ugh the
narrow window at the stair. "Nick," said he, huskily, "last night I
dreamed I heard thee singing; but 'twas where there was a sweet, green
field and a stream flowing through a little wood. Methought 'twas on the
road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou'lt go there some day and
remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad? And, Nick, for thine own mother's
sake, do not altogether hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might
easily have been."

"Come," growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly
bear; "have done. 'Tis a fat shilling's worth."

"'Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick," said Carew, holding to the
boy's hands through the bars. "I'll never hear thee sing again."

"Why, sir, I'll sing for thee now," said Nick, choking.

The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked
up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like
that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. "Here, here," he cried, "be
still!" But Nick sang on.

The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard
outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped
the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary
place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint
old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man's dream;
and to Gaston Carew's ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all
been gathered in that little song--all but the sound of the voice of his
daughter Cicely.

It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy
walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved
mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his
cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not
heard for many a day.

Carew muttered to himself. "And now old cares are locked in charmed
sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing--to hear
thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!"

"'Tis three good shillings' worth o' time," the turnkey growled, and
fumbled with the keys. "All for one shilling, too," said he, and kicked
the door-post sulkily. "But a plague, I say, a plague! 'Tis no one's
business but mine. I've a good two shillings' worth in my ears. 'Tis
thirty year since I ha' heard the like o' that. But what's a gaol
for?--man's delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time's up! Come out o' that."
But he spoke so low that he scarcely hea