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.