A man came hurrying down Cheapside, and peered in at the open door. It was Master Dick Jones of the Admiral’s company. He looked worried and as if he had not slept. His hair was uncombed, and the skin under his eyes hung in little bags. He squinted so that he might see from the broad daylight outside into the darker room.
“Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark,” said he, quickly, seeing Nick beside the door.
Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait outside to catch him if he stirred abroad.
“He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is in Newgate prison. Wilt come?”
Nick shook his head.
“But he says indeed he must see thee. Come, Skylark, I will bring thee back. I am no kidnapper. Why, it is the last thing he will ever ask of thee. ’Tis hard to refuse so small a favor to a doomed man.”
“Thou’lt surely fetch me back?”
“Here, Master Will Shakspere,” called the Admiral’s player; “I am to fetch the boy to Carew in Newgate on an urgent matter. My name is Jones—Dick Jones, of Henslowe’s company. Burbage knows me. I’ll bring him back.”
Master Shakspere nodded, reading on; and Burbage waved his hand, impatient of interruption. Nick arose and went with Jones.
As they came up Newgate street to the crossing of Giltspur and the Old Bailey, the black arch of the ancient gate loomed grimly against the sky, its squinting window-slits peering down like the eyes of an old ogre. The bell of St. Sepulchre’s was tolling, and there was a crowd about the door, which opened, letting out a black cart in which was a priest praying and a man in irons going to be hanged on Tyburn Hill. His sweating face was ashen gray; and when the cart came to the church door they gave him mockingly a great bunch of fresh, bright flowers. Nick could not bear to watch.