THE LAST OF GASTON CAREW 230

“Nay, Master Carew,” Nick answered soberly, “I do na
love thee, and I will na say I do, sir; but I pity thee with
all my heart. And, sir, if thy being out would keep me
stolen, still I think I ’d wish thee out—for Cicely. But,
Master Carew, do na break my hands.”

The master-player loosed his grasp. “I will not seek
to be excused to thee,” he said huskily. “I’ve prisoned thee
as that clod prisons me; but, Nick, the play is almost out,
down comes the curtain on my heels, and thy just blame
will find no mark. Yet, Nick, now that I am fast and
thou art free, it makes my heart ache to feel that ’t was
not I who set thee free. Thou canst go when pleaseth
thee, and thank me nothing for it. And, Nick, as my sins
be forgiven me, I truly meant to set thee free and send
thee home. I did, upon my word, and on the remnant of
mine honour!”

“Time ’s good and up, sirs,” said the turnkey, coming
back.

Carew thrust his hand into his breast.

“T must be going, sir,” said Nick.

“ Ay, so thou must—all things must go. Oh, Nick, be
friendly with me now, if thou wert never friendly before.
Kiss me, lad. There—now thy hand.” The master-player
clasped it closely in his own, and pressing something into
the palm, shut down the fingers over it. “Quick! Keep
it hid,” he whispered. “’T is the chain I had from Strat-
ford’s burgesses, to some good usage come at last.”

“Must I come and fetch thee out?” growled the turnkey.

“T be coming, sir.”