“All about them. He is engaged with me in writing the tragedy of Dido. I read him the two sestiads of Hero and Leander only two nights since.”
“Well then such things can not be taken unless Nash is numbered with us.”
“’Twould not be well,” said Tamworth, “the lesser the number holding the secret, the less fear of discovery.”
“Thy judgment is sound, Tamworth,” said Marlowe, “let Nash finish the tragedy, and have him place the poem of Hero and Leander in the hands of Chapman with word that it was my dying request that he complete it [[note 37]].”
“Good,” exclaimed Peele, “and perchance embodying within it some golden lines touching thy unfortunate demise.”
“Most excellent,” said Marlowe, smiling at the thought of reading of his own death and the estimate of his own worth expressed in the poetic language of a loving friend.
“These matters,” said Tamworth, “will be attended to as strictly as bequests should be by an executor. We must at once reach my lodgings.”
“Leave the Count’s cloak and take this of mine,” said Peele, taking down a short mantle from a hook against the wall.