"No more--no more!" cried Shakespeare, in an ecstasy. "More than completely hast thou made thy bargain good, damsel unmatchable! What! Can it be! Why here have we the very impress of young Hamlet's soul--'To grunt and sweat beneath a weary life'--feel you not there compunction and disgust, seeing in life no cleanly burden, but a 'fardel' truly, borne on the greasy shoulders of filthy slaves!" He turned and paced back and forth upon the gravel, repeating without mistake and with gestures and accents inimitable the lines which Phoebe had dictated. She watched him, listening attentively, conscious that what she saw and heard, though given in a moment, were to be carried with her forever; convinced as well that she was for something in this, and thankful while half afraid. Reaching the end of the soliloquy, Shakespeare turned to the maiden, who was still standing, backed by the warm color of a group of peonies. "Nay, but tell me, damsel," he cried, appealingly. "Explain this power! Art thou, indeed, no other than Mary Burton?" How refuse this request? And yet--what explanation would be believed? Perhaps, if she had time, she thought, some intelligible account of the truth would occur to her. "And have you forgot your bargain so soon?" she said, reproachfully shaking her head. "Away, friend, away! Indeed, the matter is urgent and grave. If, when you return, you will ask for Mary Burton, knowing your task fulfilled, she may make clear for you what now must rest in mystery." "You say well," he replied. "Give me your message, and count fully on Will Shakespeare to carry it with all despatch and secrecy." Phoebe's face grew grave as she thought of all that depended on her messenger. She stepped closer to her companion and glanced to right and left to make sure they were still alone. Then, drawing from her finger a plain gold ring, she offered it to her companion, who took it as she spoke. "If you will show this to Sir Guy," she said, "he will know that the case is serious. It beareth writing within the circle--'Sois fidele'--do you see?" "Be faithful--ay." "'Twill be an admonition for you both," said Phoebe, with a faint smile. "Tell him to be in the lane behind the Peacock garden at sunset to-morrow even with two good horses, one for himself and one for me. Tell him to come alone and to travel by back ways. Bid him in my name--in God's name--close till then, trusting in me that there is need. Tell him to obey now, that later he may have the right to command." "Good!" said Shakespeare. "And now good-by until we meet again." A parting pressure of the hand, and he turned to go to the stables. She stood by the fountain musing, her eyes fixed on the entrance gate of the garden until at length a horseman galloped past. He rose in his stirrups and waved his hand. She ran forward, swept by a sudden dread of his loss, waving her hands in a passionate adieu. When she reached the gate no one was in sight. CHAPTER XIII