already condemned. The play is
nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild
play, Nick, and ill played."

"Here, if ye've anything to say, be saying it," said the turnkey. "'Tis
a shilling's worth, ye mind."

Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his
shackled hand to his hip--they had taken his poniard when he came into
the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he
wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon
the silk.

"Ye sent for me, sir," said Nick.

Carew passed his hand across his brow. "Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I
have something to tell thee, Nick." He hesitated, and looked through the
bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. "Thou'lt be good and true
to Cicely--thou'lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes." He
paused again, as if irresolute. "I'll trust thee, Nick. We've taken
money, thou and I; good gold and silver--tsst! what's that?" He
stopped suddenly.

Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard's cursing.

"'Tis my fancy," Carew said. "Well, then, we've taken much good money,
Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark'e--thou knowest the old
oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish
chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and--tsst! what's
that, I say?"

There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it
had his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is listening,"
said Nick.

The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew
dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a
howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one
word the master-player said.

"Peace, thou dog!" cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow
only yelled the louder.

Carew looked sorely troubled. "I dare not let him hear," said he. "The
very walls of Newgate leak."

"_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_"

"Yet I must tell thee, Nick."

"_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_"

"Stay! would Will Shakspere come? Why, here, I'll send him word. He'll
come--Will Shakspere never bore a grudge; and I shall so soon go where
are no grudges, envy, storms, or noise, but silence and the soft lap of
everlasting sleep. He'll come--Nick, bid him come, upon his life, to
the Old Bailey when I am taken up."

Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg.

Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came in thro