When Nick came out of the tiring-room and found the master-player come, he knew not what to say or do.  “Oh, brave, brave, brave!” cried Cicely, and danced around him, clapping her hands.  “Why, it is a very prince—­a king!  Oh, Nick, thou art most beautiful to see!”

And Master Carew’s own eyes sparkled; for truly it was a pleasant sight to see a fair young lad like Nick in such attire.

There was a fine white shirt of Holland linen, and long hose of grayish blue, with puffed and slashed trunks of velvet so blue as to be almost black.  The sleeveless jerkin was of the same dark color, trellised with roses embroidered in silk, and loose from breast to broad lace collar so that the waistcoat of dull gold silk beneath it might show.  A cloak of damask with a silver clasp, a buff-leather belt with a chubby purse hung to it by a chain, tan-colored slippers, and a jaunty velvet cap with a short white plume, completed the array.  Everything, too, had been laid down with perfume, so that from head to foot he smelt as sweet and clean as a drift of rose-mallows.

“My soul!” cried Carew, stepping back and snapping his fingers with delight.  “Thou art the bravest skylark that ever broke a shell!  Fine feathers—­fine bird—­my soul, how ye do set each other off!” He took Nick by the shoulders, twirled him around, and, standing off again, stared at him like a man who has found two pound sterling in a cast-off coat.

“I can na pay for them, sir,” said Nick, slowly.

“There’s nought to pay—­it is a gift.”

Nick hung his head, much troubled.  What could he say; what could he think?  This man had stolen him from home,—­ay, made him tremble for his very life a dozen times,—­and with his whole heart he knew he hated him—­yet here, a gift!

“Yes, Nick, it is a gift—­and all because I love thee, lad.”

“Love me?”

“Why, surely!  Who could see thee without liking, or hear thy voice and not love thee?  Love thee, Nick?  Why, on my word and honour, lad, I love thee with all my heart.”

“Thou hast chosen strange ways to show it, Master Carew,” said Nick, and looked straight up into the master player’s eyes.

Carew turned upon his heel and ordered the dinner.

It was a good dinner:  fat roast capon stuffed with spiced carrots; asparagus, biscuit, barley-cakes, and honey; and to end with, a flaky pie, and Spanish cordial sprinkled with burnt sugar.  With such fare and a keen appetite, a marvelous brand-new suit of clothes, and Cicely chattering gaily by his side, Nick could not be sulky or doleful long.  He was soon laughing; and Carew’s spirits seemed to rise with the boy’s.

“Here, here!” he cried, as Nick was served the third time to the pie; “art hollow to thy very toes?  Why, thou’lt eat us out of house and home—­hey, Cicely?  Marry come up, I think I’d best take Ned Alleyn’s five shillings for thine hire, after all!  What!  Five shillings?  Set me in earth and bowl me to death with boiled turnips!—­do they think to play bob-fool with me?  Five shillings!  A fico for their five shillings—­and this for them!” and he squeezed the end of his thumb between his fingers.  “Cicely, what dost think?—­Phil Henslowe had the face to match Jem Bristow with our Nick!”