The player stood in silence, looking straight in front of him. There came a violent surge and onrush of his thoughts. In the sensitive and generous mind, relief for the good riddance of a bad man was tempered with an emotion of pity for an end so ignoble.
“I have to say this, Master Shakespeare.” The voice of the Queen, which sounded very far away, broke in upon the heavy tumult of his thoughts. “The death of this man, Grisewood, removed a most material witness. He alone could have proved or disproved your statement.”
By now, however, the playwright had regained full command of himself. Calmly, he sustained the force of the Queen’s gaze. The somber yet wonderful eyes were fixed on the raddled and rather peevish face.
“Under the favor of your grace,” he said, speaking very slowly and in the manner of one who chooses his words with the utmost care, “Sir Robert Grisewood has already attested to the truth of the statement which I have made.”
“In what way, sirrah? By what means?” said the Queen, sharply.
“By the taking of his own life,” said the playwright. “It is a clear confession of the knowledge that he is undone.”
“How should he have any such knowledge?”
“He was present yesterday, your grace, in the pavilion, when I rehearsed the story of his crime. I marked his livid face among the audience. It is one I shall never forget.”
The Queen nodded her head, but did not speak.
“My eyes were fixed, your grace, upon that man’s face when I said I held the proof of his guilt. I saw his cheek turn to the color of his ruff. And by that I knew there was confirmation of my statement had confirmation been required.”