“Indeed, Master Poet,” returned Frazer, with an expression less haughty, but none the less amused, as he turned to his new opponent, “I know not, being unfamiliar with men-at-arms; yet I still maintain that the contest being real, as in a bear-fight, the excitement to the majority is greater. The play is but an imitation, and many actors, with all deference to you, Master Alleyn, no more than strutting mimics. I’ve seen stage kings, upon their exits from the inn-yards of their mighty conquests, go home as shambling hovellers. I’ve seen mock heroes, who erstwhile have trailed their pikes and rung their rowels to the tune of Spanish oaths, go white as death at sight of poniard drawn in earnest. But bear-baiting is real. The bear’s a bear, the dog a dog. They know none other rôle than this—to fight to kill, and not for plaudits. Roar, growl, slobber, grasp of shaggy arms, clinch of naked teeth—by all the gods, these things are real! Here, Jack Tapster, another flagon to the bear!” For a moment there was silence following the outburst of enthusiasm. This young Frazer had not a little dash of the reckless, roystering sort, causing the audience to forget his sinister companion, looking on askance with that eye which lay half behind his nose as though in an effort to hide itself from those who might be capable of reading its real expression. The tap-room’s occupants were strongly influenced by what they deemed an eloquent description of their favorite sport. But Marlowe was one of the few who saw deeper. “Even so,” said he, with a sudden outburst of young conceit. “There’s more than battle in my ‘Tamburlaine.’ There’s love, parentage, death in the play. Each day I feel most miserable when Zenocrate expires. A bear dies—that is but the death of a bear. Zenocrate’s death is a queen’s demise—a scene—a picture—call it what you will—’tis art, and in bear-baiting, I tell you, there is no art.” “Ay, Marlowe,” observed Rouse, “excellent well said. I cannot find words as thou canst.” “Art!” exclaimed Frazer, “art! Is that a paint-brush in thy dainty scabbard, Sir Poet?” And again he laughed with a curiously boyish merriment. “Ay,” returned Marlowe, “and its crimson color grows dim. The paint-brush would fain find a palette to mix on and daub afresh, Master Princox.” “A _palate_!” ejaculated Frazer, laughing with genuine mirth; “that sheath must hold an axe then. It’s by the palate wine goes to the stomach, and an axe, so I’ve heard, to the block.” “Ha, but thy wit,” rejoined Marlowe, “‘wol out,’ as Geoffrey Chaucer said. Nay, though, perhaps it is because you watch fearfully the doings near block and gallows that you know so well their manners. Wit—foh! It is easy to play the game of words as Tarlton does. I call it but juggling phrases, and robbing language of its meaning, as a vagabond juggles stolen coin.” “Ay, juggles phrases,” echoed Rouse, with admiration.