Thus men cast in a gentler mold made room for him. He was no favorite, to be sure. His manners were too rude, his opinions too unqualified. But the sacred fire was in his veins. And those who were wont to dispute precedence with persons of far more account in the eyes of the world were proud to sit at the feet of Ben. The long July evening was closing in. The candles had been brought and the shutters drawn in the long upper chamber. And that which hitherto had been hardly more than a thrill of half-expectant surmise was now become a slow agony of suspense. It was incredible that news had not come from Richmond. The play must have been over by six o’clock. The verdict of Gloriana and her court must have been delivered long ago. Was it possible that the miracle of the age had tasted his first defeat? Well, and if he had? said the graybeard at the end of the table. Gloriana and her Court were not infallible. Will should read his comedy to his peers that night, as he had done on many occasions previously. Theirs should be the verdict, for they alone, with all respect to Gloriana, were qualified to give it. The brave words from the table-head were received with loud approval from a score of stalwarts who by now had gathered round the board. Such words were well and wisely spoken. But suddenly there fell a hush. A famous and admired figure came quietly, almost stealthily, into the room. It was that of a bearded, brown-faced man of forty, trim and soldierly of look, secure and curiously authoritative of bearing. His dress was rich and fine; his air that of a courtier, urbane, polished, calm, quizzical. There was the coxcomb in the outward man, but not a trace of it in the far-looking, eagle-glancing eyes. This was a great figure, even in that company, which measured a man not by his outward assemblance but by his deeds. “Ah, now we shall know,” cried the man at the table-head. “Here is Wat. Newly from Richmond, else I’ll never drink sack again out of a bombard until I attain the age of a hundred and twenty.” “Yes, Martin, newly from Richmond, as you say,” came the courtier’s lisp. “Newly from Richmond, newly from Richmond.” The newcomer sank down in a manner of extreme weariness in a vacant chair. He sighed heavily. “A cup of the muscadel for Sir Walter,” said the man at the table-head. “And lively about it, boy. No need to tell us what has happened, Wat. But we did not think it was so bad as all this. We did not think it possible that Will could fail. Is it--tell me, Wat--that Gloriana has smelt some affront in the new piece? Well, well, she is getting old, and even in her prime she was--well, shall we say?--what shall we say?--why, body o’ God, what’s the matter with the fellow?”