“The man was an arrant coward,” said the Queen, contemptuously. “But such evidence of his guilt does not convince me. How say you, my lord?” She turned to Cecil peremptorily.
The statesman did not answer the question immediately. For the moment, that powerful and deep-seeing mind was much preoccupied. And when answer he did, it was with the air of a man enfolded by a sense of profound and settled conviction.
“By leave of your grace,” he said, “and under your good favor, I am bound to confess that I share the view of this matter which is held by Master Shakespeare. In my humble opinion, the death of this man in such circumstances is an irrefragable evidence of his guilt.”
The Queen was now sitting very upright. The lean features had assumed a look of sharpest inquiry. A round oath fell from her lips.
“By God’s body, my lord, I begin to think you are in the right!”
She was a woman of capricious temper. The milk of human kindness flowed an uncertain stream in that sterile heart. But her ears were never quite deaf to the voice of reason. Moreover, there were occasions when a sense of justice overtook her.
It began almost to seem that this occasion was likely to be one of them.
“Tell me, my lord,” she demanded, “is this to say that you accept, as a matter of sober verity, that the handwriting of Simon Heriot is contained in this paper?”
“Yes, your grace, I am of that opinion.”
“You are satisfied that the man, Simon Heriot, wrote this confession with his own hand?”