Chapter II: Part 2

The man Bame paused not a moment on reaching the road, but hastily crossed the bridge over the moat, passed through the wide gate and strode on toward the south. Although he walked with alacrity, a galloping rider coming in his wake had overtaken him before he entered the street now known as Threadneedle. Crowds of people were moving in all directions, but the broad-brimmed hat of the man on foot and his long coat could be easily distinguished, and the rider, slackening his horse’s pace, rode only fast enough to keep this figure in view.

Contrary to the expectation of the rider, Bame, instead of going into and through Poultry Street, turned northerly and passed into Lothbury, by the residences of rich merchants, by the Lothbury entrance of the Windmill tavern, which was once a Jewish synagogue, by the low-built stone shops of coppersmiths and founders of candlesticks, lamps and dishes, and around the corner of the Old Jewry. Here before an arched entrance of the long stone building, known as the Old or Prince’s Wardrobe, he encountered a broad-shouldered man in leather doublet and jerkin, and, as the two halted for a moment, Tabbard dismounted and tied his horse at the corner of the parish church of St. Olave.

Tabbard could not overhear the conversation between the two men; but as they moved, he followed to a building with quaint gables projecting over the broad windows of two upper stories and a wide stone entrance, above which was a great crown made of iron, set in the grimy wall, and painted red. It was the house in which Thomas à Becket first saw the light of day. Bame and his companion entered this building, and Tabbard, leaning against a thick window frame near the door, and on a level with his breast, looked through one of the small squares of glass.

Several candles had already been lighted in the room, for the high walls of the structures facing on the street, aided by the fog, made the interior as obscure as the hold of a vessel with closed hatches. He saw a man with periwig clapped on his gray head, beard trimmed like an ace of spades with sharp end down, and a loose taffeta gown, girt at his gross waist by a buff leather belt. He filled a chair large enough for two men as slender as Tabbard, and had his eyes been less confused by waking suddenly from a comfortable nap, or wide open instead of blinking, he might have seen the curious outsider.

Even Bame’s self-possession was disturbed in the presence of the awakening conservator of the peace, and as noiseless as a drummer in retreat from battle, he bowed most humbly.

“Well,” thundered the dazed justice, “who now, Gyves? Is this thy last catch? And is it bail or the jail? What----”

“Nothing of that sort, your honor,” interrupted the constable, for such he was.

“No,” began Bame, gaining confidence in himself from the knowledge that the justice required some information which he could advance, “I am Richard Bame, who swore to the accusation of blasphemy against----”

“Tut, tut, I know thee,” exclaimed the justice, cutting him short and reaching across the table for a folded paper, “here, Gyves, this is the warrant,” he continued. “It hath lain here to await information of the whereabouts of the rogue. And where is he?”

“At the Dolphin tavern, in Bishopsgate, without the wall,” answered Bame.

“I know not the place. Is it within the ward?”

“’Tis next outside the gate.”

“Then the arrest can be made there by this constable.”

“True, your honor,” murmured the latter, “it is the new ale-house this side of Fisher’s Folly where the bowling alleys are.”

“Get you off, rascal, and bring him in.”

“He is a young man and wears a black cloak, scarlet doublet, and cap with white feather. His horse is gray and perchance you may meet him on the road,” said Bame impressively and repeated the description, while the constable kept nodding his head in token of the reception and retention of the words.

As the constable came from the justice’s office into the street he ran into Tabbard who had purposely placed himself in his way. The latter gave utterance to a groan and limped as Gyves stammered an apology for his apparent clumsiness.

“My leg,” whined Tabbard, “is badly knocked. You must help me to the wine room of the Windmill across the way.”

“I can do that much for you,” returned the constable, taking his arm, and across the uneven street, not yet lighted by the watchmen’s lanterns, nor disturbed by the bellman’s drowsy tinkling, the scheming Tabbard proceeded with his prospective comrade for an evening’s carousal. Meanwhile the man left at the Dolphin tavern, settled his bill, mounted his horse and was riding down Bishopsgate Street toward London Bridge.

THE DRAWN SWORD.

_Therefore sheath, your sword;_
_If you love me no quarrels in my house._

* * * * *

_Here must no speeches pass, no swords be drawn._

--_Jew of Malta, ii, 3._

_Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up._

* * * * *

_Beat down their weapons.--Gentlemen, for shame,
Forbear this outrage:_

--_Romeo and Juliet, iii, 1._

The plague, which thinned the population of London in 1593, was not wholly confined to the city and its suburbs. Several of the villages lying adjacent had been unable to bar its visitation. Travelers on foot, on horse, or by boat upon the Thames, had aided in spreading the germs. At the village of Deptford, situate three and a half miles from London Bridge, cases had increased so that a quarantine had, as early as June the first, been established against all boats approaching the city side. It was not so easy to delay travel along the public roads, and as yet the town lay open for another visitation should the cases already within its limits be suppressed.

Two wayfarers had been struck down before the Golden Hind that day. Dodsman, the landlord of this Deptford tavern, had allowed them to be carried around to the stables, and left there to die, which they did before night; and then, because of fear of infection, he had discharged his two servants who had attended them. It was a duty that he owed to the traveling public, so he asserted, and there seemed weight in the assertion. It is to be supposed that any case within the tavern walls would also have vitally affected his interests; for he knew not whether the legal obligation to mark a red cross on the outer door, with the text under it of “Lord have mercy upon us” was strictly confined to the limits of London. As it was, this double death-stroke had carried consternation into the crowd of refugees who, fleeing this far, had complacently halted for the epidemic to die out. If they did not depart on the morrow, it would be because they trusted more to tavern walls than to the open road.

On this particular night, being the night of the day on which our narrative begins, the tavern doors were closed. Only storms had heretofore kept them from being open until midnight at least. There was no reason to believe that death might not just as easily enter through the keyholes as through open portals, and throttle one at the fireside; but closed quarters seemed to assure safety. Dodsman, at least, felt no fear when thus shut within his tap-room; and his constant rule was to interpret other people’s feelings by the state of his own when in like situations.

With his fat hands resting on the thick sill of a window, he stood looking out into the uninviting night. The diamond-shaped panes of variegated colors were not the clearest material to look through, but they were transparent enough for him to see that the lantern hanging from the arm of the high sign post at the tavern’s front was lighted. The rays of this signal light had sufficient penetration to reveal the wooden figure of a gilded deer, of life size, mounted upon the sign post, and any belated traveler upon the fog-wrapped road could by these rays alone have seen the red-painted facade of the building, its bulging upper windows and the pedimented entrance.

The tavern had been erected early in the reign of Henry the Eighth, so that the sunshine and tempests of eighty years had fallen upon it. It was of two stories, the second with bay windows; and its rambling front, plastered and painted red, rose close to the edge of the highway. A few straggling dwellings of Deptford lay on the north and west side of it, but the town proper lay so far to the south and east that the tavern itself might almost be termed a wayside inn. There was another house for travelers, at Redriffe, but this was much meaner in pretensions, and interfered little, if at all, with the business of the Golden Hind. The pretensions of the latter were considerable, if from the gleams of art and the occasional display of extravagance in the interior decorations, were to be drawn an opinion in regard to want, or excess, of show.

There was stucco work in the ceiling of the tap-room, not plain, but bearing raised arms, which better befitted the walls of the dining room of some castle. In each corner, close to the ceiling, were medallion figures of satyrs, while full-length images of these sylvan demi-gods danced on raised panels in the center of each side of the room, painted there with apparent reckless abandonment. One smaller than the others was over the door, another was between two square windows at the north, another repainted so that the original lower goat legs and hoofs of the figure were surmounted by a like body and head and horns, shone, in broken colors, from above the bar, while the last of the four, recently retouched but not altered, stood out on the wide chimney above the black fireplace.

This satyr was not the only decoration of the chimney-piece, for above it a great bat extended its dusky wings, and under it hung a long bow such as were even then used at the practice of archery in Finbury Fields, and other commons in the vicinity of London.

There were other paintings in the rooms besides those in the panels. From the cracked appearance of their canvas, and dingy hues, they gave evidence of greater age than the cruder work of the former; but of the collection of the portraits of two kings, one landlord and an oxhead, not one would have been attributed to an Italian master. Which were of the kings and which was of the ox could be still distinguished upon careful observation.

The bar ranged on one side, and seemed of different growth from the room, for there was nothing ornate about it except the decanters and bottles on the shelf behind it. It appeared to have been dragged in after some predecessor of Dodsman had planned to adapt the room to uses other than those of dining, for which it had been originally designed. Hence, tap-room it was, with its sanded floor, round tables, uncomfortable wooden chairs, wherein the unrest of occupants could only be drowned in sack or ale, despite the inharmonious garnishments of walls and ceilings.

At the moment the landlord was staring through the window, the short hand on the copper face of the old clock behind the bar was pointing to the figure eight. Several candles in bronze holders at the angles of the chimney, and at both ends of the bar, were blazing; and above the room’s center, the immense brass chandelier hung with every one of its big lamps lighted. Directly under it stood a round table bearing on its top several silver mugs.

At the table were three men. They were all young in years, without trace of past cares, and undisturbed with apprehensions of the future. Two of the trio were attired in black doublets and hose, and to judge by their dress or faces were little likely to attract attention in any place. Their dark cloaks were hung against the wall at the back of their chairs, and their hats were on the floor beside them.

The other member of the group was of more distinguished appearance. His age was apparently thirty years. Although smooth-shaven and of British cast of countenance there was something about him that bespoke the foreign extraction of the man. It was not in his speech, for his English accent was perfect; neither was it in his dress, for that, although rich and elaborate, was clearly of the style peculiar to the better class of London residents. His coat of buff color, with loose sleeves, was edged with ruffles at collar and wrists, and was the most striking feature of his dress. He appeared a gentleman of quality, and as though he recognized his superiority over his companions, he kept his head covered with a broad-brimmed felt hat. It was thrown back on his head so that the long black plumes touched his shoulder.

The two men first described were members of the Earl of Sussex’s company of actors; their companion was one known as Francis Frazer, nicknamed the Count by those who had heard of his asserted claims to an estate on the continent, or had known him before his imprisonment in the Tower, from which place he had issued under his present name. He claimed to be a member of the scattered family of La Marche, of royal lineage, but driven by the fury of the civil wars of France to remain an exile from that country.

His recitals of the wrongs suffered by his father, and the obstacles that impeded his own return to the land of his nativity, were confused when, at times, he became communicative over his cups. In sober moments a veil, impenetrable as steel, concealed from chance companions even the events of the yesterday of the man; and chance companions were all that he associated with. He had no followers, no local habitation, and was looked upon as an adventurer.

His constant disappearances from one haunt for months, and then reappearances, without word of departure, notice of expected return, or disclosure of the place and purpose of his absence, naturally made him an object of suspicion. Once he had been thrown into the Tower, and, after languishing for two years under a charge that fell to pieces when the attention of the body in authority was turned to it he was liberated, but not without a warning for him to keep himself in retirement. It was because of this warning that he had adopted the name of Frazer.

On this evening the two actors and Frazer had been thrown together in the tap-room. One of the former and Frazer had met before, so that, from their first calls for ale, there was enough of good-fellowship between them to keep the cup circling. Besides the mugs upon the table, was another article that seemed strangely out of place. It was the naked sword of the so-called Count, with its basket hilt close in front of the owner. It lay there glistening under the light of the lamps like a menace to good cheer and humor. The handle of the sword and the handle of the mug were constantly encountering each other, as the owner, at intervals, reached for, quaffed from, and reset the latter.

Its presence had raised no comment, until the red-headed tapster, in placing a re-filled mug upon the table, spilt some of the contents upon the glistening steel. In doing this he had reached across Frazer’s knees and before he could withdraw his arm and fully recover his balance, a strong hand caught him by the shoulder and flung him backwards upon the floor.

Dodsman turned from the window, as he heard the fall, and the clatter of an empty mug. He circled around the sprawling man and approached the group, which was laughing boisterously at the tapster’s mishap. Mine host, concealing his anger with the policy of one who knew that the dents in his silverware could only be offset by the fund which must follow from the carousal, simply said:

“How now, fellow? Curses upon thy clumsiness,” to his man, and then looked inquiringly at the Count.

“He’s wet the blade which only blood should stain,” said its owner, drawing it across his knee. Again they laughed.

“And why is it drawn except in defense of honor, or the Queen?” asked Dodsman.

Frazer scowled, but the host with his white beard, red cheeks and pleasant eyes was no mean appearing person, and the former felt called upon to say:

“When death stalks so close to one as he has for the past two weeks in London streets, it is well to have thy weapon drawn at all times.”

“A ready reply,” returned Dodsman, “but of no great weight.”

“Well,” said the other, “if straight answer you must have, I had drawn it to exhibit it. It is seldom that a blade of this character falls into the hands of any one save a peer of the realm. Look at it closely, mine host,” he exclaimed, holding it aloft in the direction of Dodsman, and wielding it with the ease and grace of one accustomed to its use.

“Dost see its variegated watered appearance?” he continued, “like those of Damascus make. Such it might be deemed to be, but here it bears the stamp of Andrea de Ferrara. How many two-edged blades of Toledo didst thou ever see drawn?”

“Few, good Count, but the less the better. This is a quiet house. I aim for the entertainment of those, whom, whilst they here talk war and duels, go elsewhere to engage in them.”

Several loud knocks at the outer door now resounded through the room. The tapster, who meanwhile had raised himself from the floor, shot back a bolt and drew in one wing of the two massy doors. The darkness of the night could not conceal the mud-set stones of the pavement, for the lights of the room streamed upon them. A man stood there, with cloak wrapped close to his form and as high as his eyes, apparently to keep from his face the increasing fog of the night. He held the bridle of a horse in one hand and handing this to the serving man, he strode into the room. As he swung back his cloak, the face was disclosed of the man who had ridden with Tabbard from Finbury Fields.

One of the two actors recognized him at once and cried out:

“Welcome, Kit. Thy tankard is ready.”

He turned from noticing that the time by the clock was only a few minutes past eight, and with a remark to Dodsman to see to it that his horse was properly fed and bedded, went over to the party of three men.

“Already lodged near Sayes Court?” He spoke interrogatively.

“Yes,” rejoined one of the others. “You know the Count?”

“Most assuredly,” he answered.

Frazer nodded his head with the remark: “I remember the one occasion.”

“In the tireing room at the Curtain, last winter, when between the acts in Tamburlaine, you showed me the counter parades in quarte and tierce. I have since put the lesson to good use, and have brought the house down by its exhibition. Didst thou ever see him fence, Bartol?” he inquired of the actor who was seated opposite himself.

“Not I,” answered Bartol.

“It would do your heart good unless the encounter were in real earnest and thyself an actor in it. And then thy life would not be worth a tuppence. How ready lies thy blade for an occasion of that kind,” he added, noticing the sword still laid across the table.

“Your praise is high,” said Frazer. “As for the sword, the hilt, when in its place, interferes with my elbow when I drink.”

“Three reasons now for its drawing,” murmured the landlord to himself, as, near at hand, he had been quietly listening to the conversation. “The fourth reason will undoubtedly be the true one.”

“And when did you leave the city?” asked Bartol.

“Nearer seven than six by the clock in the tower at the Southwark end of the London Bridge,” answered the late comer.

“Did you pass the morris-dancers?”

“Will Kemp and his company?”

“Yes, they left here late in the day. His taborer and two pretty dancers were with him,” said Bartol.

“They were performing on the bridge as I rode across it. I reined in my horse near the center of the bridge before the chapel of St. Thomas. There they danced in the narrow way, with nearly every inhabitant of the bridge either standing crowded in a circle around them or looking out of the windows of their darksome shops. It delayed me long.”

“But not against thy will, I am sure,” remarked Frazer, looking searchingly at the speaker, over his raised cup.

“And why so?”

“Were the fair dancers no attraction? If they were not, there must have been something pulling thee strongly in this direction. Perhaps it is a fairer lady.”

He seemed to speak advisedly.

“True,” chuckled the landlord to himself, “and I wonder does he know that she who was once the sweet maid of Canterbury lieth here?”

“If so,” returned Marlowe with some irritation caused by the tones of Frazer, “it is not a matter either for mention or discussion.”

“We will drink to her,” interrupted Bartol, “be she fair or plain, maid or spouse, young or old. Here is to thy loadstone, Kit.”

“Not without mention of her name,” said Frazer, coldly.

“You will drink to her unknown or not at all,” responded Marlowe, with considerable animation.

“Then not at all,” returned Frazer.

The two men stared at each other as though the breath of a coming quarrel had touched their faces.

“Come,” exclaimed the actor, who thus far had remained silent. “This is a raw gust that bloweth. If the gentleman knoweth a lady, I warrant she is sweet enough for all glasses to be emptied in her praise and honor. But he has not said that he knoweth any. And, on the other hand, if the other gentleman hath some one in mind, whom he would not pledge in reckless sort, is that not good reason to let his lips go dry? Come, Dodsman, hast thou a box and dice?”

“Tug, the box,” said the landlord to the tapster.

“Is it to be at hazard?” asked Bartol.

“What you will,” answered the other.

“Set down thy mug,” he thundered to Marlowe, who seemed wrapped in other thoughts.

“And Count,” said the landlord, “I will set thy sword here against the wall.”

“Well, enough,” smoothly remarked the one addressed, who, adventurer as he was, at mention of the dice let all his thoughts of quarrel slip.

“You three play,” said Marlowe, “I will look on.”

“As usual----” began Bartol.

“With only the dregs of a once full bottle,” muttered Marlowe, finishing his friend’s remark.

A CLASH OF STEEL.

_I know, sir, what it is to kill a man;_
_It works remorse of conscience in me;_
_I take no pleasure to be murderous,_
_Nor care for blood when wine will quench my thirst._

--_II Tamburlaine, iv._

_Though in the trade of war I have slain men,_
_Yet do I hold it very stuff of conscience_
_To do no contrived murder. I lack iniquity_
_Sometimes to do me service._

--_Othello, i, 2._

The excitement of watching the game of hazard, in which Frazer and the two actors had become engaged, was not sufficient to absorb the thoughts of the man who was simply an observer. At each lucky throw of the dice, he longed to become a participator in the game; and at length, smothering his early fears of being left penniless, he placed a sum of money upon the table, and was soon rising and sinking with the vicissitudes of chance.

His one angel rapidly grew into a brace of gold pieces, and with the increase of his success the stakes were raised in proportion. Still sweet fortune breathed her hot breath upon his cheeks and the other players muttered morosely and swore savagely at each rattle of the cup and roll of the cubes.

The business of the tapster had not been stayed by reason of the excitement of the play, but on the contrary it led him back and forth from the bar, to the round table under the lit lamps, with movements which were scarcely interrupted by an interval of rest. All of this was quietly observed by Dodsman, who, having lighted a pipe of long-leaf and ensconced himself, with almost closed eyes, in a tilted chair near at hand, kept repeating to himself the lines:

“Now let them drink, till they nod and wink,
Even as good fellows should do,
They shall not miss to have the bliss
Good ale doth bring men to.”

Bartol had at length offered to pledge his long cloak, and after a haggle about the sum to be raised, in which the repetition of the drinking lines was interrupted, Dodsman had advanced the owner ten shillings upon the article. Again the play went on, and the copper clock had struck the hour of nine. Its strokes had been unnoted even by the man who upon his late arrival had marked that hour as one of joyful summons. There were hot heads, at that time, at the table, and no sounds except those arising upon its upper surface and close around its edges were noticed.

The door opposite to the outer entrance opened and a serving man entered. He looked sharply at the four men at the table, and then, limping across the floor, touched the man in scarlet doublet on the shoulder. The latter turned his head and the menial said:

“A word with you, sir.”

It required no words for Marlowe to understand the nature of the proposed communication; for the interruption had brought him to the realization of matters outside of the circle he had just broken. But in order to learn the exact import of the words tendered him, he withdrew with the man to one side.

“I come to tell you,” said the servant, in a whisper, “that you are expected.”

“Now?”

“At once.”

“At the door----”

“With the carved panels,” muttered the serving man, as Marlowe placed a silver piece in his hand.

The rattle of the dice still continued.

“Take my place at the table,” said Marlowe, approaching the landlord, and then he added to the players, “I will return immediately.”

He had no reason to believe that he would make a prompt return, but as most of the money which had been wagered lay in his own pockets, he felt it incumbent upon him to avoid any remonstrance by making this statement. If he had noticed the changing color of the Count’s face, and the determined expression that gathered upon it at this moment, it might have caused him to have paused at some point along the line of his proposed venture to ascertain the reason of this apparent solicitude; but it had escaped his observation.

A moment after his departure from the tap-room he was hurriedly ascending the stairway in the Golden Hind. His haste, although like that of one pursued, was occasioned wholly by the force of attraction. He had no cause to believe his time limited, nor that any one might be enough interested in, or disturbed by, his presence there to attempt to thwart him.

It was true that Tabbard had spoken of some one, who that day had caused the lady to cut short her message for him; but such person may have been merely a friend whom she did not desire to know of her converse with the serving-man.

In his haste he had not stopped to make any inquiry of Dodsman concerning the lady’s friend or friends at the tavern. If he had considered for a moment, he would have remembered that both Manuel Crossford and his daughter had been well known to the landlord, and the occasion of her presence here could have been easily ascertained. He had thought of making such inquiry prior to his entrance, but the three men, and later the game of hazard, had diverted his mind. Besides these diversions, the many cups of ale which he had drained were not conducive to quick wit or sober thought. However, his failure to learn more of his surroundings occurred to him as he climbed the stairs, but no lover at the last step to the tryst ever yet turned back for an answer which in any case could not have swerved him from his course.

“I suppose I shall run into the arms of her morose and irascible sire, before I catch a glimpse of her face,” he thought.

He reached the second story, passed along the hall a short distance and then halted. The door that stood before him was emblazoned with a shield lying flat against two spears. They were carved on the center panel, which occupied nearly the whole space between the posts. There was no other portal displaying elaborate decoration. The walls and ceiling of the passage were timbered with chestnut, without finish and in striking contrast to the door. This was undoubtedly the entrance to the room into which, as told by Tabbard, the woman had so hurriedly disappeared. It stood ajar, as though speaking an invitation to enter without knocking. Without hesitation he pushed it open.

The room revealed was at one end of the tavern and its two latticed windows overlooked a side street. The walls were unrelieved except for a red arras hanging against the center of one, a black chimney-mouth breaking the dead surface of another, and the two windows setting deep in the wall furthest from the door. The few pieces of furniture were of antique manufacture, and a carpet--an unusual article for houses at that period, except city inns and private mansions--lay upon the floor. A table stood near the chimney, and on it was a candelabrum. All of its lights were burning.

If the fact of the existence of these general outlines of the room and its intimate belongings, were conveyed to the brain of the intruder, he was unconscious of the same, for their projection upon his retina was destroyed by the sight of one sole object. At the creak of the hinges, a woman, seated on a chair beside the table, raised her eyes. It was this living figure that rushed into his vision with a violence productive of slight symptoms of syncope.

The eyes which caught and returned the glance of his own would have glorified a face of even the meanest features, so wonderfully brilliant were they, so tender in their expression; but the countenance that they illumined was perfect in outline, and not dependent upon the eyes to win the admiration of the dullest observer. The curve of her dark and finely-pointed eyebrows could have successfully eluded the imitation of a painter, and their color was in striking contrast with the wealth of golden hair which crowned her low and broad forehead. If the chin and nose gave evidence of determination and ability to control, they did not detract one iota from the beauty of the whole. But the mouth was as much the mirror of the soul as were the eyes. The pink lips bespoke the keenest sensibilities, and their delicate contour proclaimed even in repose that they were ready torches to convey the fiercest blaze of passion.

While she remained seated, it could not be determined whether her figure was in keeping with the beauty of her face. But that such was the case could be assumed from the queenly poise of her head, supported on a neck, which, if in marble, would have been attributed to the execution of a Greek chisel. The latter was exposed, for the high ruff, invariably worn at that period by ladies, had been removed for the sake of comfort. This assumption of grace of proportion was confirmed into absolute knowledge, when upon seeing the figure of a man in full view upon the threshold, she rose from her chair.

It was her movements, perhaps, more than her figure that would have drawn the concentrated gaze of a crowded drawing-room upon her. The perfect symmetry of her form and rich eastern look, however, would have held attention long after the magnetism created by the grace of her carriage had lost its spell. If her movements, entirely aimless so far as concerned an ordinary observer, could have exerted such influence upon the latter, it would be difficult to imagine, much less describe, the effect upon the one who unconsciously was the magnet that attracted this veritable Cleopatra.

He may have trembled with emotion; a mist may have gathered in his eyes; his dreams of eternal fame now assuming a definite mould may have been shaken into mere figments of the brain in the presence of this, to him, the only reality of life, of time, of eternity. But whatever were his sensations, or their outward expressions, they were drowned and hidden in the tumult of his passion as the woman threw herself into his arms.

No words needed to be spoken in this sacred communion of minds. Even a whisper would have jarred the perfect communication of thought and feeling. Amid more auspicious surroundings, no disturbing element could have intruded; but even in the faintness produced in the woman by his impetuous assault upon her lips, she shook with apprehension of coming evil.

“Cease, cease,” she gasped, endeavoring to disengage herself from his arms. “Ah, you know not our unsteadfast footing.”

He did not release her, but the sound of her voice broke down the floodgates of his long voiceless thoughts. They came in a torrent.

“Why are you here? Why have you been silent? Didst thou not love me? What is the meaning of thy splendid dress, thy demeanor that showeth contact with more luxurious modes of life than those to which you were late accustomed?”

“O, Marlowe, Marlowe!” she exclaimed in answer, “my life has been cast amid rapids upon whose surface I have been as helpless as the drift. Through all, thy image has been before me; but apparently with face unresponsive to my silent appeals. The reconciliation for which I prayed has come at length, but, ah, too late.”

“How? I do not understand. Why do you so speak? Too late? How is thy situation changed? My love for thee is still the same as of old. And I were dull of comprehension not to interpret this exhibition of feeling on thy part as a symbol that the old love, which you once bore toward me, remains.”

“Yes,” she answered, “but hopeless.”

“Why hopeless? Speak, speak!” he demanded.

“There is no safety,” she protested. “Danger lurks about us. Even now we may be trifling with death. Frazer departed only an hour since to see a friend on a vessel that lies at the wharf in the town. He contemplates a voyage to Italy.”

“Frazer?” questioned Kit, still embracing her, not yet realizing the real condition of affairs.

“Yes, the Count,” she answered.

And at that moment, as though in answer to his name so faintly spoken, the Count appeared at the open doorway.

While sudden had been the passage of Marlowe from the lower room to the one in which he now stood; while his pausing at the door and his greeting of the woman had consumed but an additional moment, enough time had passed for the so-called Count also to withdraw from the tap-room, and make the same passage. It had taken longer, for he had attempted to make it noiseless. His following of Marlowe had not been occasioned by groundless suspicions of the latter’s purpose in withdrawing from the tap-room. Although he had never had cause to suspect his wife of infidelity, he was convinced when he noticed the departure of the actor that a meeting was about to take place in which he, himself, had a vital interest. This conviction was the result of his having accidentally heard the words which his wife had spoken at noon that day to Tabbard. This request of hers for a meeting with some one, coming close, as it had, on the heels of a quarrel, concerning the contemplated voyage to the continent, made him suspect an elopement. With whom it was to be attempted he had obtained no knowledge. Soon after their marriage, Anne had realized the intensely jealous nature of the Count, and this had kept her from any mention of her old lover. At the meeting between husband and wife, immediately after his overhearing her words to Tabbard, the Count had kept his own counsel. As night came on he had lulled all fears of discovery which she might hate entertained, by departing with the announcement that he was going aboard the “Petrel” and would return near midnight. He went no further than the tap-room, where, awaiting developments, with the calmness of one who knowingly holds a winning hand, he had met and watched the three actors. It was not until Marlowe arose at the summons of the serving-man that the Count’s suspicions became centered, and as the lower door closed on the former’s withdrawal, the latter with hasty remarks of disinclination to continue the game, also strode from the room. He had not even paused to sheathe his sword, and with it held in tense grasp pointing before him, with one, foot advanced into the apartment and the other on the threshold, he stood a spectator of the ardent meeting of the lovers.

It might be thought that the vitality of the mind’s picture of a scene from human life depends upon the peculiarity or vigor in action of the original. But that the duration and strength of existence of such a picture is not to be measured by this criterion is shown in our evanescent remembrance of even the most thrilling plays. Upon what principle is it that a scene is perpetually held in unfading colors in the shifting gallery of the mind? How is it that one particular spectacle in the vast panorama of daily vision is alone singled out, and swept into our dreams forever? It is never our voluntary selection, for it is frequently a scene of direst woe, or horror almost indescribable, all of which we would willingly forget.

In determining these questions we turn our thoughts from the object to the recipient, and we find that the secret lies in the condition of sensitiveness of the latter at the moment of impression. Thus, if at that moment, the soul is at the point of supreme exaltation, or in the lowest depths of despair, the object that brings about a sudden and absolute change of feeling becomes one of the undying pictures of the mind.

This explains why it was that Anne’s view of the Count in the doorway, at the moment of her surrender to Marlowe, shot every feature, every line, every shade of the face of the former, as he then appeared to her, into the chambers of her brain and fastened them there forever. Even at her dying hour, obscuring the visions of the then wished-for countenances of those she loved, was that face with its gleaming eyes, its air of desperation and insolent command, its cheeks on which the flush of wine and the pallor of suppressed rage contended for exhibition, its nostrils expanded into a sneer, and its lips expressive of determined violence. It was the picture of an avenger gloating over the assured prospect of the near fulfillment of a murderous vow.

The woman in her fright had disengaged herself from the embrace, and with the apprehension of coming disaster written plainly on her face, stood at one side gazing at the two men. As she did so, she could not restrain an exclamation of wonder at the striking resemblance between them. They were of much the same height and figure; both faces were devoid of beard; their features seemed to have been cast in the same mold; their flashing eyes of somewhat similar color, and the dark hair of each hung heavy and luxuriantly. She had thought of this resemblance before, and it was the first attraction she had discovered in Frazer, and the last that had continued to bind her to him. But at no time had she considered this resemblance so pronounced as this meeting proved it to be. They seemed like two brothers in appearance, and the impending combat was like a horrible travesty of life furnished solely to excite her commiseration.

Marlowe had turned and half drawn his rapier, while his cloak, hurriedly unclasped at his throat, had fallen to the floor. It was the Count who first broke the oppressive silence.

“My suspicions were right,” he said, looking at the woman. “And thou,” he hissed, glaring at the man, “draw thy sword. I could kill thee like a rat, but the boldness of thy entry here entitles thee to more consideration. Thou art not a coward in every sense of the word.”

He deliberately turned like one who had a grave, but not a dangerous task on hand, shut the door and bolted it. As he turned he calmly rolled back the ruff from his sword hand, and threw his hat whirling from his head.

Marlowe, in the meantime, with his eyes glancing from one to the other of the two persons thus confined with himself, had drawn his weapon. Not yet did he understand the cause of the woman’s alarm, nor why this man with rude intrusion and with an air of injured dignity and violence, faced and threatened him at the sword’s point. His face was blanched, his hand trembled and he involuntarily retreated for a step or two. He knew the expertness of the man before him in handling a foil, and he could not prevent the knowledge of his critical situation from displaying itself by outward symbols.

Frazer smiled at his evident distress.

“You fear me,” he said.

The other did not respond, but he made a further effort to conceal his anxiety, and more attentively observed every movement of the man who was thus forcing him to mortal combat. From what he had previously seen of Frazer he had not been impressed with the idea that he was possessed of a superabundance of courage, and he could not but entertain the opinion that the confidence and bravery now displayed arose from the fact that his own inexpertness was thoroughly known. He is probably a coward at heart, he thought, and with this he regained confidence in himself.

“I did not know,” again said the Count, “which one of the three was expected here. The exhibition of my trusty sword was no warning, it seems.”

“You must hold the characters of those with whom you come into contact in light consideration, if you think that merely the showing of a sword would keep one in awe,” retorted Marlowe, ruffled by the remark.

“What! I thought you had swallowed your tongue in your fright!” exclaimed the other, with a sneer.

“Look to it that yours is not wagging its last,” returned Marlowe, sternly.

The lights of the candelabrum on the table burned as steadily as those of a death-chamber. They threw the shadow of the Count against the red arras, behind which, in the alcove, stood the bed for the apartment; and more darkly projected the figure of his antagonist upon the white wall between the latticed windows. They showed the colorless face of the woman which, with its sad expression, was of such striking beauty, that in the momentary glimpse afforded at the point of non-action, one would have scarcely noted the grace of her carriage or the elegance of her attire.

“By what pretended infringement of any rights of thine do you force this duel?” asked Marlowe.

“Pretended!” sneered Frazer. “Is not your presence here a violation of all the sacred rights of a home?”

“What, are you this lady’s husband?” asked Marlowe, and with amazement he looked at the woman, who did not endeavor to return an answer.

“Your question is ill-timed,” exclaimed Frazer, advancing. “Defend yourself!”

He lunged forward, but Marlowe had thrown himself on guard, and the thrust was skillfully parried. The blades rang sharply, and it seemed that the candles blazed upward with a fiercer light. The Count assumed the aggressive from the first; but if his demeanor indicated his real feelings, it was that of an executioner rather than an avenger. He was cool and deliberate, showing neither passion nor fury. As contrasted with this, his opponent fought with the strength of despair. Whether it was that the woman read these expressions, or that the moves of the combatants interpreted to her the situation and its probable final issue, she felt that nothing but a miracle could avert the impending calamity. She saw, as in a glass darkly, the bleeding body of her lover, and with a cry she fell forward on her knees at Frazer’s feet.

“Spare him, Count,” she moaned.

She had clasped his knee; but never taking his eyes from those of the man before him, he rudely shook her off.

“So, it is I you would see slain,” he muttered, savagely.

His opponent was showing greater skill than he had anticipated, and his face grew graver in its expression. Clash, clash, clash, rang the blades, and the stamp of feet upon the checkered carpet grew quicker and heavier. Still the actor retreated in curves around the room, and still the Count pressed him.

Suddenly the unforeseen happened. The Count found his foot entangled in the folds of the cloak which Marlowe had let fall upon the floor. He endeavored to kick it aside but lost his equilibrium. The other became the aggressor, and with a desperate lunge, as the Count stumbled, he thrust his rapier blade deep into the eye and brain of the latter. The stricken swordsman gave utterance to a savage but suppressed cry of pain. The temporary check to his fall only increased its impetus when the rapier was wrenched from its lodgment, and with a crash he descended to the floor.

All sounds lay hushed with the fall. The living man looked speechlessly at his antagonist outstretched with face downward on the carpet, and still retaining a dying clutch upon the hilt of his sword. The end had come so unexpectedly that for a moment the survivor did not grasp the full extent of his victory nor the consequences of the deed. He leaned over the unfortunate man and turned him on his back. He saw that he was beyond the aid of earthly power. He heard him breathe in gasps, and then, trembling like an aspen, he dropped his own rapier upon the floor and leaned back against the wall.

THE COVER OF HIS FAME.

_Come death and with thy fingers close my eyes,_
_Or if I live, let me forget myself:_

--_Edward the Second, v, 1._

_Oh God!--Horatio, what a wounded name,_
_Things standing thus unknown, shall leave behind me!_

--_Hamlet, v, 2._

The termination of the combat awakened feelings in the woman varied in their character and following one another with the speed of successive thoughts. She was stunned with the suddenness of the close; horror-stricken with the violence of the catastrophe; elated with the escape of Marlowe, find tremulous with sympathy for the unfortunate slain. In her silent prayer for the deliverance of Marlowe, she had only thought of it through deliberate truce, or interference from without. No idea of his escape through the death of his antagonist had occurred to her. She could not have prayed for such catastrophe, and even the wish was foreign to her mind. All the confidence that Fraser had displayed had been impressed upon her, and there had been nothing in the prolonged, though skillful, resistance of Marlowe that had raised a doubt over the dreaded outcome.

Faint with her loss of hope for mercy on the part of Frazer, she had crept to the door with the idea of throwing it open and alarming the house. With one hand on the bolt and the other on the knob she had turned her face for a last look at the combatants. It was at this moment that the coup de grace was given. She turned about and started forward with a low cry, partly of relief, partly of anguish, partly of horror.

There was something in the agonized face of the wounded man, that, while it awakened her pity, repelled her. He was still clutching his sword as though to thrust it at his unseen adversary, and the point of the trembling blade danced on the carpet. Her impulse had been to afford him succor, but the sight of his dying struggles, and the weakness of her limbs prevented. She sank on a couch before one of the walls, and, as though fascinated by the scene that had rendered her momentarily powerless, she continued to gaze upon it.

The morbid curiosity that controls an observer of the strongest agonies appears to give the lie to the belief that man is naturally humane; or why does resistance against impending death attract more than beauty or the peacefully sublime? Our resistance against observation availeth not, until the issue is no longer in doubt. Is it not because the glow and fire of intense action is communicated from the actor to the spectator? for even frailty of physical body, or purity of mind can not close the eyes at that point where in the supreme struggle neither life nor death appears to have complete mastery? But when the horror has reached its climax, interest fails with the cessation of action, and if death hath prevailed, then at length we hide our faces.

Thus it was that the woman was controlled; thus it was that, speechless and with straining vision, she caught every move of the man before her. His struggles grew less; his gaspings more prolonged and choked, until with a last effort he partly raised himself and then fell back motionless. The death-rattle escaped from his lips, and from the ensuing silence, the woman knew that the body upon the floor was lifeless; but she saw it not. She had long desired a separation from this man, but not at such sacrifice. She thought not of it then, even with the old love returned and every obstacle apparently swept aside. It was the thought of murder done that surged in and out, and in and out, of her mind.

And Marlowe, still against the wall, seemed reeling with the burden of his thoughts. He saw not the woman with terror-stricken face before him; he saw not the flaring candles, the fallen chairs, the naked swords upon the floor, the bleeding body near his feet. All these objects were before his open eyes, but the horror of the scene had bred new and shifting phantoms. The spirit which in quiet meditation had bodied forth the good and evil angels of Faustus, the harnessed emperors of Tamburlaine and the dying Edward, now saw itself in body hounded by the officers of the law; saw the impassive judge, the dull jury, and the shadow of the gallows.

He saw the honors of Cambridge blotted with stains indelible; the averted face of Walsingham, his patron; the sad countenance of Manwood, under whose flattering praise and financial aid he had pursued his studies. And, closer still, he saw the troubled and pallid face of that one woman, who, with steadfast faith in his genius and undying hope in his ultimately glorious career, prayed ever for him under the home-roof in Canterbury. Was she--his mother--to hear of his trial, and death under sentence of the law? And Marlowe, what of thyself?

In the train of these dark presentiments of what the material life promised, came now the heavy clouds wrought through consideration of the aspect of his ideal world. The treble darkness of night was about him. The dreams with which he had nursed his ambition vanished. And that ambition how deplorably annihilated. He who had written:

“Virtue solely is the sum of glory,
And fashions men with true nobility,”

required no posthumous lines to point his place among the immortals. What dramas stood on the same eminence with Faustus and Edward the Second? Were not the gates of the inner temple opening wide before him? Were not his fancy’s wings gathering strength for greater flights? The flush of youth at nine-and-twenty was upon him; the fate of a murderer awaited him. Of reasoning faculty sublime, he shuddered at the thought of his name being eternally linked with crime.