Beyond the town’s end they turned sharply to the northeast, galloping steadily onward for what was perhaps half an hour, though to Nick it seemed a forever, until they came out into a great highway running southward.  “Watling street!” he heard the man behind him say, and knew that they were in the old Roman road that stretched from London to the north.  Still they were galloping, though long strings dribbled from the horses’ mouths, and the saddle-leathers dripped with foam.  One or two looked back at him and bit their lips; but Carew’s eyes were hot and fierce, and his hand was on his poniard.  The rest, after a curious glance or two, shrugged their shoulders carelessly and galloped on:  this affair was Master Gaston Carew’s business, not theirs.

Until high noon they hurried on with neither stop nor stay.  Then they came to a place where a little brook sang through the grass by the roadside in a shady nook beneath some mighty oaks, and there the master-player whistled for a halt, to give the horses breath and rest, and to water them at the brook-pools.  Some of the players sauntered up and down to stretch their tired legs, munching meat and bread; and some lay down upon the grass and slept a little.  Two of them came, offering Nick some cakes and cheese; but he was crying hard and would neither eat nor drink, though Carew urged him earnestly.  Then Master Tom Heywood, with an ugly look at Carew, and without so much as an if-ye-please or a by-your-leave, led Nick up the brook to a spot where it had not been muddied by the horses, and made him wash his dusty face and hands in the cool water and dampen his hair, though he complied as if in a daze.  And indeed Nick rode on through the long afternoon, clinging helplessly to the pommel of his saddle, sobbing bitterly until for very weariness he could no longer sob.

It was after nine o’clock that night when they rode into Towcester, and all that was to be seen was a butcher’s boy carting garbage out of the town and whistling to keep his courage up.  The watch had long since gone to sleep about the silent streets, but a dim light burned in the tap-room of the Old Brown Cow; and there the players rested for the night.

CHAPTER XIII

A DASH FOR FREEDOM

Nick awoke from a heavy, burning sleep, aching from head to foot.  The master-player, up and dressed, stood by the window, scowling grimly out into the ashy dawn.  Nick made haste to rise, but could not stifle a sharp cry of pain as he staggered to his feet, he was so racked and sore with riding.

At the boy’s smothered cry Carew turned, and his dark face softened with a sudden look of pity and concern.  “Why, Nick, my lad,” he cried, and hurried to his side, “this is too bad, indeed!” and without more words took him gently in his arms and carried him down to the courtyard well, where he bathed him softly from neck to heel in the cold, refreshing water, and wiped him with a soft, clean towel as tenderly as if he had been the lad’s own mother.  And having dried him thoroughly, he rubbed him with a waxy ointment that smelled of henbane and poppies, until the aching was almost gone.  So soft and so kind was he withal that Nick took heart after a little and asked timidly, “And ye will let me go home to-day, sir, will ye not?”