When the morning came, however, this plan seemed to err a good deal on the side of boldness. In broad daylight it appeared very far from wise to put such trust in a man, who, after all, was no more than a total stranger. Might he not prove, when their story was told to him, one of those zealots whose devotion to the Queen would cause him to betray these fugitives from justice? Still, in spite of all misgiving, Gervase finally determined to take the risk. Even when every argument had been urged on the other side of the question, he still felt that if only they dared to put their faith in this man who had already shown them such kindness, they would not appeal in vain for his friendship. They were about seven miles from Oxford. Having laid out their remaining store of pence on a frugal breakfast they trudged forth and in less than two hours had re-entered the city. CHAPTER XVIII MR. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE had had a bad night. Indeed he had hardly slept at all. For the life of him he could not rid his mind of that tragic matter in which by fate’s unkindness he had come to be an unwilling actor. His thoughts reverted continually to those hapless children of destiny begging their bread in the hamlets round Oxford, while their lives hung by a thread; and to the luckless falconer, man of high instincts and strong tormented soul, pursuing them relentlessly from place to place. To this man, moreover, whatever his God and his conscience might have to say to him, he had been tempted to lie. It was now eight o’clock of another glorious summer morning, and the playwright, looking rather wild-eyed and haggard, sat on the bench before the door of the Crown Tavern as he had done the previous day. But now, instead of holding a mass of papers on his knee he was seeking solace from a thick brown folio lately from the press, North’s noble translation of the Lives of Plutarch. It is strange how events repeat themselves. As on the previous day at that hour, the player suddenly looked up from the page and beheld the identical sight upon which his eyes had then rested. Two nut-brown wanderers were coming towards him, without a noise of music this time, but walking hand in hand as if each desired the sustenance of the other’s courage. Clearly the player was more than a little startled by the sight of them. A curious look flitted across his face. It was almost that of one who has seen a phantom in the daylight. The fugitives were quick to notice that the player’s manner towards them had changed. For all their raggedness his address was far more considered than it had been the previous day. In lieu of the air of light, graceful badinage that had charmed them then was a grave tone which was not without a note of respectfulness. It was as if he had learned since last he had seen them that they were not as they appeared. “I give you good morrow, sir,” said Gervase.