Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall.  First came a cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap, swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and his long sword thumping Rosinante’s ribs.  Then a peddling chapman, with a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing his greasy hat.  Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout oak staves in hand.  Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an endless string.  But of any help no sign.

Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow; or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning hills.  But not a sign of help for Nick.

Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of “Help!  Help—­they be stealing me away!” But at that the master-player and the bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his shrill outcry was not even heard.  And the simple country bumpkins, standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.

Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough.  Carew started with a look of alarm.  “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never do—­never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.”

“I do na care,” said Nick.

“But I do,” said Carew, sharply.  “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he clapped his hand upon his poniard.  “But, nay—­nay, lad, I did not mean to threaten thee—­’tis but a jest.  Come, smooth thy throat, and do not shriek no more.  We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to sing thy song for us again.”

Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head.  He would not sing for them again.

“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not.  Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—­why, sure, thou hast seen that!  And, Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song with us to-night.  ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not.  Come, Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said Carew, pleadingly.

Nick shook his head.

“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of thine in Albans town to-night.  Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give us just one little song!  Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town to-morrow morning!”