“Master Christopher Marlowe hath disappeared.” The assertion came from Ananias Dare, who at noon joined a number of his fellows idling in the town.
“Ay,” said a gossip following him, “and Gyll Croyden is nowhere to be found.”
“Marlowe gone!” exclaimed one.
“Gyll Croyden missing!” ejaculated another.
“The poet and his love,” insinuated the gossip. The women exchanged glances; the men were grave with apprehension.
“By St. George, ’tis a strange hap,” said a soldier.
“Some ill hath overtaken them as retribution,” declared the Oxford preacher.
“Let us institute a search,” suggested several simultaneously. “We may find them.”
“Nay, they’ve not been seen for many hours.”
“But we should try.”