Not far away was Gervase. Still in his disguise he had been placed among the musicians. At Shakespeare’s behest he was biding his hour. Before that day was out he had made up his mind to reveal himself to the Queen. But the hour was not yet. It had been agreed between Shakespeare and himself that the time and the manner of the confession should be left to the player. And among the audience was the man Grisewood narrowly watching all that passed. He too felt that the hour was near in which the truth should be declared. But in his case he was determined that the dramatic revelation should turn to his own personal advantage.
In the meantime all went well with the play. Moreover, as it proceeded the Queen began to show the liveliest interest in the personality of the new Rosalind.
“Tell me, my lord,” she said, turning to Pembroke, an acknowledged authority in all matters relating to the theater, “who is that sweet chit in the doublet and trunk hose who cannot counterfeit manhood for all her strivings?”
“By the bill of the play, your grace, she is called Rosalind and is apparently of the sex of which she is so poor an imitation.”
“Pshaw, my lord!” said the Queen contemptuously, “do you think I have neither ears nor eyes? This is a Rosalind that will never be able to grow a beard. She is of my own sex and a sweeter chit I never saw in all my life.”
“Far be it from me to gainsay your grace,” said Pembroke with an elaborate air, “but according to the bill of the play I have in my hand this Rosalind is impersonated by a young Italian gentleman, one Signor Arrigo Bandinello by name.”
“A young Italian fiddlestick!” said the Queen. “I tell you that girl is as much an Italian gentleman as I am. She shall attend us when the play is at an end. We will go into this matter more fully.”
However, when the play was over, it was the author who was first honored with a summons to the royal pavilion. The Queen received him with high good humor. For the time being she had forgotten the personality of Rosalind in the charm and glamour of the play itself. In the graciousness of her mood she paid many compliments to the author of “As You Like It” and was fain to admit “that she liked it very well.”
“You are a wonderful man, Master Shakespeare,” said the Queen. “And I think you must be the happiest man alive.”
But there was nothing in the face of the player to suggest that destiny. The somber eyes framed a question which the august lady was quick to read and in the expansiveness of her mood was even prepared to answer.