“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands with a bitter grip.  “Dost thou not love me just a little?  Come, lad, say that thou lovest me.”

[Illustration:  “‘WHY, SIR, I’LL SING FOR THEE NOW.’  SAID NICK, CHOKING.”] “Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na love thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with all my heart.  And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I’d wish thee out—­for Cicely.  But, Master Carew, do na break my hands.”

The master-player loosed his grasp.  “I will not seek to be excused to thee,” he said huskily.  “I’ve prisoned thee as that clod prisons me; but, Nick, the play is almost out, down comes the curtain on my heels, and thy just blame will find no mark.  Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’twas not I who set thee free.  Thou canst go when pleaseth thee, and thank me nothing for it.  And, Nick, as my sins be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free and send thee home.  I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!”

“Time’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming back.

Carew thrust his hand into his breast.

“I must be going, sir,” said Nick.

“Ay, so thou must—­all things must go.  Oh, Nick, be friendly with me now, if thou wert never friendly before.  Kiss me, lad.  There—­now thy hand.”  The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it.  “Quick!  Keep it hid,” he whispered. “’Tis the chain I had from Stratford’s burgesses, to some good usage come at last.”

“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey.

“I be coming, sir.”

“Thou’lt send Will Shakspere?  And, oh, Nick,” cried Carew, holding him yet a little longer, “thou’lt keep my Cicely from harm?”

“I’ll do my best,” said Nick, his own eyes full.

The turnkey raised his heavy bunch of keys.  “I’ll ding thee out o’ this” said he.

And the last Nick Attwood saw of Gaston Carew was his wistful eyes hunting down the stairway after him, and his hand, with its torn fine laces, waving at him through the bars.

And when he came to the Mermaid Inn Master Shakspere’s comedy was done, and Master Ben Jonson was telling a merry tale that made the tapster sick with laughing.

CHAPTER XXXIII

CICELY DISAPPEARS

That Master Will Shakspere should be so great seemed passing strange to Nick, he felt so soon at home with him.  It seemed as if the master-maker of plays had a magic way of going out to and about the people he met, and of fitting his humor to them as though he were a glover with their measure in his hand.

With Nick he was nothing all day long but a jolly, wise, and gentle-hearted boy, wearing his greatness like an old cloth coat, as if it were a long-accustomed thing, and quite beyond all pride, and went about his business in a very simple way.  But in the evening when the wits were met together at his house, and Nick sat on the hindmost bench and watched the noble gentlemen who came to listen to the sport, Master Will Shakspere seemed to have the knack of being ever best among them all, yet of never too much seeming to be better than the rest.