Malone, of course, had been at work. The public had been warned against ‘an impudent imposture’ in ‘a Letter to Lord Charlemont’ (surely the longest ever written) of which Edmund Burke had been so good as to say ‘that he had got to the seventy-third page before he went to sleep.’ It had been necessary to issue a counter-handbill and to distribute it at the doors. ‘VORTIGERN. ‘A malevolent and impudent attack on the Shakespeare Manuscript having appeared on the eve of representation of this play, evidently intended to injure the proprietor of the Manuscript, Mr. Erin feels it impossible, within the short space of time between the publishing and the representation, to produce an answer to Mr. Malone’s most ill-founded assertions in his “Inquiry.“ He is therefore induced to request that “Vortigern and Rowena“ may be heard with that candour which has ever distinguished a British audience.’ Opposition handbills were also in circulation, headed ‘A Forgery.’ The public interest in the play was unprecedented. The doors of Drury Lane were besieged. Within, the excitement was even more tremendous. The house was crammed to the very roof. Many paid box prices though they knew no seats were to be obtained there, for the purpose of getting down into the pit. ‘The air was charged with the murmurs of the contending factions.’ Nothing was ever heard or seen like it within the walls of a playhouse. In a centre box sat Samuel Erin and Margaret. The antiquary had thought it right that they should occupy a conspicuous position and show a bold front to the world, and she had consented to this arrangement without a murmur, for was it not for her Willie’s sake? She looked very pale, however, and when addressed had hardly voice to answer. The vast assemblage in such commotion, the shouts and cries from the gallery, the satirical cries of ‘Author! Author!’—though the overture had not commenced—appalled her. In a small box on the opposite side of the house, sat alone a tall handsome man, as pale as she. He had drawn the little curtain forward, so as to conceal himself from the occupants of the house, and kept his face, which wore a look of great distress, turned towards the stage. Through the folds of the curtain he had stolen one glance at her as she took her seat; but afterwards he had looked no more at her. In the next compartment was another and younger man, who also seemed to have a personal interest in Margaret Slade. His box was full of spectators, but he sat at the back of them, and unseen by her, fixed his eyes upon her from time to time with a searching expression. When the play began, however, he listened to it with the most rapt attention—not a word escaped him—and with every word his face grew darker and more malevolent.