The playwright had sadly to admit that that was true enough. But his face showed clearly that he could never be the slave of mere worldly wisdom. And Burbage knew it. He might do his best to dissuade his friend from touching this ill-starred affair, yet from the outset he had little hope of success. William Shakespeare’s mind was made up already.
“Come what may, Dick, we must help these poor souls to the utmost of our capacity.”
“Yes, but how will you do it, my master?”
But now that the sympathy of the playwright was fully engaged he was proof against all scepticism. “First I would have you give me the key of the tiring-room,” he said.
“For what purpose, you mad fellow?”
“An uncivil question breeds an uncivil answer. Whatever the purpose it is nothing to it.”
With many misgivings and great reluctance, Burbage gave Shakespeare the key of the tiring-room.
CHAPTER XX
WHEN Shakespeare returned to the fugitives, they had finished their meal. They were still sitting on the bench by the tavern door.
“Mr. Heriot,” said the player, “I have been thinking very deeply upon your pass. First let me say that I have a great desire to help you—and your friend—to help you as far as lies in my capacity.”