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 space 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 XXXII

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 passed like a wondrous dream. He was free. Master Carew was
done for. On Saturday 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. Ni