When will he be back?" asked Nick, desperately.

"Be ba-ack?" drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; "back
whur?--here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas."

Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.

Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate. He was beginning to feel
sick and a little faint. The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the
sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the
tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the
wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.

He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a
heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with
the bandy-legged man at his heels.

CHAPTER XXI

"THE CHILDREN OF PAUL'S"

An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and,
sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick. He thought its bare, scaly
tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his
elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.

He had been locked in for two days now. They had put in plenty of food,
and he had eaten it all; for if he starved to death he would certainly
never get home.

It was quite warm, and the boards had been taken from the window, so
that there was plenty of light. The window faced the north, and in the
night, wakened by some outcry in the street below, Nick had leaned his
log-pillow against the wainscot, and, climbing up, looked out into the
sky. It was clear, for a wonder, and the stars were very bright. The
moon, like a smoky golden platter, rose behind the eastern towers of the
town, and in the north hung the Great Wain pointing at the polar star.

Somewhere underneath those stars was Stratford. The throstles would be
singing in the orchard there now, when the sun was low and the cool
wind came up from the river with a little whispering in the lane. The
purple-gray doves, too, would be cooing softly in the elms over the
cottage gable. In fancy he heard the whistle of their wings as they
flew. But all the sound that came in over the roofs of London town was a
hollow murmur as from a kennel of surly hounds.

"Nick!--oh, Nick!"

Cicely Carew was calling at the door. The rat scurried off to its hole
in the wall.

"What there, Nick! Art thou within?" Cicely called again; but Nick made
no reply.

"Nick, _dear_ Nick, art crying?