THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW 235

But his haggard face lit up when he saw the boy, and he
came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And
thou hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so
bitterly, but wilt not hate any more. Come, Nick, thou
wilt not hate me any more. ’T will not be worth thy
while, Nick; the night is coming fast.”

“Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’t is
scarcely noon; and thou wilt soon be out.”

“Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player,
quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life for a bit of hempen
cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last night, at twelve
o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls call
my name with the names of those already condemned.
The play is nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going
home. It has been a wild play, Nick, and ill played.”

“Here, if ye ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the
turnkey. “’T is a shilling’s worth, ye mind.”

Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and
clapped his shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his
poniard when he came into the gaol. A queer look came
over his face; taking his hand away, he wiped it hur-
riedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon the
silk.

“Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick.

Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I
sent for thee. I have something to tell thee, Nick.” He
hesitated, and looked through the bars at the boy, as if to
read his thoughts. “Thou ‘lt be good and true to Cicely
—thou ’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.”