“Come,” growled the turnkey, who was pacing up and down like a surly bear; “have done. ’Tis a fat shilling’s worth.”
“’Twas there I heard thee sing first, Nick,” said Carew, holding to the boy’s hands through the bars. “I’ll never hear thee sing again.”
“Why, sir, I’ll sing for thee now,” said Nick, choking.
The turnkey was coming back when Nick began suddenly to sing. He looked up, staring. Such a thing dumfounded him. He had never heard a song like that in Newgate. There were rules in prison. “Here, here,” he cried, “be still!” But Nick sang on.
The groaning, quarreling, and cursing were silent all at once. The guard outside, who had been sharpening his pike upon the window-ledge, stopped the shrieking sound. Silence like a restful sleep fell upon the weary place. Through dark corridors and down the mildewed stairs the quaint old song went floating as a childhood memory into an old man’s dream; and to Gaston Carew’s ear it seemed as if the melody of earth had all been gathered in that little song—all but the sound of the voice of his daughter Cicely.
It ceased, and yet a gentle murmur seemed to steal through the mouldy walls, of birds and flowers, sunlight and the open air, of once-loved mothers, and of long-forgotten homes. The renegade had ceased his cursing, and was whispering a fragment of a Spanish prayer he had not heard for many a day.
Carew muttered to himself. “And now old cares are locked in charmèd sleep, and new griefs lose their bitterness, to hear thee sing—to hear thee sing. God bless thee, Nick!”
“’Tis three good shillings’ worth o’ time,” the turnkey growled, and fumbled with the keys. “All for one shilling, too,” said he, and kicked the door-post sulkily. “But a plague, I say, a plague! ’Tis no one’s business but mine. I’ve a good two shillings’ worth in my ears. ’Tis thirty year since I ha’ heard the like o’ that. But what’s a gaol for?—man’s delight? Nay, nay. Here, boy, time’s up! Come out o’ that.” But he spoke so low that he scarcely heard himself; and going to the end of the corridor, he marked at random upon the wall.
“Oh, Nick, I love thee,” said the master-player, holding the boy’s hands with a bitter grip. “Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say that thou lovest me.”