Henslowe. Was it the youngster passed me in the yard, Caught at his horse and rode like fear away?
Shakespeare. Was’t a pale horse?
Henslowe. I saw not. In the dark A voice cried “Hurry!”
Shakespeare. That was she.
Henslowe. Who? Who?
Shakespeare. Death. She has fled and left her catch behind. Can you do anything?
Henslowe. For the living scarce— You must be got away. Are you known here?
Shakespeare. As men know Cain. All, all is finished, Henslowe!
Landlord [putting his head in at the door]. Is anything wrong sir?
Henslowe. Wrong? What should be wrong? But we’re in haste. Call the ostler! We want a second horse.