82 MASTER SKYLARK

Then a peddling chapman, with a dust-white pack and a
cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing his greasy
hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of south-
ern handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their
shoulders and stout oak staves in hand. Of wretched
beggars and tattered rogues there was an endless string.
But of any help no sign.

Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned
a belated furrow; or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his
reluctant spade and longed for night; or a shepherd, quite
as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning hills. But
not a sign of help for Nick.

Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden
ery of “Help! Help—they be stealing me away!” But
at that the master-player and the bandy-legged man waved
their hands and set up such a shout that his shrill outcry
was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins,
standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys
at a fair, pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some
company of great lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as
the players galloped by.

Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began
to cough. Carew started with a look of alarm. “Come,
come, Nicholas, this will never do—never do in the world;
thou ‘lt spoil thy voice.”

“T do na care,” said Nick.

“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no
more of it!” and he clapped his hand upon his poniard.
“But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean to threaten thee—’t is