"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!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Edmund, "he is too gray haired."

"Even so, James. He is the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and that light-haired boy beside him is little Philip. He is the pet of the Court already, but heigho! whom have we here? Why, it is, yes--it is the Lord High Treasurer himself!"

"So it is," murmured Edmund, as he carefully retreated well into the shade. "This door won't attract attention, eh?"

"No, thank goodness, for I can't very well get out now. You see, 'tis only a loft door, and it is as often open as shut. They will think I have been pitching some hay in."

Nevertheless, Edmund was by no means satisfied. There was only the distance now of a few yards which separated him from his persecutor, and he feared, in spite of his disguise, lest he should be discovered.

He upbraided himself a thousand times for his foolhardiness in exposing himself to the perils which he knew beforehand would beset him in the capital; and in the extremity of his fear he absolutely shook with terror. Fortunately, however, for him, his companion was too engrossed in watching the new arrivals, as they rapidly flocked in, to notice his agitation, and for some time he was left to his own uncomfortable reflections. In vain he wished himself safe within the walls of Nottingham Castle. Even Haddon would have been preferable, but even that sorry refuge was denied him too. However much he wished it, he could not break away from the fact that he was at London, almost within arm's length of his persecutor, and he already began to look upon himself as lost.

CHAPTER X.

IN DIRE STRAITS.

And if the worst had fall'n which could befall, He stood, a stranger in this breathing world, An erring spirit from another hurled; A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped By choice the perils he by chance escaped; But 'scaped in vain.

Edmund Wynne was rudely awakened from the train of thought into which he had fallen by the rough hand of the ostler, which alighted upon his shoulders with a smack which was re-echoed in the farthest corner of the yard.

"Now, James," said his companion, whose ready familiarity was becoming exceedingly distasteful, "they are about to begin, see!"

The courtyard was, in fact, already more than comfortably filled.

Those of the audience who formed the pit squatted unceremoniously down in groups upon the ground, and having brought with them a plentiful supply of fruit and provisions, they were already busily engaged in discussing them; whilst the more select company, which paid a higher price and represented the modern gallery, occupied the reserved part on the other side of the rope, and was amusing itself in a general way, by looking down with supercilious contempt upon the common folk below.

Edmund stretched himself slightly forward, and peering out of the darkness of his retreat, was just in time to witness the appearance of the musicians, who, after making their bow to the audience, pa.s.sed along the stage and made their exit through a doorway at the other end. A profound silence fell upon the company, and as the music of the violins floated gently on the breeze, the players made their appearance on the stage.

"What grotesque figures," he exclaimed, as an involuntary smile stole across his face; "why, they are covered with ivy leaves."

"See how Lord Burleigh cheers," interrupted the delighted ostler, as the play commenced, "and Sir Henry, too; see! Hang him, that's old Boniface rooting about; what can he want, I wonder? I believe he is looking for me."

"Who is Boniface?" meekly asked Edmund.

"The landlord, of course; and your friends are with him, too," was the curt reply.

Edmund shrank back still further into the shadow of the room. "It would never do for them to see me here," he explained; "it would upset all our plans. You must screen me somehow, won't you?"

"Take care of yourself, sir," returned the ostler as he s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pitchfork and began to toss the hay about. "Take care of yourself, sir, for he's coming up here, upon my faith he is. Here's luck!" and the hay flew about in all directions.

No second bidding was required. Edmund scrambled over the heaps of hay and straw which lay upon the floor and never slackened his haste until he found himself hidden from view behind the stack in the further-most corner of the loft. Barely had he succeeded in ensconcing himself there, when footsteps were heard ascending the ladder, and a moment later a sharp knocking at the door announced to the only too conscious conspirators that the landlord was waiting to enter.

"Halloa," shouted the ostler, as he stamped upon the floor with his fork, to convey the impression that he was busily engaged, at work.

"You can't get in here, I've got my work to do."

Edmund was astonished at the cool impudence of his friend, and he lifted his head to accord him a nod of approval, but a bundle of straw which the ostler purposely tossed at him from the other side of the room made him quickly withdraw his cranium again into the shelter.

"Let me in, I say," shouted a voice from below. "You knave, let me in, I tell you."

The ostler had played his little game, and, having sheltered his companion, he now anxiously awaited the result. Glancing round to see that Edmund was completely buried from sight, he dropped upon his knees, and moving the catch on one side he slowly raised the door.

"You knave! you villain!" exclaimed his irate master, as he stepped into the room. "Wasting your time in looking at puppet-shows. How dare you, sir; how dare you? Get you gone, sirrah!" and he gave him a kick which considerably accelerated the speed with which he disappeared below.

Having thus satisfactorily vented his displeasure, his brow relaxed and he turned to the baron and Sir Thomas and conducted them to a seat so lately vacated by the guilty pair, with an urbanity which looked positively impossible to ruffle.

"You see, my lord, there is a seat ready provided," he exclaimed, as he pointed to the bale of hay which stood beside the wall. "Perhaps your lordships will be pleased to seat yourself on that? I'll warrant me 'tis clean enough, for I espied the rogue sitting on it."

Sir George Vernon, nothing loth, accepted the proffered seat.

"I will reach another bundle down for you," continued the loquacious innkeeper, turning to the younger knight. "I will get you one of a convenient size; most of them are far too big to be comfortable, I fear, but I have them in all shapes and sizes; you shall be made comfortable in a trice, my lord."

He cast his eyes about in search of the bundle "of convenient size,"

and his choice fell upon the one which covered the gap where Edmund Wynne lay hidden. Having once selected this he proceeded straightway to climb over the impeding bundles to reach it from the corner where the ostler had tossed it just before.

This, however, proved no slight task. He was burly and heavy, while the bundles were frail and loosely stacked and failed to yield to his feet that amount of support which, of all men, the stouter ones are supposed most to require. This being so, it was not surprising to find that ere he reached it he stumbled and fell several times, until at last Sir Thomas took pity upon him and told him to desist.

"I would stand, my good man," he said, "rather than thou should'st break thy neck, or I might lay upon some of this soft straw for the nonce."

"A prison bed," chimed in Sir George. "Well, some folks like one thing and some another, there's no accounting for tastes."

The landlord scouted the proposal at once. He felt that somehow he was on his mettle, and it was inc.u.mbent upon him to vindicate the honour of his house. "Had the kind n.o.bleman been possessed of a better acquaintance with him," he said, "he would have known that it was not in his nature to be overcome by trifles. Things, thank goodness, were managed better than that at the c.o.c.k hostelry," and to support his statement he wiped away the perspiration from his brow, and made a further attempt to reach it down.

Edmund's feelings during these critical moments would be easier to imagine than describe. Every moment he expected that the bundle would be lifted off, and he antic.i.p.ated the mortification of being dragged out and being brought face to face with the man whom he now most dreaded. As the other advanced and the unstable walls of his shelter quivered until they threatened to fall upon him, he crouched down further and further into the corner, preferring rather to be buried under the solid squares of hay than to be discovered in such a position. Sir Thomas' words inspired him with a ray of hope, but his expectations were dashed as suddenly as they had arisen by the words of the baron and the action of the busy landlord, who, all unconscious of the torture he was inflicting, struggled valiantly on towards his quarry.