“Hast been,” he asked, vehemently, “to the ‘Curten’ and seen Master Alleyn, here, go through his acting? ’Sdein! The smell of powder, the sight of a musketoon, the glisten of pikes—and what not?—oh, they befool me finely!” The soldier turned to Marlowe, his broad face red with enthusiasm to the roots of his flaxen hair. “It befools me finely,” he repeated. “I remember real rage and blows. Hand goes to hilt instinctively. Now, in this new invention writ by you, Master Marlowe, there is good cause for excitation.” He paused, and, draining his cup, glanced at the actor. “I’faith, Alleyn, when you trod on Bajazeth’s neck to mount his throne, I stood there, too. When you caged the caitiff, I baited him betwixt the bars. When ye fought with him, I cried, ‘Couragio! Bravo! Tamburlaine! Well thrust!’ and when you conquered, ‘Thank God!’ says I, ‘’twas most brave work. There’s no blade in Spain or England can send a knave so quick to hell.’ And that was but a play called ‘Tamburlaine,’ Master Alleyn, all conceived by Marlowe and thee—a pen and a sword together.” Hearing Rouse thus expatiate on the wonders of the drama, the youthful civilian, then known as Frazer, seemed to catch the somewhat turbulent manner of the soldier, and retorted with a sneer of mingled patronage and amusement: “Ay, my good Pike-trailer, you may be thus easily gulled, being of so hot a nature, but we, the less fiery, see through the play-actor’s pretensions.” To this Rouse made no response, having, in truth, an unready wit, and a tongue that, as he occasionally realized, was quick enough to embroil him in controversy, but slow to rescue him therefrom with the preservation of an honorable peace. Marlowe, on the other hand, was naturally far less clumsy in wordy wars, and stood willing to espouse his new friend’s cause in an argument which he, as playwright, was so well fitted to maintain. “How now,” said he to Frazer, “would not a soldier be the first to cry out against mere mimicry of that he holds most noble?”