The words of _Lear_ were yet unborn. But in such a night and tempest of the soul was to walk that figure which this unhappy man was one day to teach the ages to pity. His head was bare and unbent to the storm; a hurricane lashed the upturned face; he was drenched to the skin; and yet this rage of heaven was as nought to the tumult in the mind of one poor tragedian. And like their friend, wholly undefended from this wild fury of the elements, William Kemp and John Heming stood cowering a little way off in the lee of a wall. All the long night through, in spite of darkness and tempest, they never left him. And when at last came the dawn, and with it some abatement of the frenzy of the heavens, they stood with him still by the bank of the grim river. Drenched to the skin, and utterly weary and wretched as they were, they did not once allow Richard Burbage to pass out of their sight. Wherever he went they must go also; to all that he did they must be a party. Yet only in the last resort must they venture to declare themselves to him. The slow hours passed. Richard Burbage still lingered by that river which in one brief instant would have eased him of his pain. But at last, just as the hour of eight was told by the churches of the city, resolve appeared to brace and quicken the exhausted frame. A new purpose, a new strength enfolded that unhappy figure. Burbage suddenly started to walk briskly along the river bank in the direction of Richmond. Hungry, exhausted, profoundly miserable, his two comrades continued to follow him. All night had they been waiting for some such manifestation of design, for this was a man of powerful and resolute character. It was now more imperative than ever that this vigilance should not relax. They knew not what secret spring of action had moved him. And in his present mood there was nothing of which he was not capable. On and on he walked, briskly now and with an appearance of ever-increasing resolve. Through fair meadows and riverside gardens and hamlets they passed. By ten o’clock, they had left the river below them and were ascending the steep and gloriously wooded slopes of Richmond Hill. Every fiber of the tragedian’s being seemed now in the thrall of his new purpose. Not once did he tarry or look back. All unaware that he was being so closely followed, he turned at the top of the hill into Richmond Park.