ght the rising wind; so, hey for draggle-tails!--we'll take up all
we can."

The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a little back,
bareheaded and flushed with running, came Nicholas Attwood. He had
followed the big man through the fields from the gates of the
Falcon Inn.

He stopped at the edge of the lantern's glow and looked around
uncertain, for the light was in his eyes.

"Come, boy, what is it?" asked Ben Jonson.

Nick peered through the brightness. "Master Will--Master Will
Shakspere!" he gasped.

"_Well, my lady_," said the quiet man; "_what wilt thou have of me_?"

Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.

Over the hedge where the lantern shone through the green of the
apple-leaves came a sound of voices talking fast, a listening hush, then
a clapping of hands, with mingled cries of "Good boy!" "Right, lad; do
not leave her till thou must!" and at the last, "What! take thee home to
thy mother, lad? Ay, marry, that will I!" And the _last_ was the voice
of the quiet man.

Then followed laughter and scraps of song, merry talking, and good
cheer, for they all made glad together.

* * * * *

Across the fields beyond the hedge the pathway ran through Paris Garden,
stark and clear in the white moon-shine, save here and there where the
fog from the marsh crept down to meet the river-mist, and blotted out
the landscape as it went. In the north lay London, stirring like a
troubled sea. In the south was drowsy silence, save for the crowing of
the cocks, and now and then the baying of a hound far off. The smell of
bears was on the air; the river-wind breathed kennels. The Swan
play-house stood up, a great, blue blank against the sky. The sound of
voices was remote. The river made a constant murmur in the murk beyond
the landing-place; the trees moved softly.

Low in the west, the lights of the Falcon Inn were shrunk to pin-pricks
in the dark. They seemed to wink and to shut their eyes. It was too far
to see the people passing by.

On a sudden one light winked and did not open any more; and through the
night a faint, far cry came drifting down the river-wind--a long, thin
cry, like the wavering screech of an owl--a shrill, high, ugly sound;
the lights began to wink, wink, wink, to dance, to shift, to gather into
one red star. Out of the darkness came a wisp of something moving in
the path.

Where the moonlight lay it scudded like the shadow of a windy