“That we will,” cried Cicely, clapping her hands.  “Oh, do stay; I am so lonely here!  The maid is silly, Margot old, and the rats run in the wall.”

“And thou must to the theater, my lad, and sing for London town—­ay, Nicholas,” and Carew’s voice rang proudly.  “The highest heads in London town must hear that voice of thine, or I shall die unshrift.  What! lad?—­come all the way from Coventry, and never show that face of thine, nor let them hear thy skylark’s song?  Why, ’twere a shame!  And, Nick, my lord the Admiral shall hear thee sing when he comes home again; perchance the Queen herself.  Why, Nick, of course thou’lt sing.  Thou hast not heart to say thou wilt not sing—­even for me whom thou hatest.”

Nick smiled in spite of himself, for Cicely was leaning on the arm of his chair, devouring him with her great dark eyes:  “Dost truly, truly sing?” she asked.

Nick laughed and blushed, and Carew laughed.  “What, doth he sing?  Why, Nick, come, tune that skylark note of thine for little Golden-heart and me.  ’Twill make her think she hears the birds in verity—­and, Nick, the lass hath never seen a bird that sang, except within a cage.  Nay, lad, this is no cage!” he cried, as Nick looked about and sighed.  “We will make it very home for thee—­will Cicely and I.”

“That we will!” cried Cicely.  “Come, boy, sing for me—­my mother used to sing.”

At that Gaston Carew went white as a sheet, and put his hand quickly up to his face.  Cicely darted to his side with a frightened cry, and caught his hand away.  He tried to smile, but it was a ghastly attempt.  “Tush, tush! little one; ’twas something stung me!” said he, huskily, “Sing, Nicholas, I beg of thee!”

There was such a sudden world of weariness and sorrow in his voice that Nick felt a pity for he knew not what, and lifting up his clear young voice, he sang the quaint old madrigal.

Carew sat with his face in his hand, and after it was done arose unsteadily and said, “Come, Golden-heart; ’tis music such as charmeth care and lureth sleep out of her dark valley—­we must be trotting off to bed.”

That night Nick slept upon a better bed, with a sheet and a blue serge coverlet, and a pillow stuffed with chaff.

But as he drifted off into a troubled dreamland, he heard the door-bolt throb into its socket, and knew that he was fastened in.

CHAPTER XVII

CAREW’S OFFER

Next morning Carew donned his plum-colored cloak, and with Nick’s hand held tightly in his own went out of the door and down the steps into a drifting fog which filled the street, the bandy-legged man with the ribbon in his ear following close upon their heels.

People passed them like shadows in the mist, and all the houses were a blur until they came into a wide, open place where the wind blew free above a wall with many great gates.