“Is he dead?”
“No, mistress, he is not dead.”
But in the falconer’s tone was that which sent a chill to the heart of Sir John Feversham’s daughter. In spite of himself, Markham had told her that which he would now have concealed.
“My father is in peril?”
Again there was silence. But the woman’s swift instinct all too soon divined its meaning.
“In peril. And it is because—because——!”
A shudder went through her veins. She buried her face in her hands.
A dreadful anguish came upon the falconer. Any words he would have spoken died on his lips.
In the midst of this unhappy scene Shakespeare entered the room. His eye fell on the somber figure of the falconer. And then he saw the piteous face of Anne.
“Oh, what have you done!” The player’s bitterly reproachful words were heard only by the falconer.