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     THE PANCHRONICON




            THE
        PANCHRONICON

            BY
   HAROLD STEELE MACKAYE


          NEW YORK
   CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
            1904




COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published, April, 1904




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                PAGE

       I. THE THEORY OF COPERNICUS DROOP                               1

      II. A VISIT TO THE PANCHRONICON                                 23

     III. A NOCTURNAL EVASION                                         38

      IV. A CHANGE OF PLAN                                            58

       V. DROOP'S THEORY IN PRACTICE                                  86

      VI. SHIPWRECKED ON THE SANDS OF TIME                           103

     VII. NEW TIES AND OLD RELATIONS                                 123

    VIII. HOW FRANCIS BACON CHEATED THE BAILIFFS                     157

      IX. PHOEBE AT THE PEACOCK INN                                  179

       X. HOW THE QUEEN READ HER NEWSPAPER                           208

      XI. THE FAT KNIGHT AT THE BOAR'S HEAD                          242

     XII. HOW SHAKESPEARE WROTE HIS PLAYS                            258

    XIII. HOW THE FAT KNIGHT DID HOMAGE                              277

    XIV. THE FATE OF SIR PERCEVALL'S SUIT                            297

    XV. HOW REBECCA RETURNED TO NEWINGTON                            317

    XVI. HOW SIR GUY KEPT HIS TRYST                                  324

    XVII. REBECCA'S TRUMP CARD                                       340




THE PANCHRONICON




CHAPTER I

THE THEORY OF COPERNICUS DROOP


The two sisters were together in their garden.

Rebecca Wise, turned forty and growing slightly gray at the temples, was
moving slowly from one of her precious plants to the next, leaning over
each to pinch off a dead leaf or count the buds. It was the historic
month of May, 1898, and May is the paradise of flower lovers.

Phoebe was eighteen years younger than her sister, and the beauty of
the village. Indeed, many declared their belief that the whole State of
New Hampshire did not contain her equal.

She was seated on the steps of the veranda that skirted the little white
cottage, and the absent gaze of her frank blue eyes was directed through
the gate at the foot of the little path bordered by white rose-bushes.
In her lap was a bundle of papers yellowed by age and an ivory
miniature, evidently taken from the carved wooden box at her side.

Presently Rebecca straightened her back with a slight grimace and looked
toward her sister, holding her mold-covered hands and fingers spread
away from her.

"Well," she inquired, "hev ye found anythin'?"

Phoebe brought her gaze back from infinity and replied:

"No, I ain't. Only that one letter where Isaac Burton writes her that
the players have come to town."

"I don't see what good them letters'll do ye in the Shakespeare class,
then."

Rebecca spoke listlessly--more interested in her garden than in her
sister's search.

"I don't know," Phoebe rejoined, dreamily. "It's awful funny--but
whenever I take out these old letters there comes over me the feelin'
that I'm 'way off in a strange country--and I feel like somebody else."

Rebecca looked up anxiously from her work.

"Them sort o' philanderin' notions are foolish, Phoebe," she said, and
flicked a caterpillar over the fence.

Phoebe gave herself a little shake and began to tie up the papers.

"That's so," she replied. "But they will come when I get these out, an'
I got 'em out thinkin' the' might be somethin' about Shakespeare in 'em
for our class."

She paused and looked wistfully at the letters again.

"Oh!" she cried, "how I do wonder if he was among those players at the
Peacock Inn that day! You know 'players' is what they called play-actors
in those days, and he was a play-actor, they say."

"Did he live very far back, then?" said Rebecca, wishing to appear
interested, but really intent upon a new sprout at the foot of the
lilac-bush.

"Yes, three hundred years ago. Three of these letters has a date in 1598
exactly."

There was a long silence, and at length Rebecca looked up from the
ground to ascertain its cause. She frowned and drew her aching back
stiffly straight again.

"Everlastin'ly lookin' at that pictur'!" she exclaimed. "I declare to
goodness, Phoebe Wise, folks'll think you're vain as a pouter pigeon."

Phoebe laughed merrily, tossed the letters into the box and leaped to
her feet. The miniature at which she had been gazing was still in her
hands.

"Folks'll never see me lookin' at it, Rebecca--only you," she said.

Then with a coaxing tone and looking with appealing arch