A DISTINGUISHED member of the Lord Chamberlain's company, Mr. William Shakespeare by name, had entered the shop of a tailor in the town of Nottingham. This popular and respected actor and playwright was about thirty-five years of age. Of middle height, he had the compact figure of one in the prime of a vigorous manhood. His hair was worn rather long, but his beard, inclining to red in color, was trim and close. His dress was plainer than is the rule with those who follow his calling. Indeed at a first glance he had less of the look of an actor than of a shrewd, cautious man of affairs who has prospered in trade. Close observation might have amended this estimate. There was a vivid pallor about the face, and the somber eyes, slow-burning and deep-set, were like a smoldering fire. Even when the mobile features were in repose, which was seldom the case, the whole effect of the countenance was vital and arresting. "That is a very choice coffin-cloth you have there, Master Tidey." The manner of the actor and playwright was simplicity itself. There was not a suspicion of affectation in it. He passed his fingers over the rich pall that lay on the tailor's knee. Upon the hem of the cloth an armorial device was being stitched by the hand of a master craftsman. "Yes, it is Master Shakespeare," said the tailor gravely. "Choice enough, choice enough." "Who is the happy man?" "A young gentleman who lies in the Castle yonder. He is to have his head cut off a Tuesday by order of the Queen." A look of startled interest came into the eyes of the player. "Is that so, Master Tidey? And young, you say, and gentle, too?" "Aye, young enough. But two or three and twenty—by all accounts a very fair and deliver young man." "It seems a pity," said the player, "a mortal pity, for a man to die by the ax in the heat of his youth. And yet 'tis better to die by the ax than by the string. It is at least a gentleman's death the Queen is giving him," he added grimly. "As you say," the tailor agreed, "it is at least a gentleman's death the Queen is giving him, and he'll have the robe of a gentleman in which to wrap his corpse. Happen, Master Shakespeare, that in like case it is a better consideration than would fall to you and me." A light flashed in the somber eyes of the player. "Speak for yourself Master Tidey," he said, with a slow, deep laugh. "Whenever I get my deliverance, by God's grace I'll have the robe of a gentleman to cover me. Unless"—the light in the somber eyes was so intense that they shone almost black—"unless they let the reason out, and then there's no warrant for any man's exit. But what of this poor young man? How comes he to this?"
