CHAPTER XVIII
MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS

T was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had
shone through the choking fog as the candle-flame
through the dingy yellow horn of an old stable-lantern.
But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through
London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke
and the reek of steaming roofs. Now and then the blue
gleamed through in ragged patches overhead; so that all
the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding if it
rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.

But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was
damp and sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind
to loneliness and disappointment.

Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to
Blackfriars landing in a stream of merrymakers, high and
low, rich and poor, faring forth to London’s greatest
thoroughfare, the Thames; and as the river and the noble
mansions along the Strand came into view, Nick’s heart
beat fast. It was a sight to stir the pulse.

Far down the stream, the grim old Tower loomed above

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