For an instant, the two men stood looking at one another blankly, while Anne’s dismay was so great that she could neither speak nor move. But each of these men had recognized the other already. Beyond a doubt this was the man the falconer sought. Also this was the servant of Sir John Feversham, whom Gervase had encountered in the meadow. Gervase laid his hand to his sword. “Nay, sir,” said Markham, simply. “I am here as your friend, and as--and as the humble servant of my mistress.” The sound of the falconer’s voice broke the spell that had been laid upon Anne. She rose from the table, and in spite of all that she had undergone of suffering, something of the old imperiousness was in her tone. “What do you here, John Markham?” “I bring news, mistress.” “Of whom?” “I bring news of your father, mistress.” “Of my father!” It seemed almost too great an effort for Anne to cast back her mind to the stern man whose very existence she had nearly forgotten. In the stress of those terrible weeks, which had called for all that she had of endurance, her former life had grown so vague, so remote that it was almost as if it had never been. “What of my father?” Tragedy unspeakable was in the falconer’s face. For the moment, a power outside himself forbade his answering the question. Days and nights had he given to this quest, that a load of misery might be taken from his heart. But now that at last his tireless wanderings had achieved their purpose, a force beyond his own will held him captive. The falconer knew as he gazed at his young mistress that it was her life he was about to sacrifice in order to save his master’s. It was her youth and her high devotion in the scale, against one who had lived the flower of his years. Surely it behoved him to have a care. “What of my father?” The man shook his head impotently. “Is he dead?” “No, mistress, he is not dead.” But in the falconer’s tone was that which sent a chill to the heart of Sir John Feversham’s daughter. In spite of himself, Markham had told her that which he would now have concealed. “My father is in peril?” Again there was silence. But the woman’s swift instinct all too soon divined its meaning. “In peril. And it is because--because----!” A shudder went through her veins. She buried her face in her hands. A dreadful anguish came upon the falconer. Any words he would have spoken died on his lips. In the midst of this unhappy scene Shakespeare entered the room. His eye fell on the somber figure of the falconer. And then he saw the piteous face of Anne. “Oh, what have you done!” The player’s bitterly reproachful words were heard only by the falconer. Markham shook his head dismally. Gervase turned a distracted face upon the player. “This man is concealing something,” he said. “What it is, I do not know. Perhaps you can tell us.”