their proper
place.

Two months had gone by, and in the budding woods the spring birds were
wakening the earth out of her winter sleep, when I stood once more,
footsore and friendless, in the streets of London. How I had got so far
it matters not, nor how like a vagabond I begged and worked my way;
staying now here for a few days ploughing, now there to break in a colt;
held in bondage in one town because I lacked the money to pay my score,
and chivied from the next for a rogue, which I was not. Not a few men I
fought by the way--for I clung to my sword through all--and not a few
constables I laid by the heels (Heaven forgive me!) in mine own defence.
Be all that as it may, I stood again in London town, whence, it seemed,
I had been absent not nine months but nine years. With tattered hose
and doublet, with coat that scarce held together at my back, with no cap
to my head, and scarce one shoe to divide betwixt my two feet, 'twas
little wonder if no man but the watch heeded me, still less suspected me
to be the once famous captain of the clubs without Temple Bar.

My way into the city led by Finsbury Fields, where were many 'prentices
at their sports, and citizens taking their sweethearts to sniff the
sweet spring air. No one wanted me there. The lads bade me make way
for my betters, and the maids held back their skirts as they swept by.
So I left them and wandered citywards.

I marvelled to see all so little changed, forgetting how short a time I
had been away. There stood Stationers' Hall, as lordly as ever, and
Timothy Ryder, the beadle, taking his fees at the compter. There, too,
was the great Cathedral with its crowd of loungers, and Fleet Street
full of swaggering 'prentices, and the River sparkling in the sun.

Then, as I came near Temple Bar, my heart fell a thumping. Not that I
forgot the place was deserted and the old home broken; but because it
reminded me of what once was before all these troubles began. I crawled
at a snail's pace, wishing to put off the pang as long as possible. In
fancy I was at my case, as I had been a year ago, clicking the letters
into my stick, in time to the chirping of my little mistress who sang at
her work within. At my side I could hear the dull groaning of the heavy
press, and not far off the whining of Peter Stoupe's everlasting psalm-
tune. All was as if--

Was I dreaming? or was this the self-same psalm-tune come again to life,
and, to accompany it, the dull g