HOW A NEW INCIDENT WAS ADDED TO AN OLD PLAY.
"If he come not, then the play is marred."--_A Midsummer Night's Dream._
The cause of Marryott's not having seen the person whose voice he now
heard, or the little board platform raised to serve as a stage, was that
this platform was directly below his window, and hence hidden by the
balconies with which the lower stories, unlike that in which he was,
were provided.
The crowding of guards around Marryott, the distraction Barnet owed to
his pain, had deterred the two from noticing, when outside the gate, the
playbills attached to the posts. The play announced was "The Battle of
Alcazar," by Mr. George Peele. There was still a special favor for
anti-Spanish plays. Fresh in memory was that English victory over Spain
whence arose the impulse of expansion destined, after three centuries of
glory, to repeat itself in a new Anglo-Saxondom from a victory over the
same race, when the guns of Dewey and Sampson should echo back in
multiplied volume the roar of Drake's and Howard's. History has nowhere
repeated itself more picturesquely.
But after the play had been selected and announced, there had arrived at
the inn, with a small regiment of servants, and a good part of his
household furniture for his better accommodation, young Lord Tyrrington
and his newly wedded lady. A squire in my lord's service had preceded
him and bespoken the entire second story of one of the wings. My lady,
on taking up her quarters, had learned with delight that London actors
were to give a play in the yard. She had expressed to her husband, on
whom she still looked with the soft eyes of a bride of a fortnight, the
wish that the piece might be a love-play. Her spouse, as yet deeply
enraptured with her and with love, had sent straightways for the master
of the players. The result of the interview was the oral announcement
which Marryott now heard from lips whose facility was well known to him.
Prefaced by delicately hinted compliments to the noble couple, and by
gross open flattery of the worthy, excellent, and good people of Oakham,
the announcement was to the effect that, instead of performing "The
Battle of Alcazar," the lord chamberlain's servants would enact Master
William Shakespeare's most admired and lamentable tragedy of the love of
"Romeo and Juliet." Whereupon there was loud and prolonged applause,
and the musicians, on the inn-balcony above the rear of the stage,
struck up a tune for the beguilement of the crowd until the actors
should be ready to begin.
"'Twas Will Sly," said Marryott, half to himself.
"You know him, I ween," said Roger Barnet, who had listened to the
announcement with close attention, and who seemed to have softened a
little under the stress of some concealed inclination.
"Marry, the days and nights we have tossed the pot together!" replied
Hal.
"I ween you have been gossip and comrade to all of them," went on Roger,
with guarded interest. "You know Burbage, and Shakespeare, and the
rest?"
"I may say I know Burbage and the rest, and I have lived under the same
roof with Master Shakespeare. I am acquaint with his outer life, which
is, perforce, much like other men's, and with his talk, which varies so
gently between sincerity and subtle irony, that one can never be sure;
but to know the man himself were to know a world."
"I like his plays better than all others," said Roger. "And of all his
plays, this 'Romeo and Juliet' best. I have read Arthur Brooke's poem of
the tale, and William Paynter's story in 'The Palace of Pleasure;' but
they are pale dullness to this tragedy. It hath rare love-making in
it!"
The steeliness of Barnet's eye had melted to a soft lustre; a warmth had
come over his face. Marryott looked at him in amazement. That this hard
rascal, this complacent spy and implacable man-hunter,--even in that day
when rough soldiers were greedy for wit and beauty and fine
thought,--should have read poems and novels, and should possess a taste
for rare love-making, was indeed one of those marvels which prove how
many-sided (not inconsistent) is the individual human.
"If we could hear it better than we're like to do," suggested Marryott,
"'twould a little distract us from our ills of mind and body,--for I
take it from your twitchings that you suffer some."
The pursuivant was careful against showing how welcome this suggestion
was; for he had felt that it would better emanate from the prisoner, in
whom a desire to see the play was quite proper, than from an officer who
ought to hold in supreme indifference all but duty.
"Why," said he, "I wot of no reason why you may not be allowed to see
this play, under guard. Dawkins, go to the landlady and require for me a
room in one of yonder wings, well toward the front of the yard, that we
may see the stage from it. God forbid I should deprive a doomed man of
two hours' forgetfulness!"
When, some minutes later, the change of rooms had been effected,
Marryott found himself looking down from a gabled window, which, being
over one side of the yard, gave a complete oblique view of the stage at
the yard's rear. He sat on a low stool, his hands pinioned behind him,
Roger Barnet at his side. Four armed men stood close around, leaning
forward for all possible view over the heads of the two.
The musicians, now visible in the gallery over the back of the stage,
were still playing. The second story balcony across the yard from Hal's
window was occupied by the lord and lady and their numerous attendants,
a group whose rich attire presented all hues, and every kind, of silk,
velvet, and costly cloth. My lady, close to the railing, and leaning
expectantly over it, wore on her head a caul of golden thread; and one
of her maids held a peaked Minever cap ready to be donned in case of
cold. My lord, sitting at her side, bent so near that the silk rose at
the end of his love-lock often brushed the cheek of her in whose honor
it was still worn, despite their being now married. His lordship might
have taken a seat upon the stage, but he preferred to remain where he
could mark the significant love speeches to his lady's attention by
gentle pressure of his hand on hers.
Three or four rustic gallants sat on the stage, and talked
ostentatiously, with a great deal of very knowing laughter, each one
keeping a side glance upon the noble lady in the balcony, to see what
impression he was making; for each was convinced that her softly eager
looks toward the stage were cast in admiration of himself.
The stage was of rough boards upon an underwork of upright barrels and
trestles. At its back there hung from the balcony a curtain behind which
a few makeshift steps descended to the door of an inn parlor now used by
the actors as a tiring-room. The balcony thereabove was not devoted
exclusively to the musicians; like all the other galleries around the
yard, and to which chambers of the inn opened, this one held crowds of
spectators,--inn guests and town's people. But of this one, that part
immediately over the stage had, since the change of play, been cleared
of people, and now remained so, with poles placed on either side as
barriers. This part was reserved as Juliet's balcony; an inn chamber
gave access to it from the rear. The height of the stage was such, that
the floor of the balcony would be level with Romeo's eyes; but that
mattered nothing to the imagination of an Elizabethan audience.
Even the steps leading to the balconies were crowded; the yard itself,
paved with cobble stones, was more densely so, and with rougher and
noisier people. Here were the lowest classes represented, but not those
alone; here was a rawer wit than among the groundlings of the Globe
Theatre; here was a smaller measure of acuteness than there, and here
was a loutishness that was there absent.
The inn gates were now closed, but for a narrow opening, where stood two
of the players' men to receive the money of what spectators might yet
arrive.
The hour when the play ought to have begun had passed. But the crowd was
the more tolerant of a burden upon its patience, for the fact that
"Romeo and Juliet" had been substituted for the other play.
Shakespeare's love-tragedy, which at first production had made the
greatest success in the brief history of English drama, was the most
popular play of its time; and to a county town of the insignificance of
Oakham, it was still a novelty, bright with the lustre of its London
triumph.
But at length the pleasure of anticipation lost power to sweeten the
delay of realization. The crowd murmured. The musicians, who had fallen
to playing "I am the Duke of Norfolk," for there being nothing else left
unplayed, became the targets of derisive yells; the unseen players,
behind the curtain, were called upon to hasten. My lady had changed her
position several times, and my lord was beginning to wonder why the
devil--
And then the curtain was pushed a little aside, and Master Sly stepped
forth again, now dressed for the part he was on this occasion to
enact,--that of Mercutio. The crowd gave a shout of welcome, the
musicians came to an abrupt but grateful stop. "The prologue," remarked
several of the knowing, and then indignantly bade others hush, who were
making the same remark.
But Master Sly's air was not suggestive of an ordinary prologue. It was
hesitating, embarrassed, a little dubious of consequences. He began,
rather to my lord than to the audience as a whole, a halting, bungling
speech, of which the purport was that, by reason of the sudden illness
of an actor who played a part necessary to the movement of the tragedy,
and as no unoccupied player in the company knew the part, either "Romeo
and Juliet" must be for the occasion abandoned, or its performance
marred by the reading of the part, "which marring must needs be the
greater," said Mr. Sly, "for that it is a part of exceeding activity,
and hath some furious fighting with the rapier."
Here was a damper, whose potent effect became at once manifest in blank
looks on faces noble and faces common. My lord and his lady were as much
disappointed as the rudest artisan or the pertest grammar-school truant.
The assemblage was yet in that chilled silence which precedes murmurs of
displeasure, and Mr. Sly was drawing breath to submit the alternative of
another play or the marred performance, when from a gable window high
above all galleries a voice rang out:
"Go to, Will Sly! I'll wager 'tis the part of Tybalt; and that Gil
Crowe's illness comes of the same old cause!"
Master Sly stared aloft at the distant speaker. So did every auditor to
whom the window was visible; and those in the balconies under it leaned
over the railings and twisted their necks to look upward.
"Why,--'tis thee, Harry Marryott,--i' the name of God!" cried Sly, after
a moment of blinking,--for Hal's gable was sun-bathed, and blue sky was
above it. "What dost here, Hal? What surprise is this you give us?"
"No matter!" answered Hal. "I said truly, did I not?"
"Surely thou didst, and a mur--! Why, boy, thou canst play Tybalt! You
studied it in London!"
"And played it once, when Master Crowe was--ill!"
"Why, here's good fortune! My lord, 'tis one of our actors, who hath
been a time absent from us. You will enjoy to see him in the fighting.
Haste thee down, Master Marryott!"
A clapping of hands behind the entrance-curtain told Hal that the other
players had heard, and that they welcomed; some, indeed, were peeping
out from the edges of the curtain.
Lord Tyrrington looked across the yard, and up to the gable window, and
called out, "Well met, sir!" with a kindly face; and his lady, delighted
at the turn of affairs, smiled sweetly. Whereat the crowd cheered
lustily, and all eyes were fixed on Hal with approval and pleasure.
"Alas!" cried Hal. "I may not stir from here. I am a prisoner to this
officer of the queen."
The smiles slowly faded from the countless faces below. Roger Barnet,
who had been taken by surprise at Hal's first salutation to Sly, and
whom the swift ensuing colloquy had caught at a loss, frowned, and
wished he had interfered earlier.
"Nay," called Sly, "it can be for no grave offence. The--"
"'Tis a charge of aiding treason," replied Hal, to cut matters short.
Sly stood a little appalled. A deeper silence and a new interest took
possession of the gazing crowd.
"Why, even so," said Sly, at last, "the officer may--"
The officer now thought it time to speak for himself. "My prisoner is my
prisoner," he said, in a somewhat surly and defiant tone, "taken in the
queen's name, with proper warrant; and in the queen's name I hold him
here in close guard."
Will Sly, after a perplexed look at the pursuivant by Hal's side,
turned his eyes in a tentative, questioning way to the young lord. The
crowd followed his glance. My lord felt the pressure of the general wish
upon him. His lady whispered something to him, in a kind of pouting,
appealing way, with a disapproving side glance at Roger Barnet. My lady
herself was only a knight's daughter. To her, a lord was a person of
unlimited influence. When a wife imagines that her husband is
all-powerful, he does not like to disabuse her mind. When he is deeply
in love with her, and she asks him for a pleasure which he has himself
offered, he will go far to obtain it. Moreover, here was a multitude
looking to him, the great Lord Tyrrington, as to its champion against a
vile, sport-spoiling hound of the government.
"How now, officer?" cried my lord, in a tone of lofty rebuke. "The
queen's name--God save her gracious Majesty!--comes as loyally,
methinks, from lips that do not make it a common byword of their trade.
Warrant, say you? Your warrant, sirrah, requires not that you guard her
Majesty's prisoner rather in one part of this inn than in another part.
Let him be guarded upon yonder stage. 'Tis as safe a place, with proper
watching, as the chamber you are in."
"My lord--" doggedly began Barnet, who had noted Sly's form of address.
But ere he could proceed, there arose from the yard, and was taken up
by the galleries, a clamor so mandatory, so threatening to a possible
thwarter of the general will, that the pursuivant, who in his day had
seen a mob or two at work, became passive. Moreover, he had been as cast
down as any one at the prospect of his favorite play's being supplanted
or spoiled; and deep within him was a keen curiosity to see his prisoner
act on the stage. Standing at the window, therefore, Roger made a curt
gesture of yielding to the unanimous will.
"My lord," said he, when the cheers of satisfaction had hushed, "sith it
be your desire, and haply the pleasure of my lady, and the wish of these
good people, I no more say nay. Your lordship will of a surety grant me,
and require of these players, that I may dispose guards to my own
liking, and for the queen's service, during the time of my prisoner's
use in the play."
My lord was quick to approve of this condition. "Your prisoner, mayhap,"
he added, "will give his word not to attempt escape."
"Ay, my lord," cried Hal, at once, "if this officer rely on that word
alone, and dispense with guards about me."
Marryott knew, of course, and Barnet promptly affirmed by word, that the
latter would prefer to rely on his guards. Hal showed no offence at
this; had he thought his word would be accepted he would not have
offered it.
"Then," said he, when Barnet had expressed himself, "I will not give my
word."
The pursuivant was content. He attributed Hal's attitude to a mere idle
punctilio which would not accept moral bonds without a reciprocal
withdrawal of physical ones, even though freedom from moral bonds was
useless. Barnet was accustomed, in his observations of gentlemen, to
such bootless niceties in matters of honor.
The musicians were put to it for another quarter of an hour, and Barnet
conducted the prisoner down-stairs and to the tiring-room. He placed a
guard at each entrance to that room, stationed others in the yard so
that one breasted each side of the small stage, set two upon the steps
between stage and tiring-room, and established himself on a three-legged
stool on the stage. He seemed to have conveniently forgotten that
Tybalt, even during the acts wherein he appears, is less time on the
stage than off. He had put the faithful Hudsdon, however, at the door
from the tiring-room to the steps behind the stage. Indeed, Hal's
freedom was little more than it had been in the chamber, save that.
Tybalt being a swordsman's part, his hands were now unbound.
Barnet had assured himself that the rapiers used by the actors were
blunted so as not to pierce. He knew, too, that he had won the crowd by
his concession to their wish, and that he should have all the
spectators, including the lord's people and the inn-folk, as active
barriers against any dash the prisoner might rashly venture for liberty.
Hal's friends had crowded around him in the tiring-room, which was
lighted with candles against the gloom caused by the curtain at the back
of the stage. Even Burbage had pressed his hand, and uttered a hope that
there might be nothing in this treason matter. "Fortune send thee safe
out of it, whatever it be!" was Master Shakespeare's wish. "If thou
camest to grief, Hal," said the Juliet, the same pert stripling that had
played Ophelia eleven days before, "I should weep like a real girl!" Gil
Crowe alone had nothing to say, for he was stretched half clad, in the
corner where he had fallen, in the deepest drunken slumber.
Master Shakespeare wore the white beard and religious cowl of the Friar;
a habit that had wakened in Hal's mind a thought to be quenched the next
moment by Barnet's injunction to the guards of the tiring-room:
"And lose not sight of him an instant while he is here, lest during an
eye-wink he slip into some player's disguise of face and body, and pass
one of you unknown."
His comrades, especially Master Shakespeare and Will Sly, would have
inquired more closely into the circumstances of Hal's detention, but the
young man was so pleasantly exhilarated by the reunion with his friends,
so carried out of himself at the prospect of playing this part, that he
put direful matters aside as not to be talked of. With his dulled rapier
in hand, and without having to change costume, he stood surrounded by
the players, at the tiring-room door, waiting to go on the stage.
The music ceased again; the speaker of the prologue stepped out, and,
while the audience came gradually to a hush, delivered his lines from
the centre of the platform. A boy fastened to the curtain at the back a
scroll reading, "A Street in Verona." The two Capulet serving-men came
on, and their rude double-meanings made the crowd guffaw; then the two
Montague men, then Benvolio, then Tybalt precipitating the brawl, then
the crowd of adherents of both houses; and the ensuing fray, unduly
confined by the smallness of the platform, came near involving Roger
Barnet and the gallants sitting at the sides.
Noting more heedfully how dense was the crowd that pressed from the
yard's farthest boundaries to the stage, and recognizing the guards
about the latter. Hal had a sickening feeling of being mured around with
a wall no less impassable for that it was human.
His mind reverted to the last time he had acted on a stage; to the face
he had seen then. Where was she at this moment? Was the horse waiting?
Unmanned for an instant, he felt his eyes moisten.
When he made exit, after the Prince had quelled the tumult, he stood
silent in the dark tiring-room, sad at heart.
Meanwhile, Roger Barnet and the audience were enjoying the performance.
The pursuivant, nearer to the great Burbage than he had ever before been
during a play, drank in Romeo's every word. In due time, the stage being
for a moment vacant, a boy supplanted the first card with one reading,
"A Room in Capulet's House." The scene of the Nurse with Juliet and her
mother drew some very conscious blushes from my lady in the gallery, the
too reminiscent Nurse's part losing nothing of mellowness from its being
played by a portly man. The street card reappeared, and brought on
Mercutio to deepen the audience's enhancement. Another substitution
introduced the masquerade, during which the Tybalt, covered with an
orange-tawny cloak and wearing a black mask, was held in particular note
by Barnet. Hudsdon having followed him to the stage and pointed him out
in his visored appearance.
During the second act, with its balcony scene, its wisdom so
impressively spoken by Master Shakespeare in the Friar's part, its wit
contest between Romeo and Mercutio, Roger Barnet was in the seventh
heaven. Throughout this act, Hal, seated listlessly in the tiring-room,
was under the eyes of Hudsdon and other guards. The first scene of the
third act, heralded by the useful street scroll, brought his great and
last great occasion.
"It may be my last stage-playing in this world," he thought, and
resolved it should be worthy the remembrance of his comrades.
"'By my heel, I care not,'" quoth Sly as Mercutio, and Tybalt, taking
the cue, strode out with his followers, to force the deadly quarrel.
The brief exchange of defiance with Mercutio, the vain attempt of
peacemaking Benvolio to lead the foes from public gaze, made keen the
audience's expectation. Romeo entered; refused to be drawn by Tybalt's
fierce words into fight; tried to placate the other's hot anger.
Mercutio invited the quarrel to himself, drew rapier, and belabored
Tybalt with wit. Tybalt, with a ready "I am for you," flashed out his
blade in turn. There was fine clashing of steel, excellent fencing.
Romeo rushed in to stop the duel, calling on Benvolio to beat down the
weapons. Is it wonder that the audience was a-quiver with interest,
under complete illusion? For here was a truly fiery Tybalt; here was
Mercutio, the most fascinating character in Shakespeare; here as Romeo
was Burbage himself, accounted the greatest actor in the world. Is it
wonder that Roger Barnet, sitting not a man's length away, hung
breathlessly, and with wide eyes, upon the scene?
"Hold, Tybalt! good Mercutio!" cried Romeo.
But Mercutio had received his thrust, and Tybalt turned to flee with his
followers. Barnet heard him cry out something as he ran; got an
impression of legs disappearing behind the rear curtain; and, with the
greater part of the audience, kept his eyes on the group whence the
youth had fled.
For Mercutio was panting in Romeo's arms; declaring himself hurt, and
calling feebly a plague on both the houses; replying to Romeo's
encouraging words with: "No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as
a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and
you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.
A plague o' both your houses!" And so till Benvolio led him off gasping
with his dying breath, "Your houses!"
And now it was Romeo's task to hold the multitude's illusion with
deploring speeches; and to work up anew its breathless sympathy, at the
news of Mercutio's death and that the furious Tybalt was coming back
again.
"'Alive, in triumph! and Mercutio slain!'" cried Burbage.
"'Away to heaven, respective lenity.
And fire-eyed fury be my conduct now.'"
And Romeo, trembling with the emotion of the situation, stood with sword
ready to receive the slayer of his friend, lips ready to begin, "Now,
Tybalt, take the villain back again--"
The audience stood in a suspense not less than Romeo's, every gaze
intent upon the place where Tybalt should come forth.
But from that place, no one appeared.
Why did Tybalt delay? What was the matter?
It was an embarrassing moment for Mr. Burbage. He whispered something to
the Benvolio, who thereupon went to the curtain at the rear and pushed
it aside. He disclosed a number of those actors known as servitors,
waiting to come on as citizens, and behind these the Prince with
Montague and Capulet and their ladies.
"Where's Marryott?" called Benvolio to these. "'Tis his cue. The stage
waits for Tybalt."
Those about the doorway looked into the tiring-room. "He is not here,"
replied several.
"He is not come from the stage yet," said Hudsdon. "I have kept my eye
for him."
"Why," said Benvolio to the fellows who had played Tybalt's followers,
"came he not off with you?"
"I remember not," said one. "'Tis certain he ought to have."
"'Tis certain he did not," said one of the guards on the steps.
Hudsdon made his way through the group on the steps, strode upon the
stage, and, going to the centre thereof, to Mr. Burbage's utter
amazement, said to Roger Barnet:
"There's deviltry afoot! The prisoner came not yonder, yet he is not
here!"
"What say'st thou?" replied Roger, turning dark, and springing to his
feet. "Thou'st been cozened. Hudsdon! He fled yonder; I saw him!" And he
pointed toward the tiring-room.
"Nay," said one of the gallants on the stage, "he fled over the balcony,
into the house." The speaker indicated the balcony used by Juliet,
which, as has been said, was no higher above the back of the stage than
were the eyes of a man standing. "That I'll swear. He grasped the
balustrade, and drew himself up, and bent around, and put knee to the
balcony's edge; and then 'twas short work over the balustrade and across
the balcony."
"Ay, 'tis so!" cried out many voices from near the stage, and from the
occupied part of the balcony itself.
"Why, then, Hudsdon, take three men, and search the house," cried Roger,
for whom Mr. Burbage had indignantly made way by retiring to the back
of the stage. Then the pursuivant turned to his informants: "An ye had
eyes for so much, had none of you the wit to call out whither he went?"
"I thought it was part of the play," lisped the gallant. "I thought he
ran away lest he be taken for killing the witty gentleman."
"Why, so he did," quoth Barnet, "but he ought not to have run to the
balcony!"
"Marry, look you," said the other, "he cried 'Away!' and started for the
curtain; then he said, 'Nay, I'll to the balcony!' and so to the balcony
he went. I thought 'twas in the play."
"I knew the play," called out a gentleman in the balcony, "but I thought
the action had mayhap been changed. We all thought so, who saw him pass
this way."
"Devil take prating!" muttered Barnet. "Dawkins, go you with three men
and seek in the street hereabout for him, or word of him. You three, to
the stables, and out with the horses! A murrain on plays and
play-acting!--I don't mean that, neither. Master Shakespeare" (for the
poet had hastened to the stage to see what the matter was), "but I've
been a blind ass this day, and I would I had your art to tell my
feelings!"
And he limped after Hudsdon, to assist in the search of the house.
This was a large inn, and required long searching. As for the men
ordered to seek in the adjacent streets, they were a good while hindered
in making their way through the crowd in the yard. Those who went to
take out the horses were similarly impeded.
Meanwhile, for a time there was clamor and confusion among the
spectators. Some of the dull witted, who had lost interest in the play
after the novelty of the opening scenes, followed the four men to the
street. The most, thinking the prisoner might be found in the house,
chose to remain where they were, deciding not to sacrifice a certain
pleasure for the uncertain one of joining a hunt for an escaped
prisoner. So there were calls for the play to go on. It was therefore
taken up at the point where Marryott had failed to appear, Master
Shakespeare assuming Tybalt's part for the one short speech, and the
swift death, that remained to it. Thenceforward there was no stoppage.
My lord and his lady listened with rapt attention, and when at last the
two lovers lay clasped in death many of the audience had forgotten the
episode that had interrupted the third act.
But Roger Barnet had other occupation than to watch the resumed play. It
was not given him to end as agreeably an afternoon so pleasantly begun;
yet matter to distract his thoughts from his lame leg was not lacking.
The search of the inn yielding nothing, the scouring of the immediate
neighborhood being fruitless, the pursuivant sent his men throughout the
town for a clue. One came back with news that a man of the prisoner's
description had been seen taking the Stamford road. Another returned
with word that the lady who had followed from Foxby Hall had tarried a
short while at another inn; and a third brought information that this
lady and her escort of three had later left the town by the road to
London. She had not, indeed, had Barnet's reason for staying in Oakham,
and it was quite natural that she should have continued her homeward
journey. Her departure seemed not connected in any way with the
prisoner's flight.
Meanwhile the horses had been waiting ready in the street during the
time necessary for these inquiries.
"To saddle, then," said Barnet to Hudsdon, "every hound of us! I'll on
to Fleetwood house, you to the Stamford road. 'Tis the fiend's work that
your man hath two hours' start. I wonder how far he is."
Just about that time, as the players were sitting down to supper, Master
Shakespeare said:
"I pray Fortune the new action Hal put in my tragedy shall prove indeed
the winning of his freedom!"