CHAPTER XII. "Clofe villain! I'll have this fecret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it !” CYMBELINE, act III. fc. v. OW Master Trappe, he had hovered about the Inn: not forfooth amongst bullyrooks, swash bucklers, and roystering companions, as was his wont; nor yet with the cheaters and fuch like: but (fave the mark!) with youthful law Clerks! He ordereth luftily, on his own fcore, Anchovies and burnt Sack and Rashers for supper; giving out that himself was fome one who, having been in Foreign parts-(at which faying he ever and anon picketh his teeth, leaning on his elbow abstractedly, after the manner of travellers)— Mafter Trappe Smoaketh. 151 and hath been defrauded by those he left in charge at home. Whereat the embryo Lawyers prick their ears, and, you may be fure, fall a counselling him. Then he will tell them impoffible tales of Inde and Cathay-how Britomart had fwallowed the Soldan alive -and how the Queen of Sheba loved the wandering Jew. Nothing too grofs for their hungry appetites, nor too rare for their deep ignorance. One whom he had taken into 'special confidence adviseth him to feek learned help from Mafter Attorney Quillet: and anon speaketh of a Master Francis as the most perfpicuous counsel he wot on. Trappe now hearkeneth to this youth, ordering the drawer to fetch him more Sack (with a toast in it this time); himself smoking a filthy pipe over a feacoal fire i' th' corner. He taketh his eafe in his Inn ! And after a time (for Mafter Trappe could froth and lime, tap and draw, look you) the filly clerk declareth how Master Quillet is wont to use a special mark, which tallieth well enough with the chirograph on number two and number three of the packet in question. And that he useth this flourish on fuch letters as he writes privately: but figneth his name, 'Oliver Quillet,' fairly enough elsewhere, and to clerkly papers. "And who may Master Francis be?" quoth Trappe, thinking the matter at end, and paying his shot. "Why, 'tis Master Bacon furely, son of a Lord-Keeper ere I was born: nephew (they fay) of my Lord Treasurera man wonderfully befriended, but of learning and genius (they fay) wanting no help. When the Secretary learned these things: of himself discovering the fecret chirograph, that it stood for Oliver Quillet: being, as he conjectured, a Greek Omega for Oliver, with two little pens faltire-wife for Quillet, a device parlant, he rejoiced exceedingly; kiffing his fair daughter, the widow, and dandling (for once) his tiny grandchild. There was hope now of his convalefcence! But, in the filent hour of his meditations, Sir Francis Walfingham inquired of himself again what mischief had been done? The cafe now stood thus: Quillet had written (or figned) three letters, faying, "Nay," " Ay,” and “”Tis done," or "All's well." And one Mafter Francis had aided and abetted Quillet in the matter of "Ay" at least, Sir Francis leadeth Mafter Francis to fhrift. 153 honouring the Earl of Leicester, as no doubt he was bound to do. Where was the offence? After all, there may be no plot-the secretary aileth again, grievously! Being ill at ease of his body, the old man fets forth in a litter, being carried straightway to his houfe on Holborne Hill. Bacon, obfequiously honouring all perfons in authority, and specially her Majesty's Ministers of State, inquireth kindly after his Honour's health. To whom (in private talk) he fpeaketh of the young Earl of Effex-then of Sir Thomas Cheney, his friend, to whom he had fome time been counsel fome four years agone, or thereabouts. "Ha!" quoth the Minister," this is Master Francis !" The old man (whofe brief candle was nigh out) now fummoneth Quillet by a special warrant. Quillet appearing, is asked what he knoweth of fuch and fuch perfons and things-vaguely, as you would fay (one may not ask a lawyer leading questions, you know). Quillet goeth through the common form, known in the profeffion as traversing. Quillet was not attorney to the Earl of Leicester Quillet knew of no Master Francis: Quillet is not Quillet: Quillet wrote not the letters 1, 2, 3, nor either of them; nor any part of any of them; nor is that Quillet's fignature, nor (horribile dictu!) is that Quillet's chirograph; nor did he (Quillet) make, or authorize any other to make fuch mark or signature, or to write such and fuch letters, or any letter, or know any thing whatever i' th' Quillet shaketh his head. Quillet is mum! premises. The Secretary aileth. "Twenge!" said Sir Francis, feebly. "Your honour," anfwered an ill-looking knave whom (though at his elbow) Master Quillet had not feen. He was fuch an one you would, perhaps, rather not fee. "Is Click below?" "Your honour!" quoth he again, making a forry leg. If Quillet started feeing Twenge, he fhuddered hearing of Click. There was a look, too, in the Statesman's eye (he had but one now), as he turned to warm his withered hands at the hearth, that shook Master Quillet's nerves. A flight 'tremor cordis, you might fay: a cold, damp feeling, may be. He looked enquiringly at Master Twenge, as if to ask what was meant; but the refolute aspect of that party caused the |