misty from the grassy
fens along some winding stream.

It was against nature that a healthy, growing lad should be so much cast
down as not to see and be interested in the strange, new, passing world
of things about him; and little by little Nick roused from his
wretchedness and began to look about him. And a wonder grew within his
brain: why had they stolen him?--where were they taking him?--what would
they do with him there?--or would they soon let him go again?

Every yellow cloud of dust arising far ahead along the road wrought up
his hopes to a Bluebeard pitch, as regularly to fall. First came a
cast-off soldier from the war in the Netherlands, rakishly forlorn, his
breastplate full of rusty dents, his wild hair worn by his steel cap,
swaggering along on a sorry hack with an old belt full of pistolets, and
his long sword thumping Rosinante's ribs. Then a peddling chapman, with
a dust-white pack and a cunning Hebrew look, limped by, sulkily doffing
his greasy hat. Two sturdy Midland journeymen, in search of southern
handicraft, trudged down with tool-bags over their shoulders and stout
oak staves in hand. Of wretched beggars and tattered rogues there was an
endless string. But of any help no sign.

Here and there, like a moving dot, a ploughman turned a belated furrow;
or a sweating ditcher leaned upon his reluctant spade and longed for
night; or a shepherd, quite as silly as his sheep, gawked up the morning
hills. But not a sign of help for Nick.

Once, passing through a little town, he raised a sudden cry of "Help!
Help--they be stealing me away!" But at that the master-player and the
bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his
shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins,
standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair,
pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great
lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.

Then the hot dust got into Nick's throat, and he began to cough. Carew
started with a look of alarm. "Come, come, Nicholas, this will never
do--never do in the world; thou'lt spoil thy voice."

"I do na care," said Nick.

"But I do," said Carew, sharply. "So we'll have no more of it!" and he
clapped his hand upon his poniard. "But, nay--nay, lad, I did not mean
to threaten thee--'tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not
shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou ar