“Exactly; yes.”

“And I will get to know as much as I can from the maids, and will keep you well informed of the movements of your friends.  Their trial comes off, you say, to-morrow?”

“I think it does.”

“They will not go far to-day, then?”

“I cannot say, but they will be well watched.  What accommodation have you here for half-a-dozen stalwart fellows?”

“Plenty in the inn.”

“I don’t need telling that:  but here—–­in the yard.  I am expecting some guests for the night.”

“Let me see.  It means money.”

“Of course it does.”

“And I shall run great risks.”

“You will be well repaid, though,” said Edmund, “and they might as well be here, I trow, as elsewhere; only see that they don’t have too much drink, and be careful that they are not seen lounging together about in the yard.”

“Trust me,” laughed the ostler, “I shall manage that easily enough.  I shall bolt the doors and fasten them in, and nothing except a rat could get out then.”

“Nay, you misunderstand me.  They are not prisoners, but men who have been hired for the journey.”

“I see now; ah, I see,” returned his companion in the most unconcerned manner possible.  “In that case they only want a little watching.”

“And, mayhap, a little restraining, yes.  Here is a shilling for some ale, which they will be expecting.  You will meet them for me, and take charge of them?”

“Very well, James, so be it; where shall I meet though?  It would never do for them to hang about here that’s very certain, for our landlord would have his eyes upon them in a minute.  He is awfully sharp on tramps and beggars and such.”

“No, certainly not,” agreed Edmund; “meet them at the Temple Gates at six.”

“It shall be done; and in the meanwhile you will have a first-rate view of the entertainment from here.”

“What entertainment?”

“The players are here to-day.  See, there is the stage and everything.  ’Tis the Earl of Leicester’s company, too,” and pushing the door still farther open, he pointed out to Edmund Wynne’s astonished eyes one of the rudely extemporised platforms which passed in those days for stages.

Those who have witnessed the splendid scenic triumphs which have been achieved by managers of late years would be astonished indeed were they confronted by one of the theatres of the earliest dramatic times.  Nothing could present a much greater contrast than the elaborate drapery and the ingenious trap-doors, side wings, and numerous other mechanical contrivances which are now a necessary complement of the modern stage, and the superlative simplicity which characterised the theatres of three hundred years ago.

Theatres, indeed, there were none, and the troupes of players wandered about from city to town, and from village to hamlet, giving their performances in open-air; or, if they were fortunate, in the courtyards of inns.