“Hollo!” cried Carew. “What’s to do?”
“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this night.”
“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise thee!”—and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.
The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.
As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the valley in a great gray sea.
“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little anxiously. “’Tis all alike.”
“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score. I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”
He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that sneaking grin.
He did not like the fellow’s looks. He had scowling black brows, hair cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a raspberry tart. His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was a sly malice in his furtive eyes. Besides that, and a thing which strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly alighted upon his ear.
“A pretty fellow!” said Carew, with a shrug. “He’ll be hard put to dodge the hangman yet; but he’s a right good fellow in his way, and he has served me—he has served me.”