cannot help -and for which he is not in any wise responsible. This -kinsman, his father’s brother, although himself a man of -property and well placed in the world, is yet consumed -with a desire to add to his own demesne his nephew’s -broad lands in the west country. He is a bitter-hearted -and envious man, who has carried on a perpetual war with -fortune because she has not made him the elder brother.</p> - -<p>“Chance puts a weapon in the hands of this covetous -man. The age is one of peril and unrest. It is a -time in which every man suspects his neighbor. Nothing -is easier for a base man who is also bold than to -bring a charge of misfeasance against one he would remove -and whose lands he would inherit. And this is -what the uncle decides to do in the matter of his nephew. -He procures two evil men to accuse the young man -of having borne a part in a wicked and vile conspiracy -against the person of the sovereign. In the age in which -the play is cast such things are unhappily too common, -and this is a bad man’s opportunity.</p> - -<p>“To be brief, your grace, the plot is laid, the charge -is made, the young man is brought to trial and condemned<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> -upon the evidence of two suborners. He is -unable to refute the accusation, so cunning are the -rogues by whom he is beset; moreover the author of the -plot has always passed for a just and disinterested man.</p> - -<p>“To add to this unfortunate young man’s mischances, -his trial is held behind closed doors, for, as I say, the -times are greatly perilous and the public mind is much -inflamed. And he is condemned privily to the block, -and is sent to a strong fortress in the country, there to -die by the ax on a certain day. He makes an appeal to -his sovereign, an august and gracious lady whom he has -faithfully served. But stealthy serpent tongues have done -their work only too well. The Queen will not heed the -appeals of this innocent, unhappy youth, and he is left to -his cruel fate.</p> - -<p>“The decree of heaven is otherwise, however. The inscrutable -Providence which has used the young man tenderly -in all things save one and in that one so unkindly, -begins to relent toward him, and, as your grace shall -hear, he is not left to die.”</p> - -<p>The playwright paused for a moment. The attention -of his hearers was riveted by the force and cogency of a -narrative which was given with a solemnity so impressive -that it was made to appear a veritable page from -life itself. The Queen, her ladies and her gentlemen, -were spellbound by the vivid power of the recital. But -Cecil and other high officers of the household, who were -able to trace the parallel of the story were transfixed by -the man’s audacity.</p> - -<p>Only too clearly did they recognize the source of the -plot of the dreadful drama this man was daring to unfold. -And if they could have done so they would have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span>stopped this hopelessly indiscreet recital of it. Blank -consternation was written in the faces of those who -knew whence the story came.</p> - -<p>“Stop the mouth of that madman, for God’s sake!” -cried the Lord Treasurer in the ear of Pembroke.</p> - -<p>But not Cecil and not Pembroke and not mortal man -in that assembly could stop the mouth of the player -now.</p> - -<p>“Your grace,” the low, clear voice went on, “this -innocent youth is not left to die. The governor of the -fortress wherein the young man is held captive, a most -honorable and worthy and highly esteemed servant of -the state, has a young daughter. She too, like this ill-starred -youth, is passing fair, and like him is also happy -in every relation and attribute of life save one. And -her unhappiness is that she has not yet known love.</p> - -<p>“But on a day, your grace, love comes to her. One -summer’s morning it is the will of fate that she shall -see the condemned man in the courtyard of his prison. -And from his own lips she learns his grievous history. -She learns that three days hence he is to die by the ax.</p> - -<p>“A rage of pity comes upon her. At all costs she -is resolved to save him from a fate he has done nothing -to deserve. And this young girl, so brave and so high -of soul, finds a means to let him out of his dungeon, -and contrives his escape from the castle by a famous -secret passage way.</p> - -<p>“And there is more to tell. Love has come to her. -She yields all that she has of security and also the many -benefits she enjoys under her father’s roof in order that -she may share the life of this hunted fugitive. Footsore -and hungry, by mere and mead, sleeping now under -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>the open sky, now in barn or byre, they make their way -from place to place. The officers of the law are ever -upon their heels, but Providence is with them, so that -at last they come to a fair and famous city and fall in -with a cry of players.</p> - -<p>“Now may it please your grace, one of these players -is not only an actor but is also a maker of plays. And -this man, by the bounty of the gracious lady his sovereign, -has been commanded to devise for her a pastoral -to be performed in her presence on the greensward of -a summer’s afternoon. And this man is so charmed -by the grace and beauty of these vagabonds, both of -whom are dressed as boys, so charmed by their fair -appearance and their goodly manners, that he would fain -admit them into the company of players, in order that -they may be trained as actors, and perchance on a day -delight the Queen with their accomplishment.</p> - -<p>“At first these wanderers reject the proposal. But -they are hard set. They have journeyed far and food -and lodging are to seek. And being driven to a final -desperate extremity at last, they put their faith in this -play-actor. They reveal to him the whole of their tragic -history and crave his help.”</p> - -<p>“One moment, Master Shakespeare.” It was the -harsh, imperious voice of the Queen. And it seemed to -fall like a thunderclap upon the expectant hush engendered -by the player’s narrative. “Do I understand you -to say that these persons informed this play-actor of -the whole matter?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace, of the whole of their history,” the -player spoke with a calm fearlessness: “the whole of -it as it was at that time known to them. Moreover, this -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>player, having heard their tragical story, resolved to help -them to the utmost of his capacity. To this end he had -them put in a disguise of an Italian music master and -his son.”</p> - -<p>“In order, sirrah, I presume,” said the Queen’s harsh -voice, “to defeat the ends of justice?”</p> - -<p>“Not in order to defeat the ends of justice, your grace,” -said the player with a calm deference which, however, -did little to allay the rising anger of the Queen, “but -rather to the end that justice might be vindicated. That -only was the purpose in the player’s mind as shall presently -appear. But under your grace’s favor, I will continue -this tragical history.”</p> - -<p>“Do so, sirrah, I pray you.” The voice of the Queen -was now ominous indeed.</p> - -<p>“The fugitives had lain but one night at the inn in -the city in the disguise of an Italian music master and -his son, when an unhappy distraught man came seeking -them. He was the devoted servant of the governor of -the castle. His master, it appeared, upon learning his -daughter’s act, had repaired straightway to his royal -mistress with news of the escape of his prisoner. Moreover, -he took upon his own shoulders the whole of the -blame. He withheld from the Queen the part his daughter -had played in his prisoner’s escape and submitted -himself to fate.”</p> - -<p>By now there were many who would have stopped -the mouth of the player, and foremost among them was -the Lord Treasurer. This man, Shakespeare, knew too -much. And while some marveled at the madness of his -audacity, and all deplored his grievous indiscretion, -there was not one among them who might venture an -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>attempt to silence him without affronting the temper -of the Queen.</p> - -<p>But for that matter it had been impossible to silence -the player now. For one thing the Queen, with a face -that boded ill, was marking intently every word that fell -from the man’s lips. And again the player’s feelings -were wrought to such a pitch of interest by the stress -of his narrative that he seemed to be carried completely -beyond himself. For the consequences likely to ensue -he had no care. He was as one transfigured. Let -justice, mercy and truth prevail even if his own life -was the price to be paid for those brightest jewels in -Gloriana’s crown.</p> - -<p>“Is there no means of stopping the mouth of that -madman?” growled the Lord Treasurer in the ear of -Pembroke.</p> - -<p>But Pembroke could give no answer. He turned aside, -his breast tightening, his shoulders shaking convulsively.</p> - -<p>“Pray proceed with your story, Master Shakespeare,” -said the harsh voice of the Queen.</p> - -<p>“The servant of the governor of the castle,” continued -the player in obedience to this command, “an honest, -good fellow, no sooner learned his master’s peril, than -he pursued the fugitives from place to place over all -the midland country-side. Thus it was that in the end -he had the good fortune to come up with them at the -inn at Oxford. Now I would respectfully crave that -your grace remark with particular closeness that which -I am about to relate.”</p> - -<p>“You can count upon our so doing, Master Shakespeare,” -said the Queen grimly.</p> - -<p>The player smiled rather wanly. He could not remain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> -insensible to the ominous words and the yet more -ominous tone. But there was not a tremor of fear in -the dauntless face.</p> - -<p>“It is simply, your grace, that this humble player, the -least of the Queen’s servants, is alone to blame for all -of that which follows. In the first place, the young -man was no sooner informed of the peril of the governor -of the castle than he desired to yield himself -straightway to the will of the sovereign. But the player, -mistakenly perhaps, was able to hold him from this -most honorable course until a riper season. And in the -meantime, the player set his mind to work in order -to adduce a tangible proof of this young man’s innocence, -so that when the time came for him to cast himself -upon the mercy of the Queen, he should not appear -empty-handed before her.</p> - -<p>“Providence favored him. By means of a device which -I will not describe, lest I tax the patience of your grace, -the player was able to obtain an irrefragable proof of -the young man’s innocence. By the same means, moreover, -he was able to adduce clear evidence of those who -were guilty. But of this I will presently speak more -fully.</p> - -<p>“In the meantime, however, while all this was going -forward, the hour was drawing near for the new interlude -to be given in the presence of the sovereign. -And the player deemed such a season to be not the least -favorable for two noble but ill-starred children of destiny -to invoke justice and mercy of a woman, the first -in the realm.”</p> - -<p>At this point the player paused in his narrative. A -profound silence descended upon all. Every person who -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>had heard the singular story was now aware that it -was no mere figment of a poet’s mind. It was a grim -and terrible reality. And that unhappy fact was declared -in the harsh and cruel eyes of the Queen.</p> - -<p>For a full minute not a word was spoken. The player -had given as much of his story as was vital to his design. -And now with a true political instinct he refrained -from adding another word, but left it to the Queen -herself to speak.</p> - -<p>She made no haste to do so. Astonished beyond measure, -resentful, angry, she brought the whole of her powerful -mind to bear upon the matter before giving expression -to her thoughts. Dumbfounded as she was by -the audacity and the indiscretion of this man, two facts -dominated her now. The mystery attending the circumstances -of the young man, Gervase Heriot’s escape -from Nottingham Castle, was now made clear. The unlucky -Sir John Feversham had neither art nor part in it -after all. He had kept a stubborn silence for no other -reason than to shield his daughter. And it was none -other than that froward young woman who had given -that charming performance in the new comedy but a few -minutes ago. At last the Queen turned to her ladies -with a look of sour triumph.</p> - -<p>“Did I not say,” she cried, “that that was indeed no -youth who strutted in doublet and trunk hose?”</p> - -<p>A moment afterwards the august lady had turned -imperiously to the player.</p> - -<p>“This seems but a tame conclusion to your new interlude, -Master Shakespeare.”</p> - -<p>“Most humbly and respectfully do I beg your grace -to devise an issue to this pitiful story.” The player -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>had now sunk upon one knee. “It lies far beyond the -compass of my own poor contrivance. But it is within -the province of your grace to fashion it in either the -comic or the tragic vein. Yet if it shall seem good to -you to fashion it in the latter, there is one last boon -that I have to crave for these children of fate, and on my -knees I do so.”</p> - -<p>“And what, pray, is the boon you crave, sirrah?” -There was not a spark of pity in the face or in the tone -of the Queen.</p> - -<p>“The boon I would crave for them is this, your -grace. Should it not seem good to your grace to exercise -the most royal prerogative of mercy, they implore -you to allow them to die together on the same block, by -the same ax, in the same hour.”</p> - -<p>This grim request sent a shudder through that horrified -assembly. But not a muscle relaxed in the ruthless -face of the Queen.</p> - -<p>“Master Shakespeare,” she said in a slow, measured -voice, “your request shall be granted. These traitors, -young as they are, shall die together on the same block, -by the same ax, and in the same hour. And as there is -a God in Heaven, Master Shakespeare, you yourself -shall share the fate they have so richly merited.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV">CHAPTER XXXIV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>T was an important evening at the Mermaid Tavern. -Long before supper time the spacious upper chamber -with the sanded floor began to fill. All the -regular frequenters of the place were eager for news of -Will’s new comedy. But it was a long way in those -days from the palace at Richmond to the famous hostelry -in Eastcheap. Authentic information was tardy in -coming that evening.</p> - -<p>The hour of eight was told on the clocks of the city. -Yet there was never a word of news of Will or of -his comedy. This was indeed strange. Among those -who came very often to the tavern for the sake of the -company to be found there was a number of men about -the Court. Not one of these has as yet appeared upon -the scene. And neither Will himself nor any of his -fellow-players had arrived.</p> - -<p>Dishes of deviled bones and flagons of wine were laid -on the long table. The company sat down to a very -informal repast. Tongues were unloosed and rumor was -presently rife.</p> - -<p>The assembly that had gathered in this long upper -chamber was a curious one. In the shabby and careless -garb of the poet, or in the soiled doublet of the writer -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>for the theater was contained some of the choicest -spirits of the age. On most evenings this strange company -was garnished with a sprinkling of men of fashion -with some pretensions to wit, but these were absent to-night. -This fact, taken in conjunction with a singular -dearth of news was held to be a sinister omen. No -news is not always good news in matters relating to -the theater.</p> - -<p>There was genuine concern among those present. Will -was a universally popular man. In spite of a very -remarkable success which had sprung from beginnings -of the humblest kind he bore himself invariably with a -modesty and a courteous consideration for others that -completely disarmed even those who had the most cause -to envy him. Moreover, those who had the entrée to -that sacred upper chamber at the Mermaid well knew how -thoroughly his success was deserved. For these were -first-rate minds. These men, as far as it was possible -for the contemporaries of William Shakespeare to do so, -realized and appreciated his accomplishment.</p> - -<p>If Will had at last met with a check to his career -none would regret the fact more than these friendly -and admiring rivals who had an intense admiration for -his extraordinary genius. And some of them, moreover, -had already come to live in a kind of reflected glory that -it cast upon them.</p> - -<p>Rumors of failure grew with the arrival of each newcomer -who yet had no first-hand news to give.</p> - -<p>“Did he let you con the piece, Martin?” asked a -gray and worn veteran with a ragged beard of an individual -very familiar to himself who sat at the head of -the long table.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p> - -<p>“Aye, he did so. And I tell you it is the best thing -he has done yet. If he makes a failure of that, God -help the age, say I.”</p> - -<p>“He was not very happy about it two nights ago.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, that’s Will’s way. He never does anything but -that he wishes it better.”</p> - -<p>“And yet they say he never blots a line, eh?” said a -young man with flaming hair who sat opposite.</p> - -<p>“It is only Ben who says that,” rejoined the veteran -at the table-head. “And Ben blots so many himself -that he thinks nobody else takes any pains by comparison.”</p> - -<p>“Then you consider this new piece a good thing?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, good enough, good enough. It is a better thing -than any of us will ever see our names to.” The speaker -sighed. He was a man of infinite courage and ambition. -But he had lived long enough and had striven hard -enough to learn the sharp truth that these things of -themselves will not conquer. “But by God!” The fine -poet and great-hearted man took up his flagon. “I’d -be the last in the world to begrudge Will his good luck. -His fortune is our fortune too. He is a nonesuch and -not again will the world look on his like. He is a king -in his own right, and by God, I drink to him. Here’s -to our monarch. May God protect him, and may he -never write a worse comedy than ‘As You Like It.’”</p> - -<p>Dekker rose and held his flagon aloft. And all the -others at the long table followed his example.</p> - -<p>There was a murmur of voices and a clink of cups.</p> - -<p>These men could not bring themselves to admit that -by any possibility the true prince had met defeat at last. -Still, the total absence of news from Richmond was very -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>ominous. But even if the Queen had not approved the -new comedy, that was not warrant sufficient to assume, -as more than one among that company made bold to -maintain, that the new comedy was not worthy of her -approval.</p> - -<p>“’Tis a fine thing,” said the man at the head of the -table, “and you may lay to that. His genius ripens -every day. There is nothing in my opinion beyond the -compass of Will’s invention.”</p> - -<p>“He lacks but one thing,” said a large, ugly and pock-marked -fellow who came slowly into the room.</p> - -<p>“And what is that, Ben?” was the question that was -promptly fired at the newcomer.</p> - -<p>“A little learning, my friends, to temper the heat of -his mind. A little of the classic severity of Athens to -mellow the over-sharpness of his wit, to trim and clip -the excess of his redundancy, to confine the natural incontinence -of his humors.”</p> - -<p>But the words of Ben were drowned in good-natured -laughter. All knew the foibles of this heavy and slow-moving -man. He was a surly dog fond of his growl. -He must ever run contrary to received opinion. He had -an exaggerated regard for the classic tongues. But -there was no stouter fellow, no stauncher friend, and -there was not a grain of smallness in his nature.</p> - -<p>“Sit down, you dog,” said the time-worn warrior at -the table-head, “and bury your mask in a flagon. Hi, -drawer, a cup of Muscadel for Master Jonson. Ben, -my son, with all your learning, aye, and with all your -genius, too, you will never be quite man enough to don -the mantle of William the Peerless.”</p> - -<p>“Did I ever say I would?” said Ben roughly. “Is -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>there any man alive that ever heard me speak so windily? -There is no man living or dead who is the peer of our -incomparable William and I care not who hears me -say it.”</p> - -<p>The great rude fellow brought down his bricklayer’s -fist with such a resounding thud upon the table that the -dishes rattled and the wine slopped over in a dozen cups. -But this rough diamond, who as yet did but stand at -the threshold of renown, was freely forgiven all the inconvenience -he caused for the sake of that honest enthusiasm -whereby he did himself honor in the eyes of all.</p> - -<p>The motley crew who sat night after night at that -table were without exception men of parts and understanding. -Whether their ruffles were ink-stained, -whether their hands were lily-white, whether they wore -silk and fine linen or plain bombazine, whether they -lived by the sword or by the pen, or whether they had -no need to live by either, there was no appeal from their -judgments upon poetry and the drama, and posterity -has not found occasion to reverse their verdicts. It -was the great age indeed. These were men of rare mental -power, of large and liberal intercourse. They knew -the highest when they met it and knew how to pay it -homage.</p> - -<p>For example, this rude fellow Ben Jonson, this clumsy, -loud-voiced, opinionative Scotsman, a pock-marked, ugly -creature who had lived rough and who had the brand -of a felon on his thumb was the coming man. He would -go far, said the quidnuncs. He was heavy metal of the -royal currency; one who under Providence was destined -to be second only to Will himself.</p> - -<p>Thus men cast in a gentler mold made room for him. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span>He was no favorite, to be sure. His manners were too -rude, his opinions too unqualified. But the sacred fire -was in his veins. And those who were wont to dispute -precedence with persons of far more account in the -eyes of the world were proud to sit at the feet of Ben.</p> - -<p>The long July evening was closing in. The candles -had been brought and the shutters drawn in the long -upper chamber. And that which hitherto had been -hardly more than a thrill of half-expectant surmise was -now become a slow agony of suspense. It was incredible -that news had not come from Richmond. The play -must have been over by six o’clock. The verdict of -Gloriana and her court must have been delivered long -ago.</p> - -<p>Was it possible that the miracle of the age had tasted -his first defeat? Well, and if he had? said the graybeard -at the end of the table. Gloriana and her Court -were not infallible. Will should read his comedy to -his peers that night, as he had done on many occasions -previously. Theirs should be the verdict, for they -alone, with all respect to Gloriana, were qualified to -give it.</p> - -<p>The brave words from the table-head were received -with loud approval from a score of stalwarts who by -now had gathered round the board. Such words were -well and wisely spoken. But suddenly there fell a hush. -A famous and admired figure came quietly, almost stealthily, -into the room.</p> - -<p>It was that of a bearded, brown-faced man of forty, -trim and soldierly of look, secure and curiously authoritative -of bearing. His dress was rich and fine; his air -that of a courtier, urbane, polished, calm, quizzical. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span>There was the coxcomb in the outward man, but not a -trace of it in the far-looking, eagle-glancing eyes. This -was a great figure, even in that company, which measured -a man not by his outward assemblance but by his deeds.</p> - -<p>“Ah, now we shall know,” cried the man at the table-head. -“Here is Wat. Newly from Richmond, else I’ll -never drink sack again out of a bombard until I attain -the age of a hundred and twenty.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Martin, newly from Richmond, as you say,” -came the courtier’s lisp. “Newly from Richmond, newly -from Richmond.”</p> - -<p>The newcomer sank down in a manner of extreme -weariness in a vacant chair. He sighed heavily.</p> - -<p>“A cup of the muscadel for Sir Walter,” said the man -at the table-head. “And lively about it, boy. No need -to tell us what has happened, Wat. But we did not -think it was so bad as all this. We did not think it -possible that Will could fail. Is it—tell me, Wat—that -Gloriana has smelt some affront in the new piece? Well, -well, she is getting old, and even in her prime she was—well, -shall we say?—what shall we say?—why, body -o’ God, what’s the matter with the fellow?”</p> - -<p>The speaker had good reason to ask the question. -Raleigh—the brown-faced courtier was no less than he—seemed -utterly overcome. Something untoward had -most certainly happened. There was more than a mere -matter of a play’s failure or success in the dismay of -that strong face which shone a bleak gray in the uncertain -light of the room.</p> - -<p>“Why, what’s the matter? Tell us, for the love of -God!”</p> - -<p>But Raleigh shook his head haplessly. He who knew -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span>not the meaning of fear in the presence of bodily peril, -he whose resolution never failed in great crises, was -wholly unable to tell the news he bore.</p> - -<p>“Is it Will?” A sense of foreboding had descended -suddenly upon all. “Tell us, I pray you.”—The eagerly -anxious voices sank in the oddest manner. “Has aught -happened to Will Shakespeare?”</p> - -<p>Raleigh did not answer. But that face so eloquent -of power and high capacity seemed to grow a little -bleaker. And then twenty pairs of eyes that were turned -almost fiercely upon it saw that a rush of sudden tears -was shining there.</p> - -<p>The man at the head of the table laid a hand to his -heart.</p> - -<p>“Oh!”</p> - -<p>His exclamation went echoing through the silence of -the long room. Again the solemn hush descended. That -which Walter Raleigh had not courage to tell, not one of -these men could muster the courage to ask.</p> - -<p>What could have happened? Those were perilous -times indeed; times in which the quietest, most law-abiding -citizen took his life in his hand when he walked -down the street. The tragedy of poor Kit Marlowe was -in every mind. Had Will Shakespeare, the incomparable -poet and charming personality, met the assassin’s knife -by chance or by design? The face of Raleigh portended -not less than that. Yet not one of these men could summon -enough resolution to set his doubts at rest. The -silence was painful. A pin could have been heard to fall -in the room.</p> - -<p>Suddenly there came sounds of heavy feet stumbling, -blundering up the wooden stairs. The door was flung -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span>open. A thick, squat, gnarled-looking fellow reeled in -like a man under the influence of wine. His face shone -livid in the light of the candles.</p> - -<p>It was Burbage the tragedian.</p> - -<p>“Speak, man! Tell the news!” came the hoarse demand -of a dozen voices.</p> - -<p>“Shakespeare,” The voice of the tragedian could -hardly be heard. “He is arrested by the Queen’s order. -They say—they say he will lose his head.”</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXV">CHAPTER XXXV</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">G</span>RIEF, consternation, horror surged through that -room. For the moment, the shock of the announcement -was more than they could bear. It -was as if each man present had been stunned by a blow. -But the calm was for the moment only. In the next came -a babel of tongues framing a score of incoherent questions.</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage replied to none of these. He stood -an instant swaying, his ashen face framed in the eerie -glow of the candles. And then without a further word -he turned and passed like a ghost through the door of -the room with the same abruptness with which he had -entered it. He went headlong, stumbling and creaking, -down the ricketty stairs of the old tavern and out into -the July evening.</p> - -<p>In the street, hard by the signboard, under the shadow -of the tavern wall, two men lay in wait for the tragedian. -One of these was his fellow-player, William -Kemp, the other John Heming the manager of the Globe -Theatre. These also were men of strong feelings, but -they had them under control, whereas Richard Burbage -who might almost be said to worship the ground on -which the poet trod, had been carried completely away -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span>by this direst of tragedies, which he knew not how to -face.</p> - -<p>As became good men, true friends, staunch comrades, -Kemp and Heming were fully determined not to let Burbage -pass out of their sight during the remainder of that -night. But they must not show themselves in his. Already -he had resented their presence fiercely, had cursed -them when they had sought to console him, and had so -far fallen from that poise of mind and temper which -at ordinary times made him a most agreeable companion, -as to threaten to do them violence, “if they would not -have the goodness to keep themselves to themselves and -stand out of his light.”</p> - -<p>Thus William Kemp and John Heming remained well -in the shadow of the tavern wall. But when their distracted -friend came out of the inn, perhaps a little -sooner than they had expected him to do so, they proceeded -to follow him at a respectful distance. Without -betraying their own presence, they contrived to keep him -well in view.</p> - -<p>Certainly there was very good ground for such solicitude. -The tragedian swayed about from side to side like a -ship in a gale, now up one deserted street, now down -another. And all these dark purlieus of the city swarmed -with perils at that hour of the night. Moreover, the -ostensible condition of this pedestrian, the vagaries of -whose gait certainly resembled those of a man far gone -in liquor, seemed to cry aloud for the attentions of the -vigilant cutpurse or the lurking footpad.</p> - -<p>With unseeing eyes, with unstable limbs, with mind -insensible of its surroundings, with steps not knowing -whither they were bent, the tragedian walked the byways<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> -of the city during the whole of that night. Like -the fate-riven figures in those soul-shaking tragedies in -whose delineation he excelled all men, he was at the -mercy of an anguish of mind that was tearing him in -pieces.</p> - -<p>This was a large and noble nature. And bitterly it -was rent because it had not been more vigilant. Richard -Burbage felt himself unworthy of the sacred duty -imposed upon him by his fraternal intimacy with the poet. -He had an insight into human nature which enabled him -to understand a certain weakness that must inevitably -attend such transcendent powers as those of William -Shakespeare. And this understanding seemed to lay -the charge upon him of watching over this man who -was not as other men.</p> - -<p>To this trust Burbage felt he had not been true. -Yet it was not easy to know by what means he could -have saved his friend from his terrible pass. Times -and again he had besought him to be prudent, and his -counsels had been urged with intense conviction. None -realized more clearly than Burbage that it was indeed -a perilous hour for any man to be concerned with treason. -The Queen’s temper was implacable. She who -had done to death a kinswoman and a queen because her -own personal safety was held to be remotely threatened -was not likely to know the meaning of pity in the case -of an humble play-actor who had mingled so openly in -the cause of a condemned traitor.</p> - -<p>Burbage mourned the madness of his friend. Pacing -the dark streets of the city during the watches of the -night in a state of mind bordering upon frenzy, he -was a man self-tormented. Yet after all, he was in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span>no wise to blame. No grace of his, no vigilance, indeed, -no human foresight could have averted this tragic issue.</p> - -<p>The two comrades of the tragedian kept the swaying -figure ever in view. Wherever it went that night they -followed it. Hour after hour Burbage wandered purposeless -about the city. His grief, silent and contained -though it was, was a thing dreadful to behold.</p> - -<p>Towards midnight he came to the river. A new fear -then gripped the hearts of his comrades. Very stealthily -they crept up closer behind him. What more -likely than that one in such a frame of mind should -have recourse to those dark waters which have done -so much to ease the misery of the world? Bareheaded, -unsteady of gait, wild of mien, the tragedian walked -hour by hour upon the very brink of death. And all -that time his two friends watched and waited yet dared -not show themselves.</p> - -<p>The night was oppressively hot. The summer air was -charged with pent-up forces, and while it was still dark -these sought opportunity to wreak themselves upon the -thirsting earth. The moon and stars were hid; all the -heavens were a dense mass of pitch; presently came -lightning and peal upon peal of thunder. It was the -prelude to a terrific storm and the man by the verge of -the river welcomed it with every fiber of his being.</p> - -<p>The words of <i>Lear</i> were yet unborn. But in such a -night and tempest of the soul was to walk that figure -which this unhappy man was one day to teach the ages -to pity. His head was bare and unbent to the storm; -a hurricane lashed the upturned face; he was drenched -to the skin; and yet this rage of heaven was as nought -to the tumult in the mind of one poor tragedian.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p> -<p>And like their friend, wholly undefended from this -wild fury of the elements, William Kemp and John -Heming stood cowering a little way off in the lee of a -wall. All the long night through, in spite of darkness -and tempest, they never left him. And when at last came -the dawn, and with it some abatement of the frenzy of -the heavens, they stood with him still by the bank of the -grim river.</p> - -<p>Drenched to the skin, and utterly weary and wretched -as they were, they did not once allow Richard Burbage -to pass out of their sight. Wherever he went they must -go also; to all that he did they must be a party. Yet only -in the last resort must they venture to declare themselves -to him.</p> - -<p>The slow hours passed. Richard Burbage still lingered -by that river which in one brief instant would -have eased him of his pain. But at last, just as the hour -of eight was told by the churches of the city, resolve appeared -to brace and quicken the exhausted frame. A -new purpose, a new strength enfolded that unhappy figure. -Burbage suddenly started to walk briskly along the -river bank in the direction of Richmond.</p> - -<p>Hungry, exhausted, profoundly miserable, his two comrades -continued to follow him. All night had they been -waiting for some such manifestation of design, for -this was a man of powerful and resolute character. It -was now more imperative than ever that this vigilance -should not relax. They knew not what secret spring of -action had moved him. And in his present mood there -was nothing of which he was not capable.</p> - -<p>On and on he walked, briskly now and with an appearance -of ever-increasing resolve. Through fair meadows<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> -and riverside gardens and hamlets they passed. By -ten o’clock, they had left the river below them and were -ascending the steep and gloriously wooded slopes of -Richmond Hill.</p> - -<p>Every fiber of the tragedian’s being seemed now in the -thrall of his new purpose. Not once did he tarry or -look back. All unaware that he was being so closely -followed, he turned at the top of the hill into Richmond -Park.</p> - -<p>It was a morning such as makes of earth a paradise. -The air was cool, fragrant, delicious after the great -storm of the night. Long shafts of gold light pierced -the branches of the trees; the wet bracken shone with -crystals; the sky was one wide unbroken promise of a -gorgeous noon; the deer flitted in and out of the clean-washed -spaces, between low-hanging canopies of leaves. -Earth was rejoicing this morning of July in the solace -and refreshment that the night had brought to her. All -was well with her now. Her fainting energies had been -renewed. And all was now well with one among her -children, one poor and frail tragedian.</p> - -<p>The squat, rather ungainly figure, striding wide as -though the boards of the playhouse were still its theater, -neither passed nor faltered in its course. Bared head -upflung, a curious rigidity in the face, there was high -purpose in every movement now.</p> - -<p>Richard Burbage sought the broad path that led to -the Queen’s palace. And no sooner had he come to it, -than he greatly increased the pace at which he walked. -Indeed, as the row of imposing turrets of the royal demesne -came into view at a turn in the road, he almost -broke into a run.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span></p> - -<p>William Kemp and John Heming, so exhausted by -now that they could scarcely drag one foot after the -other, suddenly awoke with a kind of bewildered dismay -to the fact that the Queen’s palace was, beyond a -doubt, the goal of their quarry. Breathlessly, they followed -ever in his wake, but in the last hundred yards or -so, he had gained upon them considerably.</p> - -<p>Before the gate of the palace, however, Richard Burbage -had to call a halt. Certain formalities had to be -observed before the halberdiers on guard could be induced -to pass a stranger through. And to their question -of who this stranger was and what was his pleasure, the -two comrades of the actor were able to come up to the -gate just in time to hear his reply.</p> - -<p>“I am Richard Burbage, the tragedian, and I desire to -see the Queen without delay on a matter of the most -urgent importance.”</p> - -<p>Moreover, these words were spoken in that magnificently -rotund and authoritative voice that never failed -to send a thrill through the Globe Theatre.</p> - -<p>And even now in these strange circumstances, it did -not fail of its effect. The guards of the Queen were -no more than mortal men. And this man with great -eyes burning in an ashen face was more than mortal -now. He was in the thrall of a divine idea. It was not -for those on a lower plane of being to deny such an imperious -instancy. Without delay, Richard Burbage, the -tragedian, was permitted to pass through the gate.</p> - -<p>William Kemp and John Heming stood at the threshold -of the Queen’s palace to watch the tragedian pass -from their view. But when they also were asked by -the sentinels at the gate who they were and what they -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span>sought, they did not venture to proclaim either their -business or themselves.</p> - -<p>They drew off silently a little way into the bracken, -there to await the issue. Sick at heart, overcome with -despair, they flung their completely exhausted bodies -into the wet grass.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI">CHAPTER XXXVI</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE Queen was taking counsel already with the -Lord Treasurer, Cecil, her all-wise and all-powerful -minister. This morning, she was in a harsh -and vengeful mood. Many were the plots she had known -in the course of a troubled life against the security of -that person for whose well-being she had so great a reverence. -And each one, as it occurred, had the effect -of hardening that naturally ruthless temper to which, -like others of her race, she was never afraid to give free -play.</p> - -<p>The young man, Gervase Heriot, had been proved -guilty upon that which was held to be good and sufficient -evidence, of a plot against her life. He had been -condemned to death by the Court of Star Chamber sitting -in camera. But by the wanton and wicked connivance -of the young daughter of Sir John Feversham, in -whose custody he was held in Nottingham Castle against -the time of his execution, Heriot had been able to break -out of his prison. Subsequently, the condemned man, in -the company of this wicked girl, had wandered about the -country many weeks, finally falling in with one Shakespeare, -an actor and writer for the theater, who, well -knowing they were proscribed, had actively befriended -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span>them. Moreover, with unforgivable effrontery, this play-actor -had chosen to make public confession of his guilt -at a singularly ill-chosen time.</p> - -<p>The Queen was not in a mood to hear of leniency in -this heinous matter. But Cecil, the Lord Treasurer, was -a very wise man, deliberate in speech, tardy in judgment. -And the view he held was at direct variance with that -of his august mistress.</p> - -<p>The Lord Treasurer had already brought the cool and -detached mind of a statesman to bear upon a most difficult -problem. The actors in this unhappy drama were -nothing to him in themselves. Heriot was a man of -family, with a considerable estate in the west of England; -the girl was the daughter of Sir John Feversham, -a man of good reputation, who had rendered thirty -years of honest service to the Queen. The man Shakespeare -was by profession an actor, and of him there was -nothing more to be said. Indeed, as far as the Lord -Treasurer was concerned, there was nothing more to -be said of any of the persons of the drama. As mere -private individuals, they had not the least interest for -him; the merits of their cause concerned him but little, -yet public expediency, that and only that, was a thing of -paramount importance in his eyes. And when all was -said, this was certainly a plaguy ill matter, and it had -given my lord a very anxious night.</p> - -<p>It seemed that Pembroke, a man whom Cecil regarded -as a person of weight, had expressed a very definite -opinion in regard to the case. According to Pembroke, -the man Shakespeare was widely known and esteemed -not in London merely, but also throughout the length -and breadth of the kingdom. He had behaved with the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span>gravest unwisdom, but Pembroke held staunchly to the -view that his action was not of a character to incur -the inclemency of the law. Moreover, the play-actor -had the excuse that he sought an occasion to establish -the innocence of a deeply wronged man.</p> - -<p>Yet here was a very sore point with the statesmanlike -soul of the Lord Treasurer. Heriot had been condemned -by the Court of Star Chamber, and Cecil had not the -least desire that the case should be re-heard. At the best, -the whole affair constituted one of those unsavory businesses -which it is ever the aim of true statecraft -to keep out of the light of day. To this point of -view, however, Pembroke had made the cogent rejoinder -that since the whole story had been given to the -world, it was no longer possible to treat it as a mystery.</p> - -<p>Doubtless it was this fact which rendered Shakespeare’s -action unpardonable in the sight of the Queen. -She, too, had a faculty of statesmanship, and she was -well able to appreciate the point involved; but also she -had a woman’s power of illogical resentment, and in her -view not the least part of the player’s crime was the inconvenience -it caused.</p> - -<p>Cecil, having duly taken all the circumstances into -account, was already strongly in favor of mercy. It -would be wise, in his view, to grant a pardon to the player. -The pressure of public opinion was likely to be great, -and in the opinion of Cecil that was a cardinal matter. -But the Queen was obdurate. She was incensed by the -audacity of the man. Great care had been used to keep -the whole of this ugly business a close secret, but all -precaution had been rendered nugatory by this man’s -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span>amazing indiscretion in regard to things that did not -well bear the light of day.</p> - -<p>“My lord,” said the Queen, with an air of finality, -“what I have said, I have said. This man shall make -payment for his wicked folly.”</p> - -<p>“Be it so, your grace,” said the minister, with a sad -shake of the head.</p> - -<p>He knew how vain it was to persist when once the -Queen had made up her mind. She had all a Tudor’s -despotism. The statesman shrugged his shoulders disconsolately. -The man Shakespeare had certainly behaved -like a stark fool, and richly merited any fate that could -overtake him, for my Lord Treasurer’s was that practical -order of mind that hates a fool quite as much as it -hates a rogue. The one was intelligible, but the other -was an affront to the human race. Still, the man -Shakespeare had many highly placed friends. And if -Cecil himself had little use for the order of things the -man represented, he recognized, with that large grasp -of mind in which none of his age excelled him, that this -play-actor stood for human amenity. And that in itself -was a thing that even the most cynical of statesmen cannot -afford to neglect.</p> - -<p>The Lord Treasurer was about to withdraw from the -Queen’s presence, when one of her gentlemen came into -the room.</p> - -<p>“Madam,” he said, “under your good pleasure, one -Richard Burbage, a tragedian, would speak with you upon -a matter of great urgency.”</p> - -<p>“A pox take him,” said the Queen, roughly. “A pox -take all comedians and all tragedians, too. I would that -I had never set eyes on any of the tribe. Send the rogue -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span>about his business with a flea in his ear. Or stay—send -him to us and we will hear what he has to say. And God -help the rogue, if he speaks amiss.”</p> - -<p>The gentleman withdrew. A minute afterwards, he -ushered into the room with great ceremony one Richard -Burbage, a tragedian.</p> - -<p>It happens continually, in the process of nature, that a -man’s calling is declared in his personality. The soldier, -the clergyman, the lawyer and the horse-dealer are -cases in point. But no man could have borne clearer -evidence of the unhappy estate to which it had pleased -providence to call him than Richard Burbage, the tragedian. -His gaunt face was haggard, his bloodshot eyes -were wild, his somber dress was muddy and in sad disorder.</p> - -<p>“Well, my man, what is your pleasure?” said the -Queen sourly enough, as soon as this odd figure appeared -before her.</p> - -<p>The tragedian showed no undue haste to reply to the -question. There was a slow force in him for which the -Queen and Cecil were not prepared. And when he spoke, -it was with the calm precision of one secure of soul.</p> - -<p>“Your grace,” said the tragedian, and for all his wild -eyes he looked steadily at the Queen, “it is my desire to -offer my life for the life of William Shakespeare.”</p> - -<p>The mood of the Queen was by no means agreeable. -Nevertheless, these simple and considered words struck -home to the heart of the woman. They had no savor of -vainglory. They were the fruit of a rare spirit, and she -who was accustomed to judge men was quick, almost in -her own despite, to recognize the source from which they -sprang.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span></p> - -<p>“Tell me why you offer it, Master Burbage,” said the -Queen. “Tell me why life has so little savor for you, -that you would yield it for that of a rival actor?”</p> - -<p>“I offer my life, your grace, for that of one so far beyond -myself that, although I enjoy my days as much as -any man alive, there can be no higher privilege than to -give them for such a one as he. And the day will surely -come when the whole world will rise up and call me -blessed.”</p> - -<p>These were wild words for prosaic ears. There was -almost a core of madness in them, yet it was impossible -to doubt the grim sincerity of this fanatic.</p> - -<p>The Queen looked at the Lord Treasurer, and the Lord -Treasurer looked at the Queen. One fact at once shone -clear in the minds of both. It was no ordinary man who -offered life itself on the altar of friendship.</p> - -<p>“The truth is,” said the Queen at last, “you mad players, -who spend your days in mouthing bombast and in -tearing passions to tatters, get a kind of swelling in your -brains. The truth is, Master Burbage, you over-color all -the facts of life. Your speech in consequence is high-flown, -your behavior nonsensical, your appearance -ridiculous.”</p> - -<p>“It may be so, your grace.” The player spoke slowly -and calmly, and yet without any great show of humility. -“But I would entreat your grace not to overlook the fact -that Richard Burbage would pay away his life for the -boon he craves.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sirrah, I appreciate that,” said the Queen. “And -to me, Master Burbage, I confess it makes you a subject -for confinement in a mad-house. How say you, my -lord?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span></p> - -<p>But my lord was thinking so deeply that he failed to -answer the question of his august mistress. It was the -business of his life to estimate men and things; and for -perhaps the first time in his career, he was face to face -with men and things with which his recondite knowledge -and his remarkable faculty seemed powerless to deal.</p> - -<p>“Yes, you bombastical players have an inflammation of -the mind, there is no doubt about it,” said the Queen. -“In your opinion, Master Burbage, I do not doubt the -author of ‘As You Like It’ is the greatest man alive.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace,” said the tragedian, very simply, “he -is undoubtedly that in his own province, and as, in my -humble judgment his province is the highest of all, I cannot -honestly claim less than that precedence for him. -But, of course, I speak, your grace, as but a strutter of -boards and a mouther of bombast. Yet in my humble -opinion, a man must be what he is, and be that only, and -with all his heart. Nature fashioned me for the theater. -Therefore, my life is consecrated to the theater, which -for me is the sum of all things, the highest good. And -therefore I say to your grace, that never again will the -theater look upon the like of William Shakespeare, who -to me, and to many another in this age and in ages yet to -come, must ever remain the brightest jewel in Gloriana’s -crown. And if it be given to Richard Burbage to purchase -with his own life the priceless things that lie as yet -unborn in the womb of our immortal poet’s invention, it -will be a great end for a poor tragedian.”</p> - -<p>These singular words were spoken plainly and -bluntly enough, but with an air of deference. And they -were absolutely sincere. Whatever the Queen’s views -might be concerning the sanity of play-actors, she was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span>compelled to recognize this speech, perhaps more by its -manner than by its matter, as the product of a powerful -and well-ordered mind. It was now the turn of the -Queen to ponder deeply. In spite of herself, she could -not help being affected by the demeanor of this man.</p> - -<p>Now it almost seemed as if Providence had set itself -to work on the poet’s behalf, and was determined to -make the most of a favorable turn. For that was the -moment chosen by it for the announcement to be made -to the Queen that two most distinguished persons, the -Earl of Pembroke and Sir Walter Raleigh to wit, most -humbly craved audience of her Grace.</p> - -<p>“I will see them,” said the Queen, peremptorily. “Let -them be brought to me.” She then added sourly to the -Lord Treasurer, “They are upon this same plaguy business, -I’ll warrant.”</p> - -<p>Presently appeared these two distinguished gentlemen, -true ornaments of their age. Each was a singularly -handsome man, not yet in middle life; each had the -marked ease of bearing of those who are very familiar -with their surroundings. The Queen received them with -the rough humor, caustic, witty and by no means unpleasant, -which she inherited from her father and kept for her -intimates.</p> - -<p>“Well, my friends,” she said, “I’ll wager a tester I -know already what is your good pleasure.”</p> - -<p>“Your grace were infinitely less in wisdom were the -case otherwise,” said Pembroke.</p> - -<p>“You have come to plead the cause, I do not doubt, of a -very foolish and wicked man.”</p> - -<p>The silence of Pembroke gave assent to the harsh -words.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span></p> -<p>“Well, my lord, I hope you are prepared as is Master -Burbage here to yield your life for him.”</p> - -<p>“If it were our privilege, your grace, to do that, we -should be greater men than we are like to be—with all -respect to Sir Walter here—in the eyes of posterity.”</p> - -<p>“A pox upon posterity! Who cares a fig for it? The -hour in which we live alone matters to all of us. But tell -me, my lord, why do you choose to concern yourself with -the matter of this foolish play-actor? And also I would -have you make known your wishes in regard to him.”</p> - -<p>“Touching your grace’s first question,” said Pembroke, -“I am honored by the friendship of one whom I esteem -beyond all other men, and for whose deliverance I will -gladly pay into the treasury as round a sum as I can well -afford.”</p> - -<p>The Queen gave a grunt of disgust. The raddled face -wore a very unpleasant look.</p> - -<p>“Humph,” said she. “That seems little enough, my -lord. Master Burbage here offers his life.”</p> - -<p>Pembroke turned instantly to the tragedian, with his -most courtier-like bow.</p> - -<p>“Master Burbage does himself infinite honor,” he said. -“I offer the half of my estate and he offers the whole of -his, therefore is he twice the man that I am in the sight -of heaven.”</p> - -<p>“A well-turned speech, my lord,” said the Queen. She -then fixed her sour smile upon Raleigh. “Tell me, Sir -Walter,” she said, “what is the price you are prepared to -pay for this foolish and wicked player’s ransom?”</p> - -<p>The point-blank question was answered readily enough.</p> - -<p>“The half of my fortune, your grace,” said Raleigh, -“even as my Lord Pembroke.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span></p> - -<p>“But Master Burbage here,” said the Queen, acidly, “is -prepared to pay the whole of his life.”</p> - -<p>“Your grace,” said Raleigh with shining eyes, “Master -Burbage is indeed a man happy in his valor and noble in -the scope and compass of his nature. Our poet is fortunate -in such a friend, yet such high constancy is not -less than his deserts.”</p> - -<p>This frank speech gave pause to the Queen. When the -worst had been said of her, a robust commonsense remained -the keystone of her character. These were men -she was bound to respect. And to hear them express -such unqualified opinions in regard to this play-actor had -the effect in some degree of modifying her attitude. -Besides, she herself believed the playwright to be a very -remarkable man. But the combined testimony of such -men as Pembroke and Raleigh made it clear that he was -even more remarkable than she knew him to be.</p> - -<p>“My Lord Burleigh,” she said abruptly, addressing -Cecil, “let this man Shakespeare be brought to us. We -will hear what defence he will venture of his froward -conduct.”</p> - -<p>The Lord Treasurer quitted the room at once, in obedience -to this command. Burbage, Pembroke and Raleigh -would have followed him, had not the Queen ordered -them to remain where they were.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVII">CHAPTER XXXVII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HERE was a long five minutes of most uncomfortable -silence between the four curiously diverse -persons in the Queen’s morning chamber. Gloriana -was not disposed to conversation just now. For one -thing she was deeply offended. And at the best of times -she was a difficult woman, and age and infirmity had -made her morose. Her long life as a reigning sovereign -had been neither more nor less than an orgy of despotic -power. And such a condition does not make for human -amenity, particularly in the case of one in whom a love of -tyranny has become second nature.</p> - -<p>The plain truth was, that Gloriana was hard and cruel. -And these three men were only too well aware of the -fact. Each of them felt a grave uneasiness in regard to -the fate that was likely to overtake the man for whose -life and liberty they were there to plead.</p> - -<p>At last, the tapestried door of the chamber opened to -admit the returning Cecil, who gravely ushered in the -culprit.</p> - -<p>The playwright entered the room with a serenity, an -unconcern that could only have been exhibited in such -circumstances by one who breathes an air which is not the -common ether of mankind. The Queen, a close enough -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span>observer when it pleased her to be so, was impressed by -the almost majestic simplicity of this man. His three -friends, so jealous for his reputation, could only rejoice -at it.</p> - -<p>“Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen, arrogantly, “it -had not been our intention to hear you in your own defence. -We had meant to leave the whole matter to those -who know in what sort to deal with it. But three very -good and true friends of yours have come forward to -plead your cause: one, as I understand, an honest man -who follows your own calling, has even gone to the length -of offering his own life in exchange for yours; and my -Lord Pembroke and Sir Walter Raleigh each offers the -half of his fortune as the price of your ransom.”</p> - -<p>For the moment the self-possession of the poet forsook -him, so deeply was he moved by the loyalty and -the self-sacrificing devotion of his friends. He lowered -his head in the manner of one completely overcome. -The sensitive lips trembled, the deep-set eyes filled with -tears.</p> - -<p>“You have good friends, Master Shakespeare.” The -tone of the Queen was so matter-of-fact, that she might -have been merely discussing a plain affair of business. -“And no man can have friends so true as these and so -honorable in reputation without having a character sufficiently -worthy to entitle him to them. Therefore, it is -for this reason, and for none other, that I have decided -to hear you in your own behalf. But, pray understand, I -hold out no prospect of leniency. You have been guilty -of such wicked folly that I do not doubt that a charge of -high treason will lie against you.”</p> - -<p>By this time, the playwright was once more completely -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span>master of himself. He stood to confront the Queen simply -and without fear.</p> - -<p>“Let us hear your defence, Master Shakespeare, if defence -you will venture to make.”</p> - -<p>“Your grace,” said the player, in his gentle voice, “on -my own part, I offer no defence. Freely and fully I accept -all responsibility for any hurt I have done to justice. -But having done none that I know, I take my stand upon -the innocence of my intention.”</p> - -<p>The light of anger flamed in the Queen’s eyes.</p> - -<p>“Don’t use so many words, sirrah,” she said, sharply. -“Come to the issue. I am a plain woman, and I ask -for plain words and few. For what reason, I will ask -you, have you embraced these devious ways?”</p> - -<p>The player met with calm eyes the harsh glance of the -Sovereign.</p> - -<p>“If it be treason, your grace, to befriend the innocent,” -he said, “I will gladly pay the penalty of my crime.”</p> - -<p>The eyes of the Queen sparkled ominously.</p> - -<p>“The innocent, sirrah! Pray, what do you mean by the -innocent? Is it the part of innocence, I ask you, to engage -in a plot to take away my life?”</p> - -<p>“No, your grace,” said the player. “And may it never -be permitted to one of your subjects to say otherwise.”</p> - -<p>“Then may I ask why you take the part of those who -have done so?”</p> - -<p>“I have but taken the part, your grace, of one accused -wrongfully.”</p> - -<p>“Do not impugn the Queen’s justice, sirrah!”</p> - -<p>“God forbid! But, in this instance, I make so bold as -to affirm that a grievous miscarriage has occurred.”</p> - -<p>“God’s blood, sirrah!” cried the Queen, “I would have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span>you be wary. If you dare to impugn the integrity of our -courts, and you cannot make good your ill words in -every particular, you shall make heavy payment for such -a contumacy.”</p> - -<p>The player showed neither hesitation nor alarm, yet the -hostility of the Queen’s demeanor must have daunted -all save the very stout of heart.</p> - -<p>“Far be it from me, your grace,” he said, “to impugn -the integrity of that which no man in this realm should -ever call in question. But no human assembly can be -wholly free of error. And in this most grievous matter, -I swear to your grace before God that there has been a -truly terrible miscarriage of justice.”</p> - -<p>The eyes of the Queen grew dark with menace.</p> - -<p>“Prove your words, sirrah. And if ye fail, God help -you.”</p> - -<p>“Readily will I prove them,” said the player, with a certain -triumph in his voice. “I hold the proof in my -hand.”</p> - -<p>As he spoke, he struck his hand into his doublet and -produced the written confession of Simon Heriot. He -gave the paper to the Queen.</p> - -<p>With a cold fury sparkling in her eyes, Elizabeth -handed the document to the Lord Treasurer. She commanded -him to read it to her.</p> - -<p>Surprise, excitement, incredulity were evoked in that -tyrannical bosom by the minister’s perusal of this document. -But not for a moment did her native keenness of -mind desert her.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, my lord,” she said, “is this an honest and -genuine document?”</p> - -<p>Cecil scrutinized the paper closely.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span></p> - -<p>“It bears no evidence, your grace, as far as one can at -present see,” said the Lord Treasurer, cautiously, “of its -being a counterfeit. But it would be well, perhaps, to -have further and more expert testimony upon the subject.”</p> - -<p>“Let this man, Simon Heriot, be at once summoned,” -said the Queen.</p> - -<p>“Alas! your grace,” said the player, “Simon Heriot has -been ten days dead. This is his dying testimony.”</p> - -<p>The Queen shook her head suspiciously.</p> - -<p>“I like not this matter,” she said. “Who are the -others named in this conspiracy?”</p> - -<p>“One William Muir, your grace, and one Robert Grisewood.”</p> - -<p>“Let them be brought to me instantly.”</p> - -<p>“Unhappily, your grace, William Muir has fled the -country.”</p> - -<p>“Has he so!” said the Queen, sternly. “Then what of -this man Grisewood? So lately as yesterday, with my -own eyes, I saw him here. My lord, let the man be -brought to us immediately.”</p> - -<p>Cecil left the room in order to carry out these instructions. -But in a few minutes, he had returned with -the information that Grisewood was not to be seen anywhere -within the precincts of the palace. Having regard, -however, to the great urgency of the matter, the Lord -Treasurer announced that he had already dispatched a -troop of horse to fetch the man from his lodgings in the -Strand.</p> - -<p>“It is well,” said the Queen, grimly.</p> - -<p>With a curt nod, she dismissed all save Cecil from her -presence, saying she would confer with them again -presently.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXVIII">CHAPTER XXXVIII</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">T</span>HE four men, Shakespeare, Burbage, Pembroke, -Raleigh, waited in the Queen’s ante-chamber, -there to abide the issue. Long they waited. It -was a far cry in those days from Richmond to the -Strand and back again. Shakespeare alone was without -concern. The others were gravely uneasy. The Queen’s -vengeful temper was much to be feared, and Cecil was -by no means a person to be trusted.</p> - -<p>The friends of the player were convinced that he had -adduced a genuine proof of the innocence of Gervase -Heriot. They were satisfied, moreover, that he -had been inspired by no other motive than an overmastering -desire to affirm justice, truth and mercy. -Nevertheless, the turn things were taking made them -painfully anxious in regard to the outcome of the whole -affair.</p> - -<p>The Queen, for all the native vigor of her understanding, -was a mass of prejudice and caprice. She was bitterly -resentful of the inconvenience that had been caused -by the player’s wanton interference. Again, a man like -Grisewood, with his back to the wall, could be trusted to -fight tooth and nail for his life. He would lie, that was -certain. He was bound to deny the authenticity of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span>slender evidence that had been adduced in a manner so -fortuitous.</p> - -<p>The upshot was likely to be that the affair would resolve -itself into a battle between a villain and an honest -man. It would become a question in that event as to -whose word the Queen would accept. Already the player -was out of favor. And when it came to a question of -holding the balance even between him and another, when -it came to weighing judicially the words of each, it was -most probable that the mind of a capricious woman would -prove incapable of giving him fair play.</p> - -<p>Yes, the friends of the player, as they sat silent in the -Queen’s antechamber to await the arrival of Grisewood -were uneasy indeed. The man was known as a cunning, -plausible, unscrupulous adventurer. He was not likely -to be over-nice as to the means he used to save his neck. -And one and all felt that already the case was prejudged.</p> - -<p>Presently Pembroke and Raleigh, who were officers of -the Household, withdrew. The playwright and his friend -the tragedian were left together. The hearts of both -were too full for speech. The time passed very slowly. -Each hour seemed interminable. The day wore on but -still there came no summons to the Queen’s presence. -After a while, food was brought to them at the instance of -a friendly official. But they were without appetite, and -did not touch it. Their minds were wholly preoccupied -with the subject of life and death.</p> - -<p>In all that long time, which seemed interminable, not a -word was exchanged between the playwright and the -tragedian. Yet in the manner of a pair of children, they -sat very close together, the hand of Burbage holding that -of his friend. He was his elder brother, his protector; he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span>felt an overmastering desire to shield that shy and delicate -spirit from the harsh rebuffs of fate.</p> - -<p>At last, about four o’clock of the afternoon, came the -dread summons to the Queen. It was conveyed by the -Lord Treasurer in person. There was nothing to learn -from that lofty and formal mien. The measured deportment, -the detached air told nothing. He who so often -was called to be the arbiter of life and death in the daily -routine of his high office betrayed not the least emotion. -Indeed, the grim question now at issue appeared to touch -him not at all.</p> - -<p>The Queen was taking her ease on a gorgeous gilt -couch. One of her ladies, who was working a sampler in -silk, was seated on a low stool at her side. She was a -dark and handsome young woman with restless, brilliant -and piercing eyes. As soon as the playwright entered the -room, they met his in a kind of challenge, half of cynical -interest, half of mockery. A slow, rather insolent smile -curled her lips. For a very brief instant, the poet was -obviously disconcerted. But almost at once, he had exercised -the whole force of his will and was able to attend -that other woman who held his life in her hand.</p> - -<p>The Queen sat up on her couch.</p> - -<p>“Master Shakespeare,” she said, “I have to inform you -that the man, Grisewood, is dead.”</p> - -<p>“Dead!” gasped the player.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the Queen, “he is dead. He has been found -at his lodging with his throat cut. And there can be little -doubt, as I am given to understand, that he has died by -his own hand.”</p> - -<p>The player stood in silence, looking straight in front of -him. There came a violent surge and onrush of his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span>thoughts. In the sensitive and generous mind, relief for -the good riddance of a bad man was tempered with an -emotion of pity for an end so ignoble.</p> - -<p>“I have to say this, Master Shakespeare.” The voice -of the Queen, which sounded very far away, broke in -upon the heavy tumult of his thoughts. “The death of -this man, Grisewood, removed a most material witness. -He alone could have proved or disproved your statement.”</p> - -<p>By now, however, the playwright had regained full -command of himself. Calmly, he sustained the force of -the Queen’s gaze. The somber yet wonderful eyes were -fixed on the raddled and rather peevish face.</p> - -<p>“Under the favor of your grace,” he said, speaking very -slowly and in the manner of one who chooses his words -with the utmost care, “Sir Robert Grisewood has already -attested to the truth of the statement which I have -made.”</p> - -<p>“In what way, sirrah? By what means?” said the -Queen, sharply.</p> - -<p>“By the taking of his own life,” said the playwright. -“It is a clear confession of the knowledge that he is undone.”</p> - -<p>“How should he have any such knowledge?”</p> - -<p>“He was present yesterday, your grace, in the pavilion, -when I rehearsed the story of his crime. I marked his -livid face among the audience. It is one I shall never -forget.”</p> - -<p>The Queen nodded her head, but did not speak.</p> - -<p>“My eyes were fixed, your grace, upon that man’s face -when I said I held the proof of his guilt. I saw his cheek -turn to the color of his ruff. And by that I knew there -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span>was confirmation of my statement had confirmation been -required.”</p> - -<p>“The man was an arrant coward,” said the Queen, contemptuously. -“But such evidence of his guilt does not -convince me. How say you, my lord?” She turned to -Cecil peremptorily.</p> - -<p>The statesman did not answer the question immediately. -For the moment, that powerful and deep-seeing -mind was much preoccupied. And when answer he did, -it was with the air of a man enfolded by a sense of profound -and settled conviction.</p> - -<p>“By leave of your grace,” he said, “and under your -good favor, I am bound to confess that I share the view -of this matter which is held by Master Shakespeare. In -my humble opinion, the death of this man in such circumstances -is an irrefragable evidence of his guilt.”</p> - -<p>The Queen was now sitting very upright. The lean -features had assumed a look of sharpest inquiry. A -round oath fell from her lips.</p> - -<p>“By God’s body, my lord, I begin to think you are in -the right!”</p> - -<p>She was a woman of capricious temper. The milk of -human kindness flowed an uncertain stream in that sterile -heart. But her ears were never quite deaf to the voice of -reason. Moreover, there were occasions when a sense of -justice overtook her.</p> - -<p>It began almost to seem that this occasion was likely to -be one of them.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, my lord,” she demanded, “is this to say -that you accept, as a matter of sober verity, that the -handwriting of Simon Heriot is contained in this -paper?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace, I am of that opinion.”</p> - -<p>“You are satisfied that the man, Simon Heriot, wrote -this confession with his own hand?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, your grace, that is the view I hold. In the first -place, I have taken the opportunity to compare the writing -in the paper with that of another document in the -same hand. And may it please your grace that I am fully -satisfied that they are one and the same. And, further, I -will add that the death in such circumstances of such a -man convinces me that a grievous miscarriage of justice -has been perpetrated in the case of the young man, Gervase -Heriot.”</p> - -<p>Another round oath rose to the lips of the Queen. She -got up impulsively from her couch. The heart of a -woman had begun to stir in that withered and grotesque -frame.</p> - -<p>“My lord, if that is your opinion, we must go further -into this,” she said. “Upon my life, we must not -send to the ax those who have done nothing to deserve -it.”</p> - -<p>“To that, your grace, I say amen with all my heart,” -said the Lord Treasurer, assuming an air of simple -human kindness, which really became him very well -indeed.</p> - -<p>“Let this young man, Heriot, attend us here and now,” -said the Queen.</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately, both Mr. Heriot and Mistress Feversham -have already been removed to the Tower,” said the -Lord Treasurer, “until the pleasure of your Majesty be -further known.”</p> - -<p>“Let the young man be brought to us at once,” said the -Queen. “And the girl also.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p> - -<p>“The commands of your Majesty shall be obeyed,” -said the Lord Treasurer. “Both prisoners shall be sent -for immediately.”</p> - -<p>With a low bow, the minister quitted the room.</p> - -<p>A subtle but marked change had suddenly taken place -in the Queen’s manner. She turned to the playwright -with a certain kindness in the hard eyes.</p> - -<p>“Belike, sirrah,” she said, “your play may prove a -comedy, after all.”</p> - -<p>The playwright stood before her in silence with bent -head. In the strong frame, with its tense outlines, was a -profound humility which the Queen was wholly at a loss -to understand.</p> - -<p>“How say you, sirrah? Would you not have it so?”</p> - -<p>“Life is never a comedy, your grace,” said the playwright, -speaking very gently, almost as one who thinks -aloud.</p> - -<p>“A dark saying,” said the Queen, “How say you, -Mary?” She turned, with an ironical air, to the young -woman who was working so busily upon the sampler. -“Perhaps Master Shakespeare will expound it for us out -of the infinite store of his wisdom. You don’t find life a -very tragic matter, eh, my girl, you who have the whole -world at your feet?”</p> - -<p>The august lady gave her gentlewoman a light box on -the ear.</p> - -<p>Mistress Fytton, whose dark and brilliant beauty had -its sinister aspect, rose from her stool with a sigh and a -little laugh.</p> - -<p>“It is the business of a poet, your grace, to be melancholy,” -said Mistress Mary.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I had not thought of that,” said the Queen. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span>“But I suspect, Miss Malapert, you know more of poets -than I do.”</p> - -<p>“God forbid, your grace,” Mistress Mary made a deep -but mocking curtsy.</p> - -<p>“You impudent hussy!”</p> - -<p>And this time, the royal lady gave her gentlewoman so -sound a box on the ear, that it rang through the room.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIX">CHAPTER XXXIX</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">G</span>ERVASE and Anne had been taken the previous -evening from Richmond to the Tower. They -were placed in a prison as dismal as on that -occasion of their first meeting, which now seemed so -far away in the past. But Gervase was better able now -to prepare himself for the grim fate that too surely -awaited him.</p> - -<p>Both these children of destiny had had many weeks -in which to make ready for that which was now to befall -them. Their souls were numb. Long ago, they had -given up all hope of life. Indeed, they had almost -given up all desire of it, such had been their sufferings. -The only boon they now craved of Providence was that -they might be allowed to die together.</p> - -<p>In the course of the afternoon of the first day of -their imprisonment, word was brought to them that the -Queen desired to see them at once, that they were to -be carried before her immediately, and that she herself -would there and then decide their fate.</p> - -<p>They looked for no clemency. Unknown to each -other, the prisoners were borne again to the palace at -Richmond, each in a separate closed carriage, jealously -guarded by soldiers with drawn swords. The gorgeous -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span>sunlight streamed in through the windows of their -coaches, the dust of midsummer whirled around the -wheels, but their minds were withdrawn from all outward -and visible things. They felt they were going to -their death. God grant that it be given to them to embrace -it together!</p> - -<p>On their arrival at the palace, shortly after six o’clock, -they were taken at once to an antechamber, which was -next the Queen’s own apartment. Here they met again. -And the solemn-faced, harsh-looking men who had them -in their care had enough humanity to stand apart, while -Anne yielded herself to the arms of Gervase.</p> - -<p>“Have you the dagger?” she whispered, shaking convulsively.</p> - -<p>“Alas! they have found it,” said Gervase. “If only -I had it now, I would plunge it into your heart ... my -life!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if only you had it!”</p> - -<p>They had not long to wait for the dread summons to -the Queen. All too soon appeared the Lord Treasurer. -At once, he ushered them into the room where the -Queen sat.</p> - -<p>Gervase had cast off his disguise. No longer was he -the aged and bearded Italian music master, but a trim -and rather fine young man, dressed very soberly, to be -sure, yet affecting a style not out of place at that Court, -of which less than a year ago he had been an ornament.</p> - -<p>Anne remained, however, in her charming boy’s dress -of the previous day. The lean grace of outline was rendered -more poignant by the thin brown cheeks, the bright, -grave eyes, the head of close-clipt curls. In the wistfulness -of this frail figure, chastened by the long night -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span>of the soul, there was a pathos which struck at the -hearts of all who beheld it.</p> - -<p>Besides, the Queen and the Lord Treasurer, there was -one other person in the room. Gervase and Anne, for -all that they were passing through a nightmare of dull -terror, were sensible of a presence in the background. -It was their friend the play-actor, grave of look and yet -unfearing; gentle, pitiful, and yet secure of soul. Somehow, -the sight of him who had done so much, who had -put his fortunes to the proof, nay, even life itself, that -he might help them, moved these hapless lovers to new -courage.</p> - -<p>From the gentle face of this man, all compassion, all -tenderness, their eyes sought that of the Queen. That -was a very different countenance. And yet, as those -hawklike eyes met theirs, a curious light ran in them. -It was almost as if, in spite of herself, Elizabeth had -been moved by the sight of this shadowy, yet dauntless -thing, this <i>Rosalind</i> who yesterday had charmed her -with her coquetry, her grace, her sorcery of voice and -look.</p> - -<p>“Mistress Feversham”—the harsh voice seemed to assault -their ears, so sharp it was, so merciless—“I am -given to understand you are a woman. But let me say -that, in the moment I saw you first, I knew that you were -that.” Here the voice fell away with the oddest suddenness. -A tense moment passed in which it seemed -that the sovereign could hardly trust herself to speak. -“And, by God, you are a brave woman! ... a very -brave woman, even if you are a very froward one.”</p> - -<p>The Queen turned abruptly to the Lord Treasurer. -There was a sour and cruel smile on the thin lips.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> - -<p>“Do we understand,” she said, “that there is a boon -Mistress Feversham would crave at our hands?”</p> - -<p>A silence followed the question—a silence in which -Elizabeth and her minister looked without pity upon -the shrinking pair who stood before them.</p> - -<p>In the next instant, Anne had cast herself on her -knees at the Queen’s feet.</p> - -<p>But it was left to Gervase to speak. And he spoke -as one who proudly asks a favor to which he feels he -has clearly established a claim.</p> - -<p>“Your grace.” The young man sank to his knees. -“We crave of your mercy that we be permitted to die -together.”</p> - -<p>The Queen’s answer was a swift glance at the Lord -Treasurer. And then, perhaps, it may have been that -she felt a sudden sting of remorse for the cruel nature -of the play she was enacting. Yet the face of her adviser -was as cold as stone. It bore no trace of feeling. And -it may have been that such an impassiveness smote the -heart of one who, after all, was a woman, with all a -woman’s emotions.</p> - -<p>Involuntarily, as it seemed, the Queen turned her eyes -from Cecil toward that other, that more human witness -of the scene. Unconsciously, as if at the beck of an invisible -power, her imperious gaze sought the mild one -of him whose life was passed in the making of plays. -His face, averted from a sight it could not endure, was -melted with tears.</p> - -<p>Of a sudden, something stirred in the Queen’s heart. -It was such a pang of nature as had not touched it for -many a long year. The time was surely at hand in -which to make an end of the cruel comedy. Upon a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span>quick impulse in which the woman alone bore a part, -and the tyrannical arbitress of life and death had no -share, she raised the unhappy girl in her arms and gravely -kissed her on the forehead.</p> - -<p>“You are a brave thing,” cried the harsh, rough voice. -“By God, you are a brave thing. You shall suffer no -more. Our pardon shall be granted to you, and also to -this young man against whom as we are informed——”</p> - -<p>But the sentence so fraught with destiny was never -finished. The frail form had grown stiff and cold in the -arms of the Queen.</p> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XL">CHAPTER XL</h2> -</div> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="dropcap">I</span>T happened that one afternoon of early autumn, -William Shakespeare rode out to Richmond, as he -had done so many times of late, and sought poor -Anne where she still lay in the house of a good friend. -Her bed was in a charming chamber, from which she -could see the sunlit Thames winding through its green -valley. Gervase, thin and careworn, was kneeling by -the bed, and his arms were holding its frail occupant.</p> - -<p>For many days Anne had lain between life and death. -But the fire of youth was in her veins. She had fine -courage, moreover, pure strength of body, therefore -Nature fought for her. And in the end Nature prevailed. -Yet long after life itself had conquered, it was feared -that reason, the sovereign goddess, would be dethroned -forever in that finely tempered spirit.</p> - -<p>Her friends never gave up hope. Many were the -dark and cruel days in which she hovered upon the verge -of that abyss, by comparison with which death itself is -more than kind. And at last, very slowly, very fitfully, -the wisdom, the patience, the devotion of those that -watched over her met with their reward.</p> - -<p>When at last it became known that the grimmest of all -her perils was past, there were those of her friends who -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span>laid upon a certain famous man as being the foremost -of their number, the happy task of bearing the tidings -to the Queen that all was well with poor <i>Rosalind</i>.</p> - -<p>The player, humble-minded as he was, would have -been the last man in the world to arrogate to himself -any such privilege. But the insistence of Anne’s friends -was strong. Well they knew the valiant part this man -had played. Moreover, the Queen, it seemed, had caused -many inquiries to be made of “the brave thing” who -was fighting the sternest of all her battles. The heart -of the woman had been moved by the gallant story. It -may have been that Gloriana felt that honor had been -done to the sex of which she herself was a foremost -ornament. She may have felt that even in an heroic age -here was a fitting mother for heroes.</p> - -<p>Be that as it may, the heart of the woman had been -melted. And that golden afternoon, William Shakespeare -was the bearer of glad tidings from the Queen -in her palace at Greenwich. She was graciously pleased -to grant a full and free pardon to Gervase Heriot and -Anne Feversham.</p> - -<p>There was a look of joy in the face of the player as -he entered her chamber with the high news. He found -her propped up with pillows, thin as a ghost, but her -eyes were no longer wild. By the side of the bed knelt -Gervase. One arm clasped the frail form that now was -all his life; and in one hand he held the newly printed -and authentic version of the tragical history of “Romeo -and Juliet” which he was reading to Anne in his gentle -voice.</p> - -<p>“Ah, here is the author himself.”</p> - -<p>Gervase laid the book down on the counterpane and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span>rose with a shy smile. The lovers greeted their friend, -to whom they owed everything, with shining eyes. The -player’s apology for so unseasonably disturbing them was -humorously tender, but such news admitted no delay.</p> - -<p>“I am the bearer of great tidings,” the player cried. -“All is forgiven.”</p> - -<p>There came a silence, and then “All!” gasped Anne.</p> - -<p>“All,” said the player. “All is forgiven you by Gloriana -in her clemency.”</p> - -<p>Again a silence.</p> - -<p>“But my father!”</p> - -<p>The three simple words seemed almost to tear at the -heart of the poet.</p> - -<p>“All is forgiven him also.”</p> - -<p>That also was true.</p> - -<p>“But why does he not come to me? Is it that he will -not?”</p> - -<p>Alas, that was a question the poet dare not answer. -The plain truth was he knew not in what sort to answer -it. As soon as the Queen had been apprised of Sir -John Feversham’s complete innocence, almost her first -act had been to order his immediate release from the -Tower. But even when a free pardon had been granted -to him and he was once more at liberty and no longer in -danger of losing his head, he was yet a very unhappy -man. He was as one completely overborne by the sense -of his daughter’s crime. Even as she lay in her extremity, -he could not be induced to visit her, nor even to -speak of her. And now that the awful force of her -suffering was past, and wan and spent, yet with mind -at last clear and reasonable, poor Anne waited in vain -for her father’s coming. A powerful nature had been -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span>wounded to the depths. It was not the act of filial -treachery that Sir John Feversham found unforgivable; -it was the disloyalty to the august sovereign whom he -had served all his days that he found impossible to overpass.</p> - -<p>Now it chanced that one man, and he the most devoted -among all the friends of Mistress Anne had had the wit -to realize the why and wherefore of this. Shakespeare -saw clearly that even if the outraged father had been -able to forgive, the loyal and devoted subject yet found -it impossible so to do. And no sooner did this tender-hearted -maker of plays realize that such was the case -than daring greatly he went to the Queen.</p> - -<p>“That is a matter, Master Shakespeare, in which we -may never be able to move,” was the Queen’s answer. -“And yet perhaps....”</p> - -<p>For the present, the player felt he must rest content -with that.</p> - -<p>In the meantime, the author of the tragical history of -“Romeo and Juliet” had to suffer the entreaties of this -pair of young lovers that he should remain and read to -them a portion of that wondrous tale of love which he -had given to the world in the spring tide of his own -youth.</p> - -<p>The poet was not proof against the importunities of -these children of destiny whom he had come to love with -a father’s tenderness. Therefore he took his book presently -from the hands of Gervase and sat at the bed foot. -In his low and clear voice he began to read the immortal -story.</p> - -<p>Hand in hand, their fingers intertwined, Anne and -Gervase listened with strange rapture. That recital was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span>ever afterwards to be a landmark in their lives. The -romance which ravished their ears had its parallel in -their own experience. They could live again their hours -of supremest exaltation. Was it not all distilled in those -magical pages? It has been the destiny of this story of -ill-starred love to evoke the wide world over the tears -of those who have known a great passion. But here -were two who had greatly loved to whom even the author’s -own rendering of the exquisite story brought no -tears.</p> - -<p>To such a nadir of the spirit had these twin souls -descended that it seemed to them then that they could -never weep again. They could never weep again, yet -were they very far from being unhappy. Still, even -now they could hardly realize the nature of the miracle -that had happened to them. Gervase was a free man; -life and liberty had been granted to him; Anne had been -given back her reason; and henceforward the only fetters -they were to know were to be the silken one each -imposed upon the other. Yet it was all very hard to -realize!</p> - -<p>While the poet continued to read his noble invention -he was gravely preoccupied. His thoughts were forever -straying from the creatures of his fancy to that wan and -fragile thing propped up with pillows who looked as if -she could never smile nor weep again. If only Sir John -Feversham could come to his daughter now! If only the -forgiveness of that just man could be granted to her! -Even as he read, the words of the Queen were ever in -his ears. “It is a matter, Master Shakespeare, in which -we may never be able to move. And yet perhaps...!”</p> - -<p>The poet, however, had wrought better than he knew. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span>His plea to Gloriana had not fallen barren on those august -ears. The girl had earned absolution by her courage, -nor had the Queen been slow to make her pleasure -known to Sir John Feversham.</p> - -<p>And so it came to pass that the poet was still seated at -the bed foot reading aloud to these children of destiny -his entrancing tale of love when a servant entered the -room. A few words were whispered into the poet’s ear. -And then with a sudden startled smile, William Shakespeare -laid down the book on the bed and went hastily -out of the room.</p> - -<p>It seemed that a miracle had happened. Sir John -Feversham had arrived at that house, was waiting below -and was desirous of seeing his daughter.</p> - -<p>Only a very little while was William Shakespeare -gone from the room. He had soon returned, to usher -into the sunlit chamber a man who looked strangely -bent and old. His hair was perfectly white. Sir John -Feversham had changed much in appearance. And the -events of more than one lifetime had been crowded -into poor Anne’s experience since last she had seen her -father.</p> - -<p>At first she did not realize who the frail man was with -the snow-white hair who had come into the room.</p> - -<p>It was not indeed until this grave personage informed -Anne that he was come from the Queen with a -present and a message that she recognized her father. -And even then it may have been the slow and deep melancholy -of the voice that told her. She gave a little wild -cry, and clutched Gervase with a sudden pang of terror. -But there was nought in her father’s voice nor in his -bearing to inspire it now.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p> -<p>With a gesture all humility, as one who knows that the -will of man is little, and that man himself is hardly more -than a puppet in the hands of fate, Sir John Feversham -knelt by the bed and gave his daughter a kiss on the -lips.</p> - -<p>“It is the token of the Queen’s forgiveness,” he said, -“which I am commanded to bring you.”</p> - -<p>Anne shivered. Dry-eyed and in silence, her arms were -flung round her father’s neck. It was as if she also had -come to understand that she was no more than a plaything -in the hands of fate.</p> - -<p>The Queen’s messenger rose from his knees. And now -for all his look of frailty which was almost pitiful, he -had the tense and vital air of a man of affairs who is -proud to serve a great sovereign.</p> - -<p>“Further I am bidden by the Queen’s majesty,” he -said in his slow and melancholy speech which was yet like -a fine and rare music, “to bestow upon you, Mistress Anne -Feversham, in her name, this chaplet of pearls.”</p> - -<p>As Sir John spoke he took a small shagreen case out of -the lining of his cloak. It contained a small necklace.</p> - -<p>“At the Queen’s behest, thus do I place it round your -throat, Mistress Anne Feversham. Moreover, it is her -Majesty’s express command that you be well and strong -again by Twelfth Night, since noon of that day is the -hour her Majesty has appointed for the celebration of -your nuptials with Mr. Gervase Heriot in the Chapel of -her grandfather within the Abbey at Westminster. The -Queen hopes herself to be present on the occasion. And -I am further to inform you that on the eve of that day -Mr. William Shakespeare, to whose efforts on your behalf -the late signal acts of the Royal clemency are wholly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span>due, has undertaken to present a new interlude to the -Queen and the ladies and gentlemen of her Court. His -former ones, the Queen commands me to say,”—Sir John -Feversham bowed to the playwright who with a grave -smile bowed to him again—“have been much admired.”</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter transnote"> -<p class="ph2 nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes"><span class="smcap">Transcriber’s Notes</span>:</p> - -<p class="no-indent">Apparent misspelt words have been changed as follows:</p> - -<p class="no-indent"><span class="tnindent">—“glamor” has been changed to “glamour”, page 16;</span><br /> -<span class="tnindent">—“answerd” has been changed to “answered”, page 114;</span><br /> -<span class="tnindent">—“numscull” has been changed to “numskull”, page 156;</span><br /> -<span class="tnindent">—“ab hoc” has been changed to “ad hoc”, page 162;</span><br /> -<span class="tnindent">—“curtesy” has been changed to “curtsy”, page 310.</span></p> - -<p class="no-indent">All other spelling has been left as typeset.</p> - -<p class="no-indent">Hyphenation has not been made consistent across the book.</p></div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ANNE FEVERSHAM ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. -</div> - -<div style='margin:0.83em 0; font-size:1.1em; text-align:center'>START: FULL LICENSE<br /> -<span style='font-size:smaller'>THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE<br /> -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK</span> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person -or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the -Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when -you share it without charge with others. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work -on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the -phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: -</div> - -<blockquote> - <div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most - other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions - whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms - of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online - at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you - are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws - of the country where you are located before using this eBook. - </div> -</blockquote> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project -Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg™ License. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format -other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain -Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -provided that: -</div> - -<div style='margin-left:0.7em;'> - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation.” - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ - works. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - </div> - - <div style='text-indent:-0.7em'> - • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. - </div> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right -of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™ -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread -public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state -visit <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/donate/">www.gutenberg.org/donate</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate -</div> - -<div style='display:block; font-size:1.1em; margin:1em 0; font-weight:bold'> -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. -</div> - -</div> -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/67774-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/67774-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9ffc9e1..0000000 --- a/old/67774-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/67774-h/images/i_cover.jpg b/old/67774-h/images/i_cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 6797e59..0000000 --- a/old/67774-h/images/i_cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/67774-h/images/i_title.jpg b/old/67774-h/images/i_title.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9c541fa..0000000 --- a/old/67774-h/images/i_title.jpg +++ /dev/null |
