Shakespeare flung out his arms with a gesture of despair.
"Yet more and deeper mystery!" he cried. "My half-formed plots—half-finished scraps—the clear analysis of souls whose only life is here!" he tapped his forehead. "Say, good lady, has Will Shakespeare spoken, perchance, in sleep—yet e'en so, how could——"
He broke off and coming to her side, spoke earnestly in lowered tones.
"Tell me. Have you the fabled power to read the soul? Naught else explains your speech."
"Tell me, sir, first the truth," said Phœbe. "In all sadness, Master Shakespeare, have you had aught from Francis Bacon? I mean by way of aid in writing—or e'en of mere suggestion?"
"Bacon—Francis Bacon," said he, evidently at a loss. "There was one Nicholas Bacon——"
"Nay, 'tis of his son I speak."
"Then, in good sooth, I can but answer 'No,' mistress; since that I knew not even that this Nicholas had a son."
Phœbe heaved a sigh of relief and then went on with a partial return of her former spirit.
"Then all's well!" she exclaimed. "I am a muse well pleased; and now, an you will, I'll teach you straight more verses for your play."