“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug.  “He’ll be hard put to dodge the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has served me—­he has served me.”

The first loud burst of talk had ceased, and all rode silently along.  The air was chill, and Nick was grateful for the cloak that Carew threw around him.  There was no sound but the beat of many hoofs in the dust-padded road, and now and then the crowing of a cock somewhere within the cloaking fog.  The stars were gone, and the sky was lighting up; and all at once, as they rode, the clouds ahead, low down and to the right, broke raggedly away and let a red sun-gleam shoot through across the mist, bathing the riders in dazzling rosy light.

“Why, Master Carew,” cried Nick, no little startled, “there comes the sun, almost ahead!  We’re riding east-ward, sir.  We’ve missed the road!”

“Oh, no, we’ve not,” said Carew; “nothing of the sort.”  His tone was so peremptory and sharp that Nick said nothing more, but rode along, vaguely wishing that he was already clattering down Stratford High street.

The clouds scattered as the sun came up, and the morning haze drifted away into cool dales, and floated off upon the breeze.  And as the world woke up the players wakened too, and rode gaily along, laughing, singing, and chattering together, until Nick thought he had never in all his life before seen such a jolly fellowship.  His heart was blithe as he reined his curveting palfrey by the master-player’s side, and watched the sunlight dance and sparkle along the dashing line from dagger-hilts and jeweled clasps, and the mist-lank plumes curl crisp again in the warmth of the rising sun.

The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides were sore.

Yet slowly, as they rode along, it came home to him with the passing of the land that this was country new and strange.  So he began to take notice of this and that beside the way; and as he noticed he began to grow uneasy.  Thrice had he come to Coventry, but surely never by a road like this.

Yet still the master-player joked and laughed and pleased the boy with little things—­until Nick laughed too, and let the matter go.  At last, however, when they had ridden fully an hour, they passed a moss-grown abbey on the left-hand side of the road, a strange old place that Nick could not recall.

“Are ye sure, Master Carew,” he ventured timidly—­

At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry he had spoken.

“Why, now,” said Carew, haughtily, “if thou dost know the roads of England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, I’ll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose.  I tell thee I know the road thou art to ride this day better than thou dost thyself; and I’ll see to it that thou dost come without fail to the very place that thou art going.  I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!”