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.”