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