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.