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.