"Hurrah, my bullies! That's the cry!" said Carew, in his
hail-fellow-well-met, royal way. "Why, we're the very best of fellows,
and the very fastest friends! Come, all to the old Three Lions inn, and
douse a can of brown March brew at my expense. To the Queen, to good
fair play, and to all the fine fellows in Albans town!"

And what did the crowd do but raise a shout, like a parcel of
school-boys loosed for a holiday, and troop off to the Three Lions inn
at Master Carew's heels, Will Hostler and the brawny smith bringing up
the rear with Nick between them, hand to collar, half forgotten by the
rest, and his heart too low for further grief.

And while the crowd were still roaring over their tankards and cheering
good fair play, Master Gaston Carew up with his prisoner into the
saddle, and, mounting himself, with the bandy-legged man grinning
opposite, shook the dust of old St. Albans from his horse's heels.

"Now, Nicholas Attwood," said he, grimly, as they galloped away, "hark
'e well to what I have to say, and do not let it slip thy mind. I am
willed to take thee to London town--dost mark me?--and to London town
thou shalt go, warm or cold. By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, I
mean just what I say! So thou mayst take thy choice."

He gripped Nick's shoulder as they rode, and glared into his eyes as if
to sear them with his own. Nick heard his poniard grating in its sheath,
and shut his eyes so that he might not see the master-player's horrid
stare; for the opening and shutting, opening and shutting, of the blue
lids made him shudder.

"And what's more," said Carew, sternly, "I shall call thee Master
Skylark from this time forth--dost hear? And when I bid thee go, thou'lt
go; and when I bid thee come, thou'lt come; and when I say, 'Here,
follow me!' thou'lt follow like a dog to heel!" He drew up his lip until
his white teeth showed, and Nick, hearing them gritting together, shrank
back dismayed.

"There!" laughed Carew, scornfully. "He that knows better how to tame a
vixen or to cozen a pack of gulls, now let him speak!" and said no more
until they passed by Chipping Barnet. Then, "Nick," said he, in a quiet,
kindly tone, as if they had been friends for years, "this is the place
where Warwick fell"; and pointed down the field. "There in the corner of
that croft they piled the noble dead like corn upon a threshing-floor.
Since then," said he, with quiet irony, "men have stopped making English
kings as the