ck watched him, fascinated.

A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It
was Master Dick 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--Dick 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."