Nick peered through the brightness. "Master Will--Master Will Shakspere!" he gasped.

"_Well, my lady_," said the quiet man; "_what wilt thou have of me_?"

Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.

Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of "Good boy!" "Right, lad; do not leave her till thou must!" and at the last, "What! take thee home to thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!" And the _last_ was the voice of the quiet man.

Then followed laughter and sc.r.a.ps of song, merry talking, and good cheer, for they all made glad together.

Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden, stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of the c.o.c.ks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond the landing-place; the trees moved softly.

Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-p.r.i.c.ks in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far to see the people pa.s.sing by.

On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind--a long, thin cry, like the wavering screech of an owl--a shrill, high, ugly sound; the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in the path.

Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy cloud, now lost to sight, now seen again. Out of the shadow came a man, with hands outstretched and cap awry, running as if he were mad. As he ran he looked from side to side, and turned his head for the keener ear. He was panting hard.

When he reached the ditch he paused in fault, ran on a step or two, went back, stood hesitating there, clenching his hands in the empty wind, listening; for the mist was grown so thick that he could scarcely see.

But as he stood there doubtfully, uncertain of the way, catching the wind in his nervous hands, and turning about in a little s.p.a.ce like an animal in a cage, over the hedge through the apple-boughs a boy's clear voice rose suddenly, singing a rollicking tune, with a snapping of fingers and tapping of feet in time to its merry lilt.

Then the man in the mist, when he heard that clear, high voice, turned swiftly to it, crying out, "The Skylark! Zooks! It is the place!" and ran through the fog to where the lantern glimmered through the hedge.

The light fell in a yellow stream across his face. He was pale as a ghost. "What, there, within! What, there!" he panted. "Shakspere!

Jonson! Any one!"

The song stopped short. "Who's there?" called the voice of the quiet man.

"'Tis I, Tom Heywood. there's to-do for players at the Falcon Inn.

Gaston Carew hath stabbed Fulk Sandells, for cheating at the dice, as dead as a door-nail, and hath been taken by the watch!"

CHAPTER x.x.xII

THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW

It was Monday morning, and a beautiful day.

Master Will Shakspere was reading a new play to Masters Ben Jonson and Diccon Burbage at the Mermaid Inn.

Thomas Pope, the player, and Peter Hemynge, the manager, were there with them at the table under the little window. The play was a comedy of a wicked money-lender named Shylock; but it was a comedy that made Nick shudder as he sat on the bench by the door and listened to it through happy thoughts of going home.

Sunday had pa.s.sed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was done for. On Sat.u.r.day morning Master Will Shakspere would set out on the journey to Stratford town, for his regular summer visit there; and Nick was going with him--going to Stratford--going home!

The comedy-reading went on. Master Burbage, his moving face alive, leaned forward on his elbows, nodding now and then, and saying, "Fine, fine!" under his breath. Master Pope was making faces suited to the words, not knowing that he did so. Nick watched him, fascinated.

A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It was Master d.i.c.k Jones of the Admiral's company. He looked worried and as if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad daylight outside into the darker room.

"Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark," said he, quickly, seeing Nick beside the door.

Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.

"He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is in Newgate prison. Wilt come?"

Nick shook his head.

"But he says indeed he _must_ see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of thee. 'Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man."

"Thou'lt surely fetch me back?"

"Here, Master Will Shakspere," called the Admiral's player; "I am to fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is Jones--d.i.c.k Jones, of Henslowe's company. Burbage knows me. I'll bring him back."

Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones.

As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre's was tolling, and there was a crowd about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick could not bear to watch.

The turnkey at the prison gate was a crop-headed fellow with jowls like a bulldog, and no more mercy in his face than a chopping-block. "Gaston Carew, the player?" he growled. "Ye can't come in without a permit from the warden."

"We must," said Jones.

"Must?" said the turnkey. "I am the only one who says 'must' in Newgate!" and slammed the door in their faces.

The player clinked a shilling on the bar.

"It was a boy he said would come," growled the turnkey through the wicket, pocketing the shilling; "so just the boy goes up. A shilling's worth, ye mind, and not another wink." He drew Nick in, and dropped the bars.

It was a foul, dark place, and full of evil smells. Drops of water stood on the cold stone walls, and a green mould crept along the floor. The air was heavy and dank, and it began to be hard for Nick to breathe. The men in the dungeons were singing a horrible song, and in the corner was a half-naked fellow shackled to the floor. "Give me a penny," he said, "or I will curse thee." Nick shuddered.

"Up with thee," said the turnkey, gruffly, unlocking the door to the stairs.

The common room above was packed with miserable wretches, fighting, dancing, gibbering like apes. Some were bawling ribald songs, others moaning with fever. The strongest kept the window-ledges near light and air by sheer main force, and were dicing on the dirty sill. The turnkey pushed and banged his way through them, Nick clinging desperately to his jerkin.

In a cell at the end of the corridor there was a Spanish renegade who cursed the light when the door was opened, and cursed the darkness when it closed. "Cesare el Moro, Cesare el Moro," he was saying over and over again to himself, as if he feared that he might forget his own name.

Carew was in the middle cell, ironed hand and foot. He had torn his sleeves and tucked the lace under the rough edges of the metal to keep it from chafing the skin. He sat on a pile of dirty straw, with his face in his folded arms upon his knees. By his side was a broken biscuit and an empty stone jug. He had his fingers in his ears to shut out the tolling of the knell for the man who had gone to be hanged.

The turnkey shook the bars. "Here, wake up!" he said.

Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a two days' beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: "And thou hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. 'Twill not be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast."

"Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside--'tis scarcely noon; and thou wilt soon be out."

"Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill," said the master-player, quietly. "I've spent my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I've taken my last cue. Last night, at twelve o'clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild play, Nick, and ill played."