238 MASTER SKYLARK

Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the
quaint old song went floating as a childhood memory into
an old man’s dream; and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed
as if the melody of earth had all been gathered in that
little song—all but the sound of the voice of his daughter
Cicely.

It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal
through the mouldy walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight
and the open air, of once-loved mothers, and of long-for-
gotten homes. The renegade had ceased his cursing, and
was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had
not heard for many a day.

Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are
locked in charméd sleep, and new griefs lose their bitter-
ness, to hear thee sing—to hear thee sing. God bless thee,
Nick!”

“°T is three good shillings’ worth 0’ time,” the turnkey
growled, and fumbled with the keys. “All for one shil-
ling, too,” said he, and kicked the door-post sulkily. “But
aplague,Isay,aplague! ’T is no one’s business but mine.
I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’T is thirty
year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol
for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time ’s up!
Come out o’ that.” But he spoke so low that he scarcely
heard himself; and going to the end of the corridor, he
marked at random upon the wall.

“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding
the boy’s hands with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love
me just a little? Come, lad, say that thou lovest me.”