As the needle-maker concluded his tale this man smiled knowingly, and the smile had more of meaning in it than of mirth or pleasantness. “There is but one,” he said, that all might hear him—“but one with a brain so addled as to be capable of such folly. And that man, my masters, is none other than John—” But the sentence died on his tongue, half spoken. For Hugh Rouse, who until now had taken no part in the general conversation, came forward from his corner like a great mastiff from its kennel. “Nay, Sir Walter,” he objected, “I pray you make no mention of the man’s name; it will do no good.” For an instant the other’s brow clouded, but, controlling himself with ease, he returned, suavely: “Oh, an you, as the man’s friend, desire it, I keep silence. Ne’ertheless, fool, I call him, name or no name, thus to interrupt a bear-baiting.” Little satisfied with this forbearance, Hugh, whose honest face had been for the moment almost threatening, reluctantly resumed his seat in the corner near Marlowe. “Ah, Hugh Rouse,” observed the latter, in an undertone, “your name neatly fits its owner. But you did well.” In the mean time, Sir Walter St. Magil, whose remarks had been so unceremoniously interrupted by Rouse, was talking in a low voice with his young companion. “The man,” he said, so low that none but the immediate listener could hear him, “is Vytal—John Vytal. We’ve fought together in the Low Countries, but—” and here his voice sank to a whisper, while he glanced furtively about him, “he’s not one of _our_ men.” “Nay, I supposed not,” rejoined the young man, in a careless voice, contrasting strongly with his elder’s caution; “therefore, why consult this fellow’s pleasure?” “Because we might but stir up mischief by opposing the brawling giant. Well I know him, for he is Vytal’s follower. As I live, the man has but few friends, yet those few would die for him.” “Some day the opportunity may be theirs,” observed the other, smiling almost boyishly. “Yes,” assented St. Magil, in a grimmer tone, “but now we must have patience. For the moment let us guard Vytal’s name as carefully as we conceal your own. Which reminds me—I’d almost forgot—what name dost go by now?” “’Tis ‘Frazer’; but give heed! That tale of bear-flogging has set these louts at odds.” He spoke truth, for Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, now not over-steady, thanks to the never-idle tapster, was indulging in an argument with Watkins, the breeches-maker, concerning his favorite entertainment. Entering with them into the discussion, though with less volubility and heat, were Samuel Gorm, a bear-ward, and Alleyn, a young actor of plays and interludes. It was not, however, until Peter expressed the astonishing opinion that “none save a fool would enter a play-house, whereas, every man worthy of the name was at one time or another to be seen in the Paris Gardens,” that Hugh Rouse rushed into the argument in his customary reckless manner.