“Never.”
“And how comes it that you know it all?”
“I wrote it,” quietly answered the other.
“Wrote it!” exclaimed Tabbard, “and then thou art——”
“Christopher Marlowe,” continued the gentleman, “commonly called Kit.”
The effect on the excited youth was something magical. He stopped talking but gave vent to a prolonged “Oh,” that died into a whisper. He was in the presence of genius; this was the man who had written the lines which for three hours under a hot sun, he had listened to in silent awe and tremblings of terror. He could scarcely believe his eyes; and Marlowe noticing Tabbard’s stupid amazement said:
“How much sack did you punish, Tabbard?”
The question was designed to bring the latter-mentioned person out of his stupefaction, and it had this effect; but in his recovery Tabbard’s wonder ran along the mental line of inquiry concerning how it was that genius could be interested in such common matters.
“Enough to have lost my way and the place where I tied my horse,” at length answered Tabbard, recovering his voice, and looking about him.
“Tied him? Witless, you should have had a boy hold him,” said Marlowe, exhibiting some interest in the welfare of the man who had brought him the message of all others the most pleasing to his ear.