It might have been supposed that the text would have been expressed in a handwriting barely decipherable, but such was not the case. The writing was sufficiently clear to bear no reasonable doubt of its authenticity. By a process of hypnotic suggestion the man’s mind had been strung up to a point beyond its natural powers, and it had not given way until the last word had been written.
Shakespeare folded up the paper and put it in his pocket.
“I will bear this to the Queen myself,” he said.
In the meantime, some of the others had raised the body of Simon Heriot from the ground and had laid it on a table. But Shakespeare bore no part in all this. It was not that he was callous; it was simply that the sight of death revolted him.
After the body had been placed on the table, one and all waited upon the word of the leader of the enterprise, who had devised all that had come to pass. But now his power seemed to have gone from him. Having done so much more than he had meant to do, he was as one overborne by the sense of his deed. He now confronted his fellow-players haplessly, apparently not knowing what to do next or what advice to give.
As it happened, however, all further decision was taken out of his hands. While one and all stood awaiting that masterful initiative that was no longer at their service, the door of the room was opened very stealthily, and two of the dead man’s servants entered. Each carried a candle and a fowling-piece.
Both men were evidently in deadly fear of their lives, but a sense of duty had prevailed with them over a desire for personal safety.
“How, now, you masterless rogues,” said one, who was the butler, in a voice by no means valiant. “What do you here?”
Before it was possible to answer the question, the antiquated weapon he carried went off with a loud report, which seemed to make the room rock to its foundations, and half choked all those in it with the fumes of smoke and gunpowder. It was the result of accident, certainly not of design, but a cry arose from among the players.
“Oh, God!”