THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW 237

lasting sleep. Hell come—Nick, bid him come, upon his
life, to the Old Bailey when I am taken up.”

Nick nodded. It was strange to have his master beg.

Carew was looking up at a thin streak of light that came
in through the narrow window at the stair. “ Nick,” said
he, huskily, “last night I dreamed I heard thee singing;
but ’t was where there was a sweet, green fieid and a stream
flowing through a little wood. Methought ’t was on the
road past Warwick toward Coventry. Thou ’lt go there
some day and remember Gaston Carew, wilt not, lad?
And, Nick, for thine own mother’s sake, do not altogether
hate him; he was not so bad a man as he might easily
have been.”

“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and
down like a surly bear; “have done. ’T isa fat shilling’s
worth.”

“T was there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew,
holding to the boy’s hands through the bars. “TI ’ll never
hear thee sing again.”

“Why, sir, I ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking.

The turnkey was coming back when Nick began sud-
denly tosing. He looked up, staring. Such a thing dum-
founded him. He had never heard a song like that in
Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he
cried, “be still!” But Nick sang on.

The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at
once. The guard outside, who had been sharpening his
pike upon the window-ledge, stopped the shrieking sound.
Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary place.