“Why, daddy, Jem hath a face like a halibut!”

“And a voice like a husky crow.  Why, Nick’s mere shadow on the stage is worth a ton of Jemmy Bristows.  ’Twas casting pearls before swine, Nick, to offer thee to Henslowe and Alleyn; but we’ve found a better trough than theirs—­hey, Cicely Goldenheart, haven’t we?  Thou art to be one of Paul’s boys.”

“Paul who?”

Carew lay back in his chair and laughed.  “Paul who?  Why, Saint Paul, Nick,—­’tis Paul’s Cathedral boys I mean.  Marry, what dost say to that?”

“I’d like another barley-cake.”

“You’d what?” cried the master-player, letting the front legs of his chair come down on the floor with a thump.

“I’d like another barley-cake,” said Nick, quietly, helping himself to the honey.

“Upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” ejaculated Carew.  “Tell a man his fortune’s made, and he calls for barley-cakes!  Why, thou’dst say ‘Pooh!’ to a cannon-ball!  My faith, boy, dost understand what this doth mean?”

“Ay,” said Nick; “that I be hungry.”

“But, Nick, upon my soul, thou art to sing with the Children of Paul’s; to play with the cathedral company; to be a bright particular star in the sweetest galaxy that ever shone in English sky!  Dost take me yet?”

“Ay,” said Nick, and sopped the honey with his cake.

Carew played with his glass uneasily, and tapped his heel upon the floor.  “And is that all thou hast to say—­hast turned oyster?  There’s no R in May—­nobody will eat thee!  Come, don’t make a mouth as though the honey of the world were all turned gall upon thy tongue.  ’Tis the flood-tide of thy fortune, boy!  Thou art to sing before the school to-morrow, so that Master Nathaniel Gyles may take thy range and worth.  Now, truly, thou wilt do thy very best?”

The bandy-legged man had brought water in a ewer, and poured some in a basin for Nick to wash his hands.  There was a green ribbon in his ear, and the towel hung across his arm.  Nick wiped his hands in silence.

“Come,” said Master Carew, with an ugly sharpness in his voice, “thou’lt sing thy very best?”

“There’s nothing else to do,” replied Nick, doggedly.

CHAPTER XXII

THE SKYLARK’S SONG

Master Nathaniel Gyles, Precentor of St. Paul’s, had pipe-stem legs, and a face like an old parchment put in a box to keep.  His sandy hair was thin and straggling, and his fine cloth hose wrinkled around his shrunken shanks; but his eye was sharp, and he wore about his neck a broad gold chain that marked him as no common man.

For Master Nathaniel Gyles was head of the Cathedral schools of acting and of music, and he stood upon his dignity.

“My duty is laid down,” said he, “in most specific terms, sir,—­lex cathedralis,—­that is to say, by the laws of the cathedral; and has been, sir, since the reign of Richard the Third. Primus Magister Scholarum, Custos Morum, Quartus Custos Rotulorum,—­so the title stands, sir; and I know my place.”