“Yo mun tae me in wi’ ye, squoire.”

“Take you in with me—­impossible!” cried Nicholas.

“Nah! it’s neaw impossible,” rejoined Nance, pertinaciously; “yo con do it, an yo shan.  Yo owe me a good turn, and mun repay it now.”

“But why the devil do you want to go in?” cried Nicholas, impatiently.  “You know the King is the sworn enemy of all witches, and, amongst this concourse, some one is sure to recognise you and betray you.  I cannot answer for your safety if I do take you in.  In my opinion, you were extremely unwise to venture here at all.”

“Ne’er heed my wisdom or my folly, boh do as ey bid yo, or yo’n repent it,” said Nance.

“Why, you can get in without my aid,” observed the squire, trying to laugh it off.  “You can easily fly over the walls.”

“Ey ha’ left my broomstick a-whoam,” replied Nance—­“boh no more jesting.  Win yo do it?”

“Well, well, I suppose I must,” replied Nicholas, “but I wash my hands of the consequences.  If ill comes of it, I am not to blame.  You must go in as Doll Wango—­that is, as a character in the masque to be enacted to-night—­d’ye mark?”

Nance signified that she perfectly understood him.

The whole of this hurried discourse, conducted in an under-tone, passed unheard and unnoticed by the bystanders.  Just then, an opening took place amid the crowd, and the squire pushed through it, hoping to get rid of his companion, but he hoped in vain, for, clinging to his saddle, she went on along with him.

They were soon under the deep groined and ribbed arch of the gate, and Nance would have been here turned back by the foremost halberdier, if Nicholas had not signified somewhat hastily that she belonged to his party.  The man smiled, and offered no further opposition; and the gigantic porter next advancing, Nicholas exhibited his pass to him, which appearing sufficiently comprehensive to procure admission for Richard and Sherborne, they instantly availed themselves of the licence, while the squire fumbled in his doublet for a further order for Nance.  At last he produced it, and after reading it, the gigantic warder exclaimed, with a smile illumining his broad features—­

“Ah!  I see;—­this is an order from his worship, Sir Richard, to admit a certain woman, who is to enact Doll Wango in the masque.  This is she, I suppose?” he added, looking at Nance.

“Ay, ay!” replied the squire.

“A comely wench, by the mass!” exclaimed the porter.  “Open the gate.”

“No—­not yet—­not yet, good porter, till my claim be adjusted,” cried another woman, pushing forward, quite as young and comely as Nance, and equally gaily dressed.  “I am the real Doll Wango, though I be generally known as Dame Tetlow.  The squire engaged me to play the part before the King, and now this saucy hussy has taken my place.  But I’ll have my rights, that I will.”

“Odd’s heart! two Doll Wangos!” exclaimed the porter, opening his eyes.