“The penalty of high imagination, my friend,” said Richard Burbage, with an air of understanding and sympathy. “You are right, Dickon. The penalty of imagination, as you say. One of these days I will take a revenge upon myself and make a play of it. It is the bitterest thing in the world. There’s no peace in this life for those who suffer it. But I have here a matter in which I crave your help. Sit ye there, by the yew-tree yonder, and I will unfold the most tragical tale that ever came from the lips of man.” Burbage sat as his friend desired. In spite of his colleague’s perplexed face he was prepared for one of those odd, fantastic, whimsical inventions that often enough had been poured into his ear. But this was to prove another kind of matter altogether. The story did not take long in the telling. The tragedian was thrilled by it. He listened with fascinated attention. “And now, Dick,” said the playwright when he had come to the end of the tragic story, “I ask you what is to be done?” “Aye, what indeed!” said Burbage in his deep voice. “God help them, poor souls!” said the poet tenderly. “Amen to that!” said Burbage. These were wise men. There were few of the coils that fate weaves for her children with which they were unacquainted. But here was a matter which in its sinister and tragic complexity seemed to lie beyond their grasp. The problem was indeed a sore one. They were true subjects of the Queen. As loyal, chivalrous and honorable men they could appreciate the cruel pass of the unfortunate Sir John Feversham, and also of the ill-starred falconer. But how was it possible to deliver up two such fugitives, two who were little more than children, who had dared and done so much, to the vengeance of the law? “I ask you, Dick, what is to be done?” said the playwright. The tragedian sat with his head in his hands, the picture of desolation. “Nay, Will,” he said haplessly, “you would do better to consult God and your own conscience.” “An’ I do that,” said the playwright, “a curse will lie on my soul for ever-more.” CHAPTER XVII AFTER their fine repast at the Crown, Gervase and Anne left Oxford at once. Soon they were in the pleasant meadows that lay all about that famous city. It was a really glorious morning of the early summer, with the sun, which day by day had scorched them, more powerful than ever. All the forenoon they wandered idly in the fields. Anne shamed her boy’s apparel by plucking the wild flowers, gathering a great posy. There seemed hardly need for a care just then. They had money enough to carry them through the day and even provide a modest lodging at nightfall. The grass in which they lay for long hours was soft, dry, delicious.