"We are all apt to hear voices in the moonlight, my Lord," Mr. Betterton rejoined simply. "The Artist hears his Muse, the Lover his Mistress, the Criminal his Conscience."
His unruffled calm seemed to exasperate his Lordship's fury, for he now appeared even more menacing than before.
"And did You perchance hear a Voice to-night, Sir Actor," he queried, his voice hoarse with Passion, "warning You of Death?"
"Nay!" replied Mr. Betterton. "That Voice whispers to Us all, and always, my Lord, even in our Cradles."
"Then hear it for the last time now, and from my Lips, you abominable Mountebank!" my Lord cried, beside himself in truth. "For unless You draw aside that Curtain, I am going to kill You."
"That is as you please," retorted Mr. Betterton simply.
"Stand aside!" commanded his Lordship.
But Mr. Betterton looked him calmly up and down and did not move one inch.
"This is a most unwarrantable Interference," he said quietly, "with the Freedom of His Majesty's well-beloved Servant. Your Lordship seems to forget that every inch of this Floor is mine, and that I stand on it where I please. I pray you, take that Paper—that Message—elsewhere. An it came down from Heaven, read it—but leave me in Peace."
"I'll not go," asserted my Lord harshly, "till you have drawn aside that Curtain."