262 MASTER SKYLARK

by far. His wig was hanging down about his face, and
he was talking with the tapster’s knave, a hungry-looking
fellow clad in rusty black as if some one were dead, al-
though it was a holiday and he had neither kith nor kin.
The knave was biting his under lip and staring straight
at Nick.

“ And will I never see thee more?” asked Cicely.

“Oh, yes,” said Nick; “oh, yes.”

But he did not know whether she ever would or no.

“Gee-wup, Dobbin! Yoicks, Ned! Tschk—tschk!”
The leading cart rolled slowly through the gate. A sec-
ond followed it. The drivers made a cracking with their
whips, and all the guests came out to see them off. But
the Dutchman, as the rest came out, arose, and with the
tapster’s knave went in at a narrow entrance beyond the
tap-room steps.

“And when will Master Shakspere come for thee?”
asked Cicely once more, the cold pie lying in her lap.

“T do na know. How can I tell? Do na bother me
so!” eried Nick, and dug his heels into the cracks between
the paving-stones; for after all that had come to pass
the starting of the baggage-train had made him sick for
home.

Cicely looked up at him; she thought she had not heard
aright. He was staring after the last cart as it rolled
through the inn-yard gate; his throat was working, and
his. eyes were full of tears.

“Why, Nick!” said she, “art crying?”

“Nay,” said he, “but very near,” and dashed his hand