218 MASTER SKYLARK

side, calling for ale. They drank it in their saddles, while
their panting horses sniffed at the fresh young grass.
Then they galloped on. Through the vines, as he looked
after them, Nick could see the towers of London glitter-
ing strangely in the moonlight. It was nearly high tide,
and up from the river came the sound of women’s voices
and laughter, with the pulse-like throb of oars and the
hoarse calling of the watermen.

In the great room of the inn behind him the gallants
were taking their snuff in little silver ladles, and talking
of princesses they had met, and of whose coach they had
ridden home in last from tennis at my lord’s. Some were
eating, some were drinking, and some were puffing at
long clay pipes, while others, by twos, locked arm in arm,
went swaggering up and down the room, with a huge talk-
ing of foreign lands which they had never so much as
seen.

“A murrain on the luck!” cried Carew, suddenly.
“Can I throw nothing but threes and fours?”

A muffied stir ran round. Nick turned from the glare
of the open door, and looked out into the moonlight. It
seemed quite dark at first. The master-player’s face was
bitter white, and his fingers were tapping a queer staccato
upon the table-top.

“A plague on the bedlam dice!” said he. “I think
they are bewitched.”

“Huff, ruff, and snuff!” the other replied. “ Don’t get
the mubble-fubbles, Carew ; there ’s nought the matter with
the dice.”