He kept the humble tone he was wont to use in his present condition. But now a look of pity came into the face of the play-actor. Somehow this entire change in Shakespeare’s manner, together with the nature of the errand on which they had come, served to embarrass discourse. On the side of neither was the lightness and ease of the day before. The few lame sentences they exchanged seemed further to increase the difficulty. But at last said the player suddenly, fixing them both with his gentle but somber eyes: “Sit here, my friends, on the bench beside me and tell me a little of yourselves.” The look of the man was so gravely beguiling that they were fain to do as he desired. How to begin his strange, his incredible story was now the problem for Gervase. How much should he tell? He would take this man fully into his confidence in all that concerned himself, but in regard to Anne it was another affair. Indeed, so little did the part she had borne relate to their present need of this man’s kindness that Gervase was determined not to mention her unless circumstances forced him to do so. It was not easy to begin the story. But, after a moment of awkwardness in which there was a slow gathering of all he had of resolution, the young man took the plunge. “First,” he said, turning his own candid eyes full upon those of the player, “I would have you to know that I am about to intrust my life to your hands.” The player did not speak except that which his eyes spoke for him. “My name is Gervase Heriot,” said the young man. “I am being hunted for my life. I broke out of my prison three hours before I was to die by the ax.” “You say you were to die by the ax,” said the player in a tone so low as hardly to be audible. “For what reason had you to meet a death so sharp and so shameful?” “For the reason,” said Gervase, “that a wicked, covetous man has plotted away my life.” “Why has he done this?” “It is merely because he would succeed to that to which he is not entitled.” “He has sworn away your life, you say?” “Yes, he has himself borne false testimony. And he has suborned others as vile as himself to swear a tissue of lies in order to prove me guilty of a crime of which I am incapable.” “Who, pray, is this infamous man?” “He is my uncle, Simon Heriot.” “And have you no means of disproving this black conspiracy?” “None, alas. My Uncle Simon has a very cunning and subtle mind. His design has been laid very deep. It is a matter of my unsupported oath against those of specious knaves who are well found in the trade of swearing away men’s lives.” The play-actor grew silent. Not for a moment could he doubt that Gervase Heriot was innocent of the crime alleged against him.