Gervase thanked him simply.
“But in order to do that,” said the player, “I have to ask you to yield yourselves entirely into my care. I would have you do in all things as I desire. It is not that I can promise your deliverance. It may be that your pass is beyond my aid or beyond the aid of any man. But if it is possible for help to be given, that will I do my utmost to render—that is, if you are prepared to trust me to the full.”
Gervase knew that it was his life he was giving into the care of this man, but not for an instant did he hesitate.
“I trust you to the full,” he said. “And may God requite you for all that you may do.”
“Alas, it may be but little. But no failure on my part can make your case more unhappy than it is now. And one matter at least is imperative. You must find a better disguise than your present one. Happily, there is the means at hand. Perhaps you and your friend will come with me to the players’ tiring-room, which is across the inn yard?”
Gervase and Anne rose from the bench in order to accompany the actor.
As they did so, however, their attention was for a moment diverted. A man, attended by two servants and whose style was that of a gentleman, rode up to the inn door. He dismounted within three yards of where the fugitives stood, and as he was about to enter the tavern, he turned his bold eyes upon them.
It was hardly more than a glance in passing, and not more than he would have bestowed on any other pair of picturesque vagabonds, but brief as it was, there yet seemed in it a kind of subconscious recognition. The glance was withdrawn instantly to alight on Shakespeare, on whom it dwelt long enough for the recognition openly to declare itself. In this case it was followed by a shrug of insolent contempt. The newcomer then entered the inn.
In the meantime, Gervase had grown as pale as if he had seen a ghost. But it was not until he was half-way across the inn courtyard that he revealed the cause of his emotion.
“Did you, by any chance, recognize that fellow?” he asked.