THE MAY-DAY PLAY 57

A viol overhead took up the time, the gittern struck a
few sharp notes. This unexpected music stopped the
noise, and all was still. Nick thought of his mother’s
voice singing on a summer’s evening among the hollyhocks,
and as the viol’s droning died away he drew a deep breath
and began to sing the words of “ Heywood’s newest song” :

“Pack, clouds, away, and welcome, day;
With night we banish sorrow ;
Sweet air, blow soft; mount, lark, aloft,
To give my love good-morrow!”

It was only a part of a madrigal, the air to which they
had fitted the words,—the same air that Nick had sung in
the woods,—a thing scarce meant ever to be sung alone, a
simple strain, a few plain notes, and at the close one brief,
queer, warbling trill like a bird’s wild song, that rose and
fell and rose again like a silver ripple.

The instruments were still; the fresh young voice came
out alone, and it was done so soon that Nick hardly knew
that he had sung at all. For a moment no one seemed to
breathe. Then there was a very great noise, and all the
court seemed hurling at him. A man upon the stage
sprang to his feet. What they were going to do to him
Nick did not know. He gave a frightened cry, and ran
past the green curtain, through the open door, and into
the master-player’s excited arms.

“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back!
There, hark!—dost not hear them call? Quick, out

_again—they call thee back!” With that he thrust Nick
through the door. The man upon the stage came up,