Gervase’s mind was soon made up. He would go at once to London and surrender himself to the Queen. He would start that night or at dawn at the latest, since it seemed to him there was not an hour to be lost. The player, however, had only to learn this impetuous resolve, in order to declare himself strongly averse from it. A plan which promised some hope of deliverance, a very slender one, it was true, had been taking shape in his mind for three days past. Any such precipitancy of action would destroy it. Therefore, he entreated Gervase to defer a step that must prove irretrievably fatal until such time as his scheme might have a chance to mature. Shakespeare well knew how hazardous, indeed how fantastic his plan was. And he was far too honest a man to promise more than its desperate character warranted. But he did all that he could to dissuade Gervase from his intention. He implored the young man not to act until that day week, at which time the Lord Chamberlain’s men had to appear before the Queen. It might then be possible to gain her ear. Gervase, however, would not consent to this. His thoughts were dominated completely by the peril of a brave and chivalrous man. Indeed, it was as much as the player could do to persuade him to defer his departure for London until the next day. Finally, Shakespeare was able to wring a reluctant promise from Gervase that he would not act upon his resolve the following morning, until such time as they had met to discuss it again. And for the time being, at any rate, that was the utmost the play-actor could contrive. CHAPTER XXV THERE was little sleep that night either for William Shakespeare or for Gervase Heriot. The early morning found them together in the inn garden. And as they walked up and down its box-bordered alleys, they talked long and very earnestly and in a manner utterly heedless of their surroundings. In this last matter, they were unlucky. Several of the tavern windows overlooked the garden, and one at least was open wide. This belonged to the room which was occupied by the man Grisewood, who lay sleepless on a comfortless pillow, still tormented by his wound. Unable to rest, he chanced to rise from his couch in the early hours, and thrust his aching head out of the window in order to get a breath of fresh air. His attention was caught at once by the sound of voices and of footsteps on the gravel path below. Then it was he saw the play-actor in deep conversation with the man who had run him through the arm. The sight was enough to summon all that Grisewood had of cunning, and in his case, as it happened, this was a commodity of which nature had been lavish.