“Nay, I supposed not,” rejoined the young man, in a careless voice, contrasting strongly with his elder’s caution; “therefore, why consult this fellow’s pleasure?”
“Because we might but stir up mischief by opposing the brawling giant. Well I know him, for he is Vytal’s follower. As I live, the man has but few friends, yet those few would die for him.”
“Some day the opportunity may be theirs,” observed the other, smiling almost boyishly.
“Yes,” assented St. Magil, in a grimmer tone, “but now we must have patience. For the moment let us guard Vytal’s name as carefully as we conceal your own. Which reminds me—I’d almost forgot—what name dost go by now?”
“’Tis ‘Frazer’; but give heed! That tale of bear-flogging has set these louts at odds.”
He spoke truth, for Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, now not over-steady, thanks to the never-idle tapster, was indulging in an argument with Watkins, the breeches-maker, concerning his favorite entertainment. Entering with them into the discussion, though with less volubility and heat, were Samuel Gorm, a bear-ward, and Alleyn, a young actor of plays and interludes. It was not, however, until Peter expressed the astonishing opinion that “none save a fool would enter a play-house, whereas, every man worthy of the name was at one time or another to be seen in the Paris Gardens,” that Hugh Rouse rushed into the argument in his customary reckless manner.
“Hast been,” he asked, vehemently, “to the ‘Curten’ and seen Master Alleyn, here, go through his acting? ’Sdein! The smell of powder, the sight of a musketoon, the glisten of pikes—and what not?—oh, they befool me finely!” The soldier turned to Marlowe, his broad face red with enthusiasm to the roots of his flaxen hair. “It befools me finely,” he repeated. “I remember real rage and blows. Hand goes to hilt instinctively. Now, in this new invention writ by you, Master Marlowe, there is good cause for excitation.” He paused, and, draining his cup, glanced at the actor. “I’faith, Alleyn, when you trod on Bajazeth’s neck to mount his throne, I stood there, too. When you caged the caitiff, I baited him betwixt the bars. When ye fought with him, I cried, ‘Couragio! Bravo! Tamburlaine! Well thrust!’ and when you conquered, ‘Thank God!’ says I, ‘’twas most brave work. There’s no blade in Spain or England can send a knave so quick to hell.’ And that was but a play called ‘Tamburlaine,’ Master Alleyn, all conceived by Marlowe and thee—a pen and a sword together.”