ROMANTIC VENTURE

CHAPTER TWELVE

Islington! The little hamlet north of London blossomed with new verdant life. Early morning smells filled the springtime air. The fragrance of apple blossoms and cowslips were carried on blue breezes, and the cottages that dotted the countryside were redolent with the perfume of whitlow grass. English daisies lent their own delicate scent to the fragrant air. Life was busy and bustling in celebration of the earth's annual renewal.

Maurette stretched herself as she moved from the summer kitchen, where she breakfasted whenever the family was at Islington, into the back garden, which was overgrown with a profusion of iris and broom and violets. The heavy aroma of herbs from the tiny, well-kept kitchen garden blended with the scent of dewy earth and freshly opened flowers.

Maurette skirts rustling in the high grasses, she began to run with the sheer exultation she felt in the wondrous spring morn. She finally collapsed, laughing delightedly to herself, into the plump wet grasses and lay on her back. She gazed up at the soft, pinkened clouds that melted into the cerulean sky and then closed her eyes and smiled, her face happily exposed to the morning sun. Edyth would have frowned in disapproval at her unshaded condition, but Maurette did not care. She stretched herself in lush and languid enjoyment.

"People will think you an idiot, if they see you smiling to yourself." The voice was young and held a note of mischief. Maurette opened her eyes to see Imogene standing above her. Her sister was dressed in maidenly white, her light wide-brimmed bonnet carefully protecting her pale curls and the purity of her dewy English complexion.

"Take off that silly hat," Maurette said lazily as she once again closed her eyes.

"I will not," Imogene said primly. "Mama would kill me. In addition, she will be furious, dearest Maurette, if she sees you with your lovely skin exposed to the morning sun. Just because we are outside of London is no reason for us to go about like unruly country wenches."

Maurette propped herself up on one arm and gazed for a long moment at her sister.

"Will you take off that silly hat, or will you not?" she said with a delicate challenge in her smiling eyes.

"I will not, and don't you imagine that you can make me," said Imogene, her blue eyes widening as Maurette began to rise and move toward her. "I know what you are thinking, Maurette Harper," she said as she backed away from the advancing girl, "and you had better stop. Don't you dare!" Imogene shrieked, losing her prim dignity and scrambling away. Her long skirts impeded her progress in the tall grass, arid she stumbled. As she tried to crawl away, Maurette was upon her, tugging at the offending white bonnet. The two girls rolled and tumbled together, their skirts twisting high up on their stockinged legs until Maurette grabbed the hat and, tearing it from Imogene's now tousled blond head, tossed it with all her might into the far fields. Its wide brim caught the breezes, and it glided aloft, streamers fluttering. The two girls watched, wide-eyed and captivated, its lofty flight. As it settled like a drunken bird onto the deep grasses, Maurette burst into a fit of wild giggles. Imogene, her mouth drawn into a tight little pout, at last could not contain her own laughter as she watched her sister rolling in mirth on the grassy ground.

As their laughter died, both girls lay there for long moments. Maurette looked over at her sister. She did not raise her head, but she could discern from her sideways view Imogene's small smile.

"People will think you an idiot, if they see you smiling to yourself," she said softly.

Imogene rolled her head to the side to look at Maurette. "Was I smiling?" she inquired. "I suppose I was," she answered herself indolently. "I suppose I was thinking of him. And when I think of him, I smile."

"Who?" Maurette asked with an innocence that did not fool Imogene for a moment.

"He is devilish handsome, fearsomely so, I think."

Maurette raised herself on her elbow. "If you are speaking of Dominic Warbrooke, I have told you that I do not wish to talk of him."

Imogene looked up with wide eager eyes. "But you must, Maurette. In August, he will come for you, and you must have an answer. How can one answer a question if one does not think on it? Methinks," she said, slanting her gaze, "I know what your answer will be."

"How can you know if I do not?" Maurette said pettishly. She lay back down in the cool grasses. She could not and would not analyze her feelings. She knew only that when Dominic kissed her, she grew weak and could not reason. Thankful for this respite from his encompassing charm, she needed these clear breezy days to clear her head. Dominic Warbrooke had filled her soul since the night of her birthday ball. She sat up abruptly.

Imogene eyed her, suspecting her sister's tumultuous emotions. Imogene, herself, was constantly prodded with questions concerning Dominic Warbrooke. Maurette was the most sought-after heiress in three counties. In London, her season was always fined with invitations and expectations. Imogene, for all her typical blond beauty and traditional womanly passivity, ran a poor second to her sister's spirited and exotic charms. Though Imogene had her own following, she knew that she could never have engaged the attention of a man like the Silver Raven-not that she would necessarily want such a circumstance for herself.

Both girls had envisioned and often talked for long hours of the possible marriages that they could make. All their scenarios had ended with the two of them sipping tea in a formal garden, their many children playing about and their wealthy and boring husbands off at some business or other. But, while Imogene had accepted the scenario in dutiful resignation, Maurette had always rebelled at such a predictable future. Marriage to a man like Dominic Warbrooke was exactly what Imogene had secretly envisioned for her sister. She saw behind her closed eyelids the romantic picture of Maurette being taken away by the tall bronzed buccaneer to some far off castle and then carried up a wide staircase and then ... Imogene sat up abruptly. She blushed at what she was about to envision. Straightening her skirts and brushing worriedly at the grass stains she found on them helped her to compose herself.

"I think he is wonderful, and so do you," Imogene said suddenly "And I think you should take him whatever way you can," Defiance filled her. "If you do not, Maurette, you will forever regret it."

Maurette regarded her sister in astonishment. "You did not always feel. this way. I remember a morning when you wanted to kill him," she said.

"'Tis true," said Imogene, "I cannot deny that I hated him once, but so did you." She raised her chin. From all that you have told me, however, I sense that you no longer feel the same. In truth, Maurette, who will stand in his stead? Will you marry Timothy Braden?" Imogene nodded in the direction of a far field. "That good fellow loves you almost enough to merge his precious stable with your own. And what of Arthur Warwick?" Both girls rolled their eyes at the mention of his name. "Arthur will bed the kitchen girl and embarrass you with every willing wench in the household. And he will no doubt grow fat into the bargain."

"I have other choices," Maurette said archly.

"And all on an equal footing with our Islington boys. You are too good for any of them," Imogene stated with finality.

Maurette smiled at her little sister "Dear, sweet Imogene," she said fondly. "You are a treasure. Was ever any woman blessed with such a loyal sister?"

"'Tis Only the truth I offer you, Maurette." Imogene stood and shook out her skirts, and when Maurette followed suit, they both walked toward where Imogene's hat had landed. "I know 'tis difficult for you, Maurette," said Imogene, smoothing her blond curls, but unless you are willing to spend the rest of your days in a garden, sipping tea and shouting at your tiresome children, you had best heed my words."

Maurette regarded her sister. "I had forgotten our little fantasies," she said.

"I have not forgotten, Maurette, the way you used to rail at such a thought. As it is," she sighed, "that is exactly how I envision my own future." Imogene's eyes were suddenly filled with sadness. "You have not heard, I suppose, but Gregory Knowles has offered for my band."

Maurette stopped dead. "Gregory." she said flatly.

Imogene nodded her head. Her curls bounced dejectedly. "'Twould be foolish of me to reject him, Maurette. Even after all that happened at the ball and all that we have been through as a family, he came to Papa in a week and asked to take me to wife. You have been caught up in your own concerns that I suppose you had not taken notice that our family is the talk of the county."

Guilt rose like bile in Maurette's throat. "I can not believe that you have accepted him," she breathed, "and that I have caused such an unworthy match for you."

Imogene moved to her sister and embraced her warmly. "'Twill not be so bad," she said softly. "Gregory is a good lad. I have always liked him, and he is so in love with me. His father has the earldom, you know, and their family has resided at court."

Maurette pulled away from Imogene and brushed a wayward blond curl from her cheek. "I shall never forgive myself, dear Imogene."

Imogene smiled. "Do you know, Maurette," she said fondly, "I believe that things would have worked out this way in any event? Greg and I have been friends for years." She took Maurette's hand in hers. "Perhaps I shall be married before my big sister," she giggled. The younger girl picked up her bonnet and regarded the wrinkled brim. "When I am a married woman and go to court with my husband, I shall go bonnetless every day, if I wish to," she said.

Maurette smiled softly. "Let us go back to the house and have some of Thelma's muffins."

"Oh, yes," cried Imogene. "Thelma loves our hearty appetites when we are here at Islington. She always has muffins ready for us." The two girls linked their arms. "We shall eat muffins with berry jam and grow fat and wise and never wear bonnets again," said Imogene. "And everything will turn out just fine for the Harper sisters. I know it, Maurette." squeezing each other's waists, the girls skipped the distance back to the summer kitchen.

As the early summer settled in, the Harper household Began to relax. Window embrasures had been dusted and cleared of spider webs, chimneys had been sweet, and upholstery and hangings beaten clean. Windows had been polished until they sparkled in the sun and then thrown open to let in the rich country air After that first burst of springtime activity, Maurette found that, for the first time in her life, she was feeling restive and often bored. She took no pleasure in the idle gossip by and about the country gentry. The talk had passed from her own less than decorous behavior at her birthday ball and was now centered for the most part on the marriage of Imogene to Gregory Knowles. Both young people were highly regarded and, it was said, made for each other.

Lady Elspeth was heard to cluck that Imogene was a fortunate girl to have captured the attention of a young man of Gregory's wealth and reputation, considering her sister's open flaunting of all convention. But the good folk of Islington waved away such nay-saying and concentrated their praise on the couple and their excellent prospects as man and wife. It was rumored that they were to be invited to the winter court. The queen enjoyed the company of young, vital couples and filled her palaces with them. The speculation was that, through them, Elizabeth vicariously enjoyed the bloom of young love, something she had never allowed herself to experience.

Imogene's wedding was to take place in the fall. Maurette wondered idly where she would be at that time. If she were to accept Dominic's terms, it was likely that she could find herself on some isolated island in the North Sea, for that was where she knew his titled lands to be. If nothing else, she dreaded that circumstance as much as any other where he was concerned. To be forced to live in isolation in the midst of nowhere with a man she hardly knew made her shudder in the heat of the afternoon.

"You seem so detached," she heard her grandmother say.

Maurette looked up to find that the company of women who had gathered beneath a giant yew tree to sip cold tea were regarding her curiously. "I am sorry," she said with forced brightness. "Did someone address me?"

"Lady Elspeth asked what color you will wear when you attend Imogene at her wedding," Lady violet said kindly.

"0h-I-oh," Maurette stammered.

"We cannot begin to think of that," said her grandmother hastily when she saw Maurette's bemusement. "We must wait until we return to London. Mistress Onge will have so many suggestions." Lady Violet forced a small laugh. She knew, too well, why Maurette stammered. There was no guarantee that she would even attend Imogene's wedding. "Why don't you ride out, Maurette?" the woman said gently. "Some exercise would do you good."

"Yes," said Maurette, placing her goblet of lemoned-tea unsampled on a nearby table. She knew her uncharacteristically subdued manner was much the talk of the countryside, and as she moved away from the company of women, she could feel them awaiting her absence before engaging in further verbal scrutiny of her behavior.

To avoid such unwelcome attention to her granddaughter's character, Lady Violet immediately began a conversation regarding where the bridal couple intended to live. The women sprang upon this topic the way ducks gather at a new insect hatch. The countess, watching sadly as Maurette ambled to the stableyard, ached for the child. Maurette seemed so alone in this. Lady Violet had her opinions, but those she shared only with Edyth. The two elderly women had spent many nights in communion on the subject, and both had agreed that there was but one course for their beloved Maurette. If, at the end of the year, she came back to them humbled and with her heart in her hands, she would at the least have the memory of a glorious and vital love. That, the two women agreed, was worth something.

Maurette felt rejuvenated as she rode forth and communed with the glories of Islington's natural beauty. The verdant fields, bursting with new life, commanded her joyous attention. On tree and bush, herb and flower, every new leaf lifted its virgin flesh to be nourished by the summer sun.

Maurette rode this day along the shore of the sparkling blue lake that reposed at the northern edge of her father's estate and separated Harper lands from those of the Warwick family. Turning her little mare into the lilac grove, she entered with reverence the serene and leafy glade where heavy purple blooms hung like a canopy over the sun-dappled bower. The warm air, laden with fragrant lilac perfume, stirred the profusion of frothy blossoms. In the shade of the shrubbery. Maurette dismounted and set Melitte to munching grass. Settling down near an old shrub, she leaned back against its twisted trunk.

>From distant hives, the droning of bees filled the air, and the water mill in the nearby creek burbled its summer song. Maurette listened to the soothing liquid music of the countryside and would have drifted off in slumber had not the air suddenly been split by a high piercing wail.

"I won't!" a voice screeched. "I won't? I won't? I won't!"

Maurette popped up from her cozy nesting place and looked wildly about. She could hear raucous male laughter and voices. Moving with silent haste toward the periphery of the glade, she peered between the thick lilac foliage and prayed that some young maiden was not being menaced by local ruffians. Beyond a clump of willow trees, Maurette could see the creek that flowed into the lake, and near the water's edge, she noted several small and colorful tents had been erected. A wagon stood nearby, and several horses of questionable lineage lazily chomped on the lush grass. A cook fire was burning near the water, and several men were gathered round it. Amidst all this stood the stalwart figure of a young lad, his sandy blond hair lifted by the breeze. Incongruously, he was dressed in a sumptuous gown of scarlet brocade shot with gold.

"I have played my last simper," he shouted.

Maurette recognized the party of actors she had met in London and the indignant one as Tom. She recalled that this same argument had been going on the night of her attempted escape, and she kept herself from laughing aloud with difficulty. Placing delicate fingertips on her lips, she continued to watch the scene.

Tom now stood with his hands on his hips and his feet spread wide apart. "I am, in the event that you masters have not noted, a man grown. I have, sirs, facial hair," he said hotly. The other gentlemen went toward him, miming magnifying glasses and reaching for his callow jaw to feel the boasted growth. Tom's blue eyes sparked crystalline signals as the ribald teasing continued. He stamped his foot and ripped at the offending garment. "I will show you," he cried, pulling the gown over his head and tossing it into the small cook fire. "I shall apprentice as a thread maker before I come back to this unfelicitous environment." He turned haughtily and marched in his small clothes to one of the tents, while the other men deftly stamped out the burning costume.

"Methinks the lad is in earnest," said Master Shakespeare to no one in particular as he lifted the ruined scarlet cloth. wearing a lopsided smile, he brushed at the offending garment. "Perhaps the gown can be repaired. I have some scarlet thread in my tent."

"Will you speak to the boy?" an actor inquired.

"I will speak to him when he regains his ears, master. In the meantime, we must needs confer upon our upcoming interlude. You die with such grace, young James, that within the span of your throes that youth in there will become an old man." The other men laughed. "Let us rehearse that murder and subsequent death while I sew."

Concealing herself in the low bushes, Maurette advanced cautiously to the periphery of the camp. She watched, enthralled, as the men set to their rehearsal. It was not until her little mare gave a whinny that Maurette turned, startled, to see that Tom had circled her hiding place and was now stalking Melitte in the lilac grove.

Running in the direction of her horse, she saw the boy attempt to mount the animal and noted, with amusement, Melitte's reluctance to comply. She could not hide her giggles as Melitte waited until the boy was off balance and then topple him with a well asigned side step. Maurette was laughing fully now, and the lad, sprawled upon the grass, leveled a dour glare toward her.

"Forgive me, sir," said Maurette through a wide smile. "My little horse does not seem as willing as yourself to quit this 'infelicitous environment'."

"Then how in the name of holy sanity, shall I?" he said, standing and dusting at his soiled hose. He looked up at Maurette then with a chastened manner. "I am not, as a rule, a thief, my lady," he said and bowed deferentially. "My name is Thomas Ashton."

Maurette tipped him a curtsy. "And I am not, as a rule, a cajoler, sir," she said. " 'Tis only that you have attempted to purloin not only my horse but my friend." She indicated her horse with a tilt of her head. The little mare had moved away from the confusion and was now munching on grass nearby.

The two young people eyed each other for a long moment. Maurette was the first to speak. "I am sorry for your troubles, young master. I know what it is to feel one's life in the hands of another." She moved toward the actor, " 'Twould be a shame, though, for you to quit a profession in which you excel so admirably. You played for me an interlude at my birthday ball in London last April, and I enjoyed your performance very much. As I remember, you were the daughter of a tavern bawd."

Tom's eyes widened. "You are Lady Maurette," he said in astonishment.

Maurette smiled and nodded. "I am she."

"And I am decreed by fate to decorate the walls of hell, Your Ladyship," he said forlornly. He bowed again, this time scraping the ground in his humiliation.

"Rise, young master," Maurette said in mock severity. "I must needs see the face of the one I adjudicate."

The lad rose and twisted his cloth hat in front of him. The rakish feather that adorned it was now bent and hung limply from the wrinkled brim. "May I expect mercy, my lady?" he said solemnly. "If you would but temper your wrath, I could introduce you to the other actors and, more importantly, to our ascendant playwright, Master William Shakespeare." The young man's voice was filled with pride.

"My name and meager reputation will not protect you, Thomas," said a clear booming voice from behind the couple. William Shakespeare moved to Maurette and made a courtly bow. "This young master has done his worst, my lady, and now," he said, facing Tom, the gates of doom yawn before him." He shook his head in mock sadness. "Too bad, for I am in the process of composing a piece for just such a lad as he." Will splayed his hand in front of the boy's face as he saw him brighten. "No, no, young sir, you cannot possibly play a man of principle now that you have sullied your reputation with attempted horse thievery.

"Go," said Shakespeare, pointing with emphasis, "go to your thread-maker. Make thread until your fingers bleed; And then," he looked directly into the lad's eyes, "come back and repair, with that thread that you have made, the scarlet gown you nearly destroyed in the inferno of, the cook fire." The actor covered his eyes with his forearm in a gesture of dramatic lamentation. "Alas, I am out of scarlet thread and despair for one small length of it.".

The three dissolved in laughter as the, tenor of the admonishment changed. Maurette gleefully applauded the actor's performance. "Well aimed, master," she said', and William Shakespeare accepted her approbation with a small bow.

"Acting is all," he said through a smile, "the rest is waiting." He placed his arm around Tom's shoulders. "This lad is right, though. I have, in fact, noted the covering of down upon his cheeks and have wondered at the future of our company. Within the year, we will have need of a lad to replace Master Tom in the gentler sex."

Thomas's face twisted. "A year," he said with distaste. "But a year, Tom," Shakespeare said pointedly. "And then, if we are fortunate, we will find us a lad the likes of that young Dan, whom we met in London, to take your place."

Maurette blanched. She could barely believe that they remembered her. She smiled as she thought of that night. "Was this Dan so very special?" she asked.

"Oh, indeed he was, my lady," said Tom excitedly; "'Tis a rare thing to find such a comely lad who is also well spoken and personable."

"And yet," said Will, "we cannot pin our hopes too soundly on that boy. In the meantime, methinks, I must needs introduce myself and our company to the fair lady who has stood witness to our petty troubles. I am Master Shakespeare," he said, sweeping Maurette a bow, "better known in some circles as Master Shake-scene." They all laughed. "My critics abound, I fear;" he said, a smile playing on his full lips.

"But that fact will not deter me, young Thomas, from completing my piece for you. Perhaps we shall play it at Whitehall or at Master Burbage's theater or," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "perhaps we shall build our own theater." The other two applauded his ambition. "For now," he said with extravagant surrender, "we must content ourselves with playing at the inn yards and the gentle houses, such as your own, my lady. For that kindness alone, we would beg you to let us offer you a simple meal. 'Twould give me the greatest pleasure to introduce you to our fellows. Will you allow us the pleasure of your esteemed company?"

At the mention of food, Maurette felt her stomach grumble, not having eaten since morning. She accepted the invitation happily and found herself transported into the midst of the actors' camp.

Their food was simple but tasty and filling. They enjoyed sausages roasted on the open fire and a venison pie that was the pride of one bearded mater who exclaimed, as they ate, that "cooking was all.. The rest was merely waiting." Maurette found the meal satisfying but felt the good-natured teasing and warm-heartedness of the men thoroughly enjoyable and basked in the pleasure the actors took in her presence.

She was not unresponsive to their admiring glances. Many of them had wives whom they had been forced to leave in pursuit of their profession. It was obvious, in their lighthearted admiration of Maurette's feminine charms, that they missed a woman's company; A ribald comment or two, which was just out of earshot, prompted William Shakespeare to rise and help Maurette to her feet.

"You ruffians cannot be trusted in the company of a gentle woman," he said with a self-righteous sniff. "I must needs take the lady from your offensive company." He added a mischievous wink over his shoulder as he led Maurette away.

"You had best see to your own less than chivalrous instincts," shouted one man gaily as the couple moved away.

"I like them, said Maurette when they had settled themselves on a grassy incline. They are happy people."

"And you, fair lady? Are you happy?"

Maurette glanced up at him. "But of course I am happy, sir," she said defensively.

"Ah," said William Shakespeare; "please forgive me. I take it that this happiness of spirit you proclaim is what causes you to roam the dark streets of London dressed as a lad."

Maurette's eyes widened and the dappled sunlight caught in their sparkling depths. Her dewy lips finally curved into a soft smile. "You know then," she said softly.

Shakespeare nodded. "I know," he said gently. "And I will not. pry."

Maurette lowered her eyes. For some reason, unknown to her, she wanted to tell this man everything. She had a feeling that he could help her make order out of the chaos of her heart.

"There is a man," she began, looking into Will's understanding eyes. "You met him, in fact, that night in London." She related her story slowly, glancing about from time to time in fear that someone might intrude upon their private conversation. When she had finished, Will leaned in close to her.

"I would guard myself, if I were you," he said. "This Raven seems a perfect rogue."

Maurette nodded. "'Tis exactly my thought, Will. And yet...to me.... sometimes..." Maurette paused and sat for long moments in abstract reflection.

"Let me see if I can put this into perspective," said Will finally. The man is beastly large and unrefined in his manner and behavior." He looked to Maurette for confirmation. Receiving it, he continued. "He has been known to be gentle with regard to you, but," he paused significantly, "he has effected a most ungentle response in you." Will stood and continued, pacing as he. spoke. "His reputation is fierce, and yet, if I am not mistaken, he has earned that reputation in the service of our good queen." Maurette nodded. "He would take you, it would seem, in a Pre-contract agreement, but that agreement would run out in one year's time. Am I correct?"

Maurette answered with a nod. As she looked down, her silken eyelashes trembled on her opaline cheeks.

That Warbrooke, thought Will, was surely fortune's child. "I know something about pre-contracts, Maurette," he said gently. "Such was the case between my lady and me."

Maurette shot him a quizzical look. "You have a wife, Will?"

"Indeed I have," he said with a smile. "And, Puritan though she may be, she is a good woman.

Maurette gasped. "Puritan?" The Puritans were well-known enemies of the theater.

"Aye," Will said softly. "I am afraid my chosen profession is not to her liking. 'Tis said. My good Anne sends me publications that designate me a 'hound of hell' and other things equally unpleasant." He laughed. "'Tis not easy, Maurette, for us to hold together a marriage under such circumstances. And yet, together, we have brought three children into the world," he said with pride.

"You have children, Will?"

"A set of twins, in fact, and one other. 'Tis for them and my sweet Anne that I continue in this life. I was born to it, and she understands that. I tell you this, Maurette, my destiny was named from the start. My marriage to Anne Hathaway and my life in the theater are the only two things in the world that I am sure of. Children are transient beings in one's life. They grow and leave the procreant cradle. Friends drift into one's life, then out and for one reason and another. Scenes change, lovers come and go, and the seasons of our existence alter with every passing year. Nothing is forever, Maurette. Yet I know that my marriage and my life in the theater will be with me until I die."

Maurette shifted, and Will offered her his hand. The two walked back toward the lilac grove. They stopped amid the profusion of purple blossoms and faced each other. Maurette lifted herself on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against Will's bearded cheek.

"I wish I had as clear a picture of my destiny as you have, Will."

"You have, Maurette," he said gently. "The problem lies in facing it."

She nodded. There was no question now in her mind or in her heart. She knew that she would accept Dominic's terms.

"I wish you good fortune, Will," she said.

"And for you, dear Maurette, I wish the springtime and the stars and worthy friends."

She looked up into his sensitive intelligent eyes. His face seemed to have within its gentle plane, a perceptiveness that encompassed all the world. "You are wise and kind, William Shakespeare. Please do not forget me when you build your theater. Perhaps you will allow me free admittance into the pit, at the least."

Will laughed softly and brushed her cheek gently with his fingertips. "I will remember you, Maurette." He noted the purple softness of her eyes and the golden curling hair that framed her white face. "I will never think of lilacs without thinking of you. And," he added, his smile deepening. "I often think of lilacs."

Will led her to her horse and helped her mount. After watching her gallop off, he returned to his tent and went inside. Many hours later, just as the evening's first stars were beginning to twinkle in the moon-silvered sky, he emerged with a look of beatitude on his face. He had completed a new sonnet.