But the bandy-legged man caught him fast by the arm, and hurried on into the street, scanning it swiftly up and down.  “Two birds with one stone, by hen!” he chuckled, when he saw that the coast was clear.  “They’ll fetch a pretty penny by and by.”

Poor Cicely smiled through her tears at Nick.  “I knew thou wouldst come for me soon,” said she.  “But where is my father?”

“He’s dead as a herring,” snarled Gregory.

“That’s a lie,” said Nick; “he is na dead.”

“Don’t call me liar, knave—­by hen, I’ll put a stopper on thy voice!”

“Thou wilt na put a stopper on a jug!” cried Nick, his heart so hot for Cicely that he quite forgot himself.  “I’d sing so well without a voice—­it would butter thy bread for thee!  Loose my arm, thou rogue.”

“Not for a thousand golden crowns!  I’m no tom-noddy, to be gulled.  And, hark ’e, be less glib with that ‘rogue’ of thine, or I’ll baste thy back for thee.”

“Oh, don’t beat Nick!” gasped Cicely.

“Do na fret for me,” said Nick; “I be na feared of the cowardly rogue!”

Crack! the man struck him across the face.  Nick’s eyes flashed hot as a fire-coal.  He set his teeth, but he did not flinch.  “Do na thou strike me again, thou rogue!” said he.

As he spoke, on a sudden his heart leaped up and his fear was utterly gone.  In its place was a something fierce and strange—­a bitter gladness, a joy that stung and thrilled him like great music in the night.  A tingling ran from head to foot; the little hairs of his flesh stood up; he trampled the stones as he hurried on.  In his breast his heart was beating like a bell; his breath came hotly, deep and slow; the whole world widened on his gaze.  Oh, what a thing is the heart of a boy! how quickly great things are done therein!  One instant, put him to the touch—­the thing is done, and he is nevermore the same.  Like a keen, cold wind that blows through a window in the night, life’s courage had breathed on Nick Attwood’s heart; the man that slept in the heart of the boy awoke and was aware.  The old song roared in Nick’s ears: 

     Sir Francis Drake sailed round the world,
       Round the world, round the world;
     John Hawkins fought the “Victory,”
       And we ha’ beaten Spain!

Whither they were going he did not know.  Whither they were going he did not care.  He was English:  this was England still!  He set his teeth and threw back his shoulders.  “I be na feared of him!” said he.

“But my father will come for us soon, won’t he, Nick?” faltered Cicely.

“Eigh! just don’t he wish that he might!” laughed Goole.

“Oh, ay,” said she, and nodded bravely to herself; “he may be very busy now, and so he cannot come.  But presently he will come for me and fetch me home again.”  She gave a joyous little skip.  “To fetch me home again—­ay, surely, my father will come for me anon.”