“What, there, Tom Webster, I say,” cried one, catching sight of Cicely’s face, “here is a Queen o’ the May for thee!”

His broad-shouldered comrade stopped in the way, and with him all the rest.  “My faith, Jem Armstrong, ’tis the truth, for once in thy life!” quoth he, and stared at Cicely.  Her cheeks were flushed, and her panting red lips were fallen apart so that her little white teeth showed through.  Her long, dark lashes cast shadow circles under her eyes.  Her curly hair in elfin locks tossed all about her face, and through it was tied a crimson ribbon, mocking the quick color of the blood which came and went beneath her delicate skin.  “My faith!” cried Tommy Webster, “her face be as fair as a K in a copy-book!  Hey, bullies, what? let’s make her queen!”

“A queen?” “What queen?” “Where is a queen?” “I granny!  Tom Webster hath catched a queen!” “Where is she, Tom?” “Up with her, mate, and let a fellow see.”

“Hands off, there!” snarled the bandy-legged man.

“Up with her, Tom!” cried out the strapping fellow at his back.  “A queen it is; and a right good smacking toll all round—­I have not bussed a maid this day!  Up with her, Tom!”

“Stand back, ye rogues, and let us pass!”

But alas and alack for the bandy-legged man!  He could not ruffle and swagger it off as Gaston Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.

“Stand back, ye rogues!” he cried again.

“Rogues?  Rogues?  Who calls us rogues?  Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his crown!”

“Good masters,” faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve, “I meant ye no offense.  I pr’ythee, do not keep a father and his children from their dying mother’s bed!”

“Nay—­is that so?” asked Webster, sobering instantly “Here, lads, give way—­their mother be a-dying.”

The crowd fell back.  “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath.  Get on, thou knave!” he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear.

But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm.  “The fellow lieth in his throat,” said he.  “My mother is in Stratford town; and Cicely’s mother is dead.”

“Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.”

“Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the wall; “there is no school on holidays!  Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold his tongue but thine own self—­and start at that straightway.  Dost take me?—­say?  Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about?  Hath this sweet fellow kidnapped thee?”

“Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he treats her very ill!”

“The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color of lead; “I am her legal guardian!”