The story did not take long in the telling. The tragedian was thrilled by it. He listened with fascinated attention.
“And now, Dick,” said the playwright when he had come to the end of the tragic story, “I ask you what is to be done?”
“Aye, what indeed!” said Burbage in his deep voice.
“God help them, poor souls!” said the poet tenderly.
“Amen to that!” said Burbage.
These were wise men. There were few of the coils that fate weaves for her children with which they were unacquainted. But here was a matter which in its sinister and tragic complexity seemed to lie beyond their grasp.
The problem was indeed a sore one. They were true subjects of the Queen. As loyal, chivalrous and honorable men they could appreciate the cruel pass of the unfortunate Sir John Feversham, and also of the ill-starred falconer. But how was it possible to deliver up two such fugitives, two who were little more than children, who had dared and done so much, to the vengeance of the law?
“I ask you, Dick, what is to be done?” said the playwright.
The tragedian sat with his head in his hands, the picture of desolation.
“Nay, Will,” he said haplessly, “you would do better to consult God and your own conscience.”