ugh it was still broad daylight, and sat there with the great
book open in his lap until the sun went down and the chill night wind
crept in along the floor; yet he could not read a single word and never
turned a page.
CHAPTER XII
A STRANGE RIDE
Rat-a-tat-tat at the first dim hint of dawn went the chamberlain's
knuckles upon the door. To Nick it seemed scarce midnight yet, so sound
had been his sleep.
Master Carew having gotten into his high-topped riding-boots with a
great puffing and tugging, they washed their faces at the inn-yard pump
by the smoky light of the hostler's lantern, and then in a subdued,
half-wakened way made a hearty breakfast off the fragments of the last
nights feast. Part of the remaining cold meat, cheese, and cakes Carew
stowed in his leather pouch. The rest he left in the lap of a beggar
sleeping beside the door.
The street was dim with a chilly fog, through which a few pale stars
still struggled overhead. The houses were all shut and barred; nobody
was abroad, and the night-watch slept in comfortable doorways here and
there, with lolling heads and lanterns long gone out. As they came along
the crooked street, a stray cat scurried away with scared green eyes,
and a kenneled hound set up a lonesome howl.
But the Blue Boar Inn was stirring like an ant-hill, with firefly
lanterns flitting up and down, and a cheery glow about the open door.
The horses of the company, scrubbed unreasonably clean, snorted and
stamped in little bridled clumps about the courtyard, and the
stable-boys, not scrubbed at all, clanked at the pump or shook out
wrinkled saddle-cloths with most prodigious yawns. The grooms were
buckling up the packs; the chamberlain and sleepy-lidded maids stood at
the door, waiting their fare-well farthings.
Some of the company yawned in the tap-room; some yawned out of doors
with steaming stirrup-cup in hand; and some came yawning down the
stairways pulling on their riding-cloaks, booted, spurred, and ready for
a long day's ride.
"Good-morrow, sirs," said Carew, heartily. "Good-morrow, sir, to you,"
said they, and all came over to speak to Nicholas in a very kindly way;
and one or two patted him on the cheek and walked away speaking in
under-tones among themselves, keeping one eye on Carew all the while.
And Master Tom Heywood, the play-writer, came out with a great slice of
fresh wheat-bread, thick with butter and dripping with yellow honey, and
gave it to Nick; an
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