“God’s blood, sirrah!” cried the Queen, “I would have you be wary. If you dare to impugn the integrity of our courts, and you cannot make good your ill words in every particular, you shall make heavy payment for such a contumacy.” The player showed neither hesitation nor alarm, yet the hostility of the Queen’s demeanor must have daunted all save the very stout of heart. “Far be it from me, your grace,” he said, “to impugn the integrity of that which no man in this realm should ever call in question. But no human assembly can be wholly free of error. And in this most grievous matter, I swear to your grace before God that there has been a truly terrible miscarriage of justice.” The eyes of the Queen grew dark with menace. “Prove your words, sirrah. And if ye fail, God help you.” “Readily will I prove them,” said the player, with a certain triumph in his voice. “I hold the proof in my hand.” As he spoke, he struck his hand into his doublet and produced the written confession of Simon Heriot. He gave the paper to the Queen. With a cold fury sparkling in her eyes, Elizabeth handed the document to the Lord Treasurer. She commanded him to read it to her. Surprise, excitement, incredulity were evoked in that tyrannical bosom by the minister’s perusal of this document. But not for a moment did her native keenness of mind desert her. “Tell me, my lord,” she said, “is this an honest and genuine document?” Cecil scrutinized the paper closely. “It bears no evidence, your grace, as far as one can at present see,” said the Lord Treasurer, cautiously, “of its being a counterfeit. But it would be well, perhaps, to have further and more expert testimony upon the subject.” “Let this man, Simon Heriot, be at once summoned,” said the Queen. “Alas! your grace,” said the player, “Simon Heriot has been ten days dead. This is his dying testimony.” The Queen shook her head suspiciously. “I like not this matter,” she said. “Who are the others named in this conspiracy?” “One William Muir, your grace, and one Robert Grisewood.” “Let them be brought to me instantly.” “Unhappily, your grace, William Muir has fled the country.” “Has he so!” said the Queen, sternly. “Then what of this man Grisewood? So lately as yesterday, with my own eyes, I saw him here. My lord, let the man be brought to us immediately.” Cecil left the room in order to carry out these instructions. But in a few minutes, he had returned with the information that Grisewood was not to be seen anywhere within the precincts of the palace. Having regard, however, to the great urgency of the matter, the Lord Treasurer announced that he had already dispatched a troop of horse to fetch the man from his lodgings in the Strand. “It is well,” said the Queen, grimly. With a curt nod, she dismissed all save Cecil from her presence, saying she would confer with them again presently. CHAPTER XXXVIII