246 MASTER SKYLARK

was making for the way which ran from Cheapside to the
river, and was walking very fast.

“Master Shakspere! Master Shakspere!” Nick called
out. But Master Shakspere was deep in the proofs of a
newly published play, and did not hear.

The yellow ribbon fluttered in the sun—was gone be-
hind the churchyard wall.

“Quick, Master Shakspere! quick!” Nick cried; but the
master-writer frowned at the inky page; for the light in
the printer’s shop was dim, and the proof was very bad.

The ribbon was gone down the river-way—and with it
the hope of finding Cicely. Nick shot one look into the
stall. Master Shakspere, deep in his proofs, was deaf to
the world outside. Nick ran to the gate at the top of his
speed. In the crowd afar off a yellow spot went fluttering
like a butterfly along a country road. Without a single
second thought, he followed it as fast as his legs could go.

Twice he lost it in the throng. But the yellow patch
bobbed up again in the sunlight far beyond, and led him
on, and on, and on, a breathless chase, down empty lanes
and alley-ways, through unfrequented courts, among the
warehouses and wharf-sheds along the river-front, into the
kennels of Billingsgate, where the only sky was a ragged
slit between the leaning roofs. His heart sank low and
lower as they went, for only thieves and runagates who
dared not face the day in honest streets were gathered
in wards like these.

In a filthy purlieu under Fish-street Hill, where mack-
erel-heads and herrings strewed the drains, and sour kits