THE SKYLARK’S SONG 153

The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped
against his breast. ‘“ Mirabile!” he was saying with bated
breath. “It is impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet
credo—I believe—quia impossibile est—because it is impos-
sible. Tell me, Carew; do I wake or dream—or, stay, was
it asoulI heard? Ay, Carew, ’t was a soul:. the lad’s own
white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account!
Satis verborum—say no more. Humanum est errare—I am
a poor old fool; and there ’s a sour bug flown in mine eye
that makes it waterso!” He wiped his eyes, for the tears
were running down his cheeks.

“Thou ‘lt take him, then?” asked Carew.

“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the
master-player by the hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice
like that grows not on every bush. Take him? Pouf!
I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls at
once.”

“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to
dance, and teach him how to act myself. He stays with
me, ye understand; thy school fare is miserly. Ill dress
him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby stuff. But
for the rest—”

“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first
singer of them all. He shall be taught—but who can
teach the lark its song, and not do horrid murder on it?
Faith, Carew, I ‘ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I know.
T studied in the best schools in the world.”

“ And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at
once; “thou ‘lt come no royal placard and seizure on me