There was a minute's pause ere Phœbe turned toward the speaker, that spirit of mischief dancing again in her eyes and on her lips.
"I am Mary Burton, of Burton Hall," she said.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. And then again: "Oh!" with much of understanding and something of disappointment.
"Is all clear now?" she asked, roguishly.
Shakespeare rose, and, shaking one finger playfully at her, he said:
"Most clear is this—that Sir Guy knows well to choose in love; although, an I read you aright, my Mistress Mockery, his wife is like to prove passing mettlesome. For the rest, your lover knows poor Will Shakespeare's secrets—his Macbeth and half-written Hamlet. 'Tis with these you have made so bold to-day! My muse, in sooth! Oh, fie—fie!" And he shook his head, laughing.
"Indeed! In very sooth!" said Phœbe, with merry sarcasm. "And was it, then, Guy who brought me these same lines of Jacques the melancholy?" And she pointed to the papers in his hand.
"Nay, there I grant you," said the poet, shaking his head, while the puzzled expression crept once more into his face.
"Ay, there, and in more than this!" Phœbe exclaimed. "You have spoken of Hamlet, Master Shakespeare. Guy hath told me something of that tragedy. This Prince of Denmark is a most unhappy wight, if I mistake not. Doth he not once turn to thought of self-murder?"
"Ay, mistress. I have given Sir Guy my thoughts on the theme of Hamlet, and have told him I planned a speech wherein should be made patent Hamlet's desperate weariness of life, sickened by brooding on his mother's infamy."