Glancing at Vytal, whose face had gone livid as death, he laughed derisively. “Therefore I blame you not, Sir Soldier,” he added, with feigned contempt, “for planning this secret desertion.” “Desertion!” cried Marlowe. “Fool! Think you John Vytal would desert?” But his outburst was suddenly interrupted by Vytal. “Look to your lock! Have a care, Towaye! an the arrow rises another inch, you fall.” Marlowe regained his aim, yet his thoughts returned immediately to Frazer. “Fool,” he repeated. “’Tis _I_ who—” “Hush!” said Vytal. But the warning was too late, and Frazer laughed once more. “Ay, hush now, an you will, for the secret’s out. ’Twas for this I mentioned Vytal. It shall now be my duty—I may say my delight—to detain _you_.” With an oath Marlowe started as though he would have rushed upon the man who so daringly taunted and harassed them. But a word from Vytal, more sudden and apprehensive than before, again restrained him. “Beware!” Towaye’s bowstring was already pulled, and in the next second an arrow grazed Marlowe’s cheek. With a cry to Manteo the poet rushed forward. “We have him now! Quick! Bind his arms!” “Halt!” For the third time Frazer’s lips seemed to kiss affectionately the horn. “A move, a shot, and, by God, I blow!” The poet, impotent with rage, stood still, and Manteo once more haughtily obeyed the order. Even Vytal, in whose eyes a dangerous light gleamed cruelly, made no advance. A bold plan was quickly maturing in his mind. To hide it he exclaimed, as though chagrined, “Cursed horn, it defeats us! I can fight against swordsmen, not musicians.” Frazer started, seemingly with a new impulse. “So be it, then. I fear not your little bodkin. Come, we will decide the issue with our blades.” Vytal’s plan, however, prohibited a duel. “Nay, there is trickery in the suggestion. Besides, I do not of a choice tilt with stage-jesters.” At this Frazer appeared to become enraged as they had never seen him. “Stage-jester!” he cried, hoarsely. “Dost know, sirrah, who it is you thus address? Who am I?” The question came in a tone of high fury, and, receiving no response, he answered it himself, as if the assertion burst from him against his will. “I am not Frazer, not Ralph Contempt, but Arthur Dudley. Dost hear? Arthur Dudley, the son of Elizabeth and Leicester!” His manner, calming, became supercilious. “Gentlemen, you see before you the heir apparent to the English throne.” “Liar!” It was Marlowe who spoke, and then for a moment there was silence, while Frazer’s lip curled scornfully. “Oh, you doubt me, gentles. Yet I care not.” He took on a grandiose air, whether natural or assumed, they could not tell. “I seek not to convince such men as you. There is one even greater than my mother who knows the truth. I speak of the King of Spain!”[10]