MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS 123

Heywood looked up steadily. “How? Wilt thou quar-
rel with me, Carew? What ugly poison hath been filtered
through thy wits? Why, thou art even falser than I
thought! Quarrel with me, who took thy new-born child
from her dying mother’s arms when thou wert fast in
Newgate gaol?”

Carew’s angry face turned sickly gray. He made as if
to speak, but no sound came. He shut his eyes and pushed
out his hand in the air as if to stop the voice of the writer
of comedies.

“Come,” said Heywood, with deep feeling; “thou canst
not quarrel with me yet—nay, though thou dost try thy
very worst. It would be asorry story for my soul or thine
to tell to hers.”

Carew groaned. The rest of the players had passed on,
and the three stood there alone. “Don’t, Tom, don’t!”
he cried.

“Then how can ye have the heart ?” the other asked again.

The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were
trembling. “’T is not the heart, Tom,” he cried bitterly,
“npon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!
"T is the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I cannot leave
him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A
voice which would call back the very dead that we have
loved if they might only hear. Why, Tom, ’t is worth a
thousand pound! How can I leave him go?”

“ Oh, fie for shame upon the man I took thee for!” cried
Heywood.

“But, Tom,” cried Carew, brokenly, “look it straightly