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.

It was a scene such as this that the two men gazed upon.

A slight wooden shed afforded protection to the actors from the
burning rays of the sun or the more uncomfortable showers of rain. The
stage, which was a movable wooden platform, was supported at a little
distance from the ground by a number of empty boxes--which a torn
piece of faded tapestry vainly endeavoured to hide from view. A small
gallery ran along the wall at the rear of the stage, which was ready
to do duty as the wall of a castle, a fort, a mountain, an upper room,
or a window, or anything else, just as the necessity might be; while
a flag, which floated in the breeze from the summit of a stunted pole,
announced to the general public that the play was about to commence.

Edmund Wynne had never witnessed such an elaborate display before,
and for a time he watched in silent wonder as the people congregated
below.

"There will be a goodly company to-day, my lord," exclaimed the
ostler, as he drew his head in after a prolonged look round the yard.
"'Twill be a notable day, will this."

"I tell you I am not a lord," angrily interrupted Edmund Wynne. "I
only wish I were."

"So do I, James, with all my heart, but look here; here is a proper
lord for you, a great lord, too. See, do you know him?"

"No, where?" he quickly replied.

"Do you see that little platform there?"

"With a lamp hanging from the roof?"

"No, that's the moon for the players. They will light it soon, and
we shall know that it is night then, and folks can't see each other
without the moon. Look there;" and he pointed to where two or three
gaily-bedecked ladies and some equally gaily-attired gallants were
conversing together in a part of the courtyard which was separated
from the rest by a rope which stretched from end to end.

"Well, I see them," he said. "Who might they be, prithee?"

"They might be Pope Joan and the cardinals, but they are not."

"Then who are they?"

"That thin man, with the big buckles on his shoes, is Sir Henry
Sidney."

"Never!" ejaculated Edmund, "he is too gray haired."

"Even so, James. He is