But in spite of this assurance, and in spite of the master-player’s ceaseless stream of gaiety and marvels, Nick became more and more uneasy.  The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they passed.  The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were wet with sweat.

They passed a country village, too, that was quite unknown to Nick, and a great highway running to the north that he had never seen before; and when they had ridden for about two hours, the road swerved southward to a shining ford, and on a little tableland beyond he saw the gables of a town he did not know.

“Why, Master Carew!” he cried out, half indignant, half perplexed, and thoroughly frightened, “this is na the Stratford road at all.  I’m going back.  I will na ride another mile!”

As he spoke he wheeled the roan sharply out of the clattering file with a slash of the rein across the withers, and started back along the hill past the rest of the company, who came thumping down behind.

“Stop him!  Stop him there!” he heard the master-player shout, and there was something in the fierce, high voice that turned his whole heart sick.  What right had they to stop him?  This was not the Stratford road; he was certain of that now.  But “Stop him—­stop him there!” he heard the master-player call, and a wild, unreasoning fright came over him.  He dug his heels into the palfrey’s heaving sides and urged him up the hill through the cloud of dust that came rolling down behind the horsemen.  The hindmost riders had plunged into those before, and the whole array was struggling, shouting, and wrangling in wild disorder; but out of the flurry Carew and the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear spurred furiously and came galloping after him at the top of their speed.

Nick cried out, and beat the palfrey with the rein; but the chase was short.  They overtook him as he topped the hill, one on each side, and, leaning over, Carew snatched the bridle from his hand.  “Thou little imp!” he panted, as he turned the roan around and started down the hill.  “Don’t try this on again!”

“Oh, Master Carew,” gasped Nick, “what are ye going to do wi’ me?”

“Do with thee?” cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon his poniard,—­“why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please.  Dost hear?  And, hark ’e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!”

Unbuckling the rein, he tossed one end to the bandy-legged man, and holding the other in his own hand, with Nick riding helplessly between them, they trotted down the hill again, took their old places in the ranks, and spattered through the shallow ford.

The bandy-legged man had pulled a dagger from beneath his coat, and held it under his bridle-rein, shining through the horse’s mane as they dashed through the still half-sleeping town.  Nick was speechless with terror.