“Marlowe,” exclaimed Shakespere in greeting, “even now we were talking about you.”
The man addressed continued, gazing speechlessly at Peele, who said, “Well ’twas no more than we were apprehensive of when last we met.”
“You talk in riddles,” gasped the other, “’Tis only two hours since his death. A warrant already issued: You know it? My God! do I dream?”
Peele now displayed a questioning face; “Riddles; two hours since his death?” he asked, and then after a short pause, continued: “I mean the charge of blasphemy. That warrant is out. Of what do you speak?”
Marlowe’s visage cleared to some extent.
“Ah! I understand,” he murmured.
He removed his hat, and sank as though in exhaustion into a cushioned chair close before the chimney. Tamworth and Shakespere were already up, and the three had gathered before him.
Shakespere spoke sympathizingly: “They are not likely to search in this quarter. To-morrow I will intercede with the Queen, for she has already given me recognition—”
“And the offense is only of an ecclesiastical nature,” continued Tamworth.
“In the eyes of the law it is considered murder,” said Marlowe.