“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge.  “If a ’s so great a man amongst the lords and earlses, a ‘d na come back to Stratford.  An’ I say a ’s a witless loon—­so there!”

Nick whirled around in the road.  “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so miscall thy thousand-time betters.  And what’s more, thou shalt unsay that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”

“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick Attwood bending over him.

“There! thou hast seen it tried.  Now come, take that back, or I will surely box thine ears for thee.”

Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the four winds.  “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ‘tis all o’ that to thee, I take it back.”

Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet.  “I’ll na go wi’ thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”

Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.

“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!”

As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across the field as if an army were at his heels.

Nick started back, but quickly paused.  “Thou needst na run,” he called; “I’ve not the time to catch thee now.  But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson:  when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—­Will Shakspere first of all!”

“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.

Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the hedge and come striding up the road.

CHAPTER VI

THE MASTER-PLAYER

He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in a tawny silken jerkin.  Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid.  His long hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen before.  His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly cock-feather.  A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled crisply all over his head.  He had a little pointed beard, and the ends of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either side of his sharp nose.  At his side was a long Italian poniard in a sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.

Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.