In spite of the fact that Markham’s presence in the room had taken Shakespeare altogether by surprise, he seemed to realize the situation almost at once. Gervase Heriot’s air of bewilderment and the falconer’s look of pitiful irresolution served to make it clear that the man’s will had failed when it came to the telling of his story. But it was equally clear to that powerful intelligence that Anne had come very near to divining the grim truth. She was the picture of woe. And her distress could only proceed from one cause. “You say my father is in peril!” Heedless of the player’s presence her words were addressed to John Markham. “And it is because of me.” The falconer did not answer. But his white face answered for him. “Tell me all, John Markham. I must, I will know all.” In the presence of that instancy of will which now as ever held the falconer in thrall, he could not do less than obey. It was in vain that the player sought to check him. In a few broken, brief words, the dismal story was told. “Sir John lies in the Tower, mistress, in peril of his life. He is accused of complicity in his prisoner’s escape. On Monday next, as I understand, he is to be brought to his trial. And it is likely to go hard with him if he makes no effort to clear himself. And that, I am sure, he will not do.” Gervase interposed sharply. “Why do you say Sir John Feversham will not attempt to clear himself?” “For the reason, sir,” said the falconer, gravely and simply, “that in such a case as this, it would not be my master’s character.” “How can you possibly know that?” asked Gervase. The falconer shook his head sadly. “You are not acquainted with my master,” he said. “Even to save his life, he is not the man to tell all that he knows of this matter.” “That is to say,” said Gervase, “he has withheld a certain fact from the Queen?” “Yes.” Despair closed upon Gervase and Anne. They did not need to be told that Sir John Feversham had taken upon himself the whole responsibility for his prisoner’s escape, and that not a word had crossed his lips in regard to the share his daughter had in it. One thought sprang at once to the minds of the fugitives. It was impossible in such circumstances to leave Sir John to his fate. All the laws of honor, of filial duty forbade such a course. “Oh, why did you tell them!” said the player to John Markham. The too sensitive soul felt the stab of tragedy in its inmost fiber. “It was right that he should,” said Gervase. “It was his bounden duty.” Gervase had grown as pale as death, but already resolve had braced his will. He saw at once that only one course was open to him, and that was the one the player himself had foreseen. Yet no issue could have been more tragic. It was death for Gervase, and in the circumstances of the case, it was also death for Anne. All this the player understood, and even the thrice unhappy falconer seemed to realize it.