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Updated: May 27, 2025
His voice was simple, frank, and free so different from the mad tone in which he had just been ranting that Nick caught his breath with surprise. "Nay, lad, look not so dashed," said the master-player, merrily; "that was only old Jem Burbage's mighty tragic style; and I I am only Gaston Carew, hail-fellow-well-met with all true hearts. Be known to me, lad; what is thy name?
The daughters of the Sun and Moon stopped their spinning on the clouds, and dropped their spindles, so that the threads were broken in two. For three whole days the magic kantele poured forth its melody beneath Wainamoinen's skilful fingers, until every one that heard it wept, and even the master-player himself was at last moved to tears by the power of his own playing.
"Nay, sweetheart, nay," cried Carew, with a wonderful laugh that somehow warmed the cockles of Nick's forlorn heart; and turning quickly, the master-player caught up the little maid and kissed her again and again, so tenderly that Nick was amazed to see how one so cruel could be so kind, and how so good a little maid could love so bad a man; for she twined her arms about his neck, and then lay back with her head upon his shoulder, purring like a kitten in his arms.
"Nicholas," said the master-player, in the middle of a stream of amazing stories of life in London town, "there is Blacklow knoll." He pointed to a little hill off to the left. Nick stared; he knew the tale: how grim old Guy de Beauchamp had Piers Gaveston's head upon that hill for calling him the Black Hound of Arden.
"But, Master Carew," faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his heart, "when will ye leave me go home?" The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his mustache. It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old stable-lantern.
"So we are to have thee with us awhile?" said Heywood, and put his arm around Nick's shoulders as they trooped along. "Awhile, sir, yes," replied Nick, nodding; "but I am going home soon, Master Carew says." "Carew," said Heywood, suddenly turning, "how can ye have the heart?" "Come, Heywood," quoth the master-player, curtly, though his whole face colored up, "I have heard enough of this.
"Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes's face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, and held him for trial. At that some cried 'Shame! and some 'Hurrah! but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their baggage be taken by the law and they be fined."
Kiss me, lad. There now thy hand." The master-player clasped it closely in his own, and pressing something into the palm, shut down the fingers over it. "Quick! Keep it hid," he whispered. "'Tis the chain I had from Stratford's burgesses, to some good usage come at last." "Must I come and fetch thee out?" growled the turnkey. "I be coming, sir." "Thou'lt send Will Shakspere?
"Do with thee?" cried the master-player, savagely clapping his hand upon his poniard, "why, I am going to do with thee just whatever I please. Dost hear? And, hark 'e, this sort of caper doth not please me at all; and by the whistle of the Lord High Admiral, if thou triest it on again, thy life is not worth a rotten peascod!"
The master-player, too, had a graceful, taking way of being half familiar with the lad; he was besides a marvelous teller of wonderful tales, and whiled away the time with jests and quips, mile after mile, till Nick forgot both road and time, and laughed until his sides were sore.
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