He bade Gervase and Anne be of good heart. Yet he withheld the main particulars of his design. He told them merely that his purpose was to ride at sundown to the house of Simon Heriot, that was some ten miles off, in the company of Burbage, Kemp and other of the players. It would be necessary for Gervase to accompany them. With a light of humor in his eye, the playwright assured him that if fortune was kind he had a plan that might prove very pleasant, whimsical and diverting to all except him against whom it was to be directed. “But, tell me, what it is, I pray you?” said Gervase. Shakespeare shook his head. “The hour is not yet,” he said. “I’ faith, it is one of those whimsical matters which endure the performance better than the description. I only ask that you trust me to the full and do my will, whatever it be; and, for my part, I will promise that your case shall not be made in anywise worse than it now is, and under Providence shall be made a good deal better.” Knowing so little of the plan, Gervase found it hard not to be sceptical. But this man had already gained his confidence. He was hardly likely to promise that which he had no prospect of being able to perform. Moreover, there was no reason in the world why he should put a trick upon one in so sorry a plight as Gervase, unless he was an emissary of his enemies. And this the fugitive had no reason to suppose. For had he not treated Anne and himself with unfailing kindness, nay, with something beyond kindness--with a tenderness, a delicacy of compassion which no gratitude could ever repay? Shakespeare presently delivered a solemn charge to the melancholy-visaged John Davenant, of whom there was a tradition that he had never been known to smile. “Right excellent host,” said the player, with a whimsical air, “I would have you place at our disposal about the hour friend Phoebus enters his cradle, the eight trustiest and lustiest steeds to be found in this city. John Davenant, on your honor as a licensed victualler, do I charge you to give the whole of your mind to this matter. An affair of great pith and moment is toward as soon as the sun has gone down.” “Is it that you are leaving us to-night, Will?” said the host of the Crown Tavern, in some alarm. “Nay, mine host. But a choice little pleasantry is afoot, and it demands that all who bear a share in it should be well horsed.” “Well, you are ever a mad faggot,” said John Davenant. “And a man never knows what whimsey you will take next.” “Peace, honest vintner. And upon your life as a famous Christian man, do I charge you to do my behest.” Thoroughly mystified, John Davenant went to carry out these instructions, perhaps a trifle unwillingly. But he was an old friend of William Shakespeare, and although a somber fellow enough on the outside, there was a light of humor within. Besides, he had a very real respect for the moving spirit of the Lord Chamberlain’s Company. CHAPTER XXVI