Then the hot dust got into Nick’s throat, and he began to cough. Carew started with a look of alarm. “Come, come, Nicholas, this will never do—never do in the world; thou’lt spoil thy voice.”
“I do na care,” said Nick.
“But I do,” said Carew, sharply. “So we’ll have no more of it!” and he clapped his hand upon his poniard. “But, nay—nay, lad, I did not mean to threaten thee—’tis but a jest. Come, smooth thy throat, and do not shriek no more. We play in old St. Albans town to-night, and thou art to sing thy song for us again.”
Nick pressed his lips tight shut and shook his head. He would not sing for them again.
“Come, Nick, I’ve promised Tom Heywood that thou shouldst sing his song; and, lad, there’s no one left in all the land to sing it if thou’lt not. Tom doth dearly love thee, lad—why, sure, thou hast seen that! And, Nick, I’ve promised all the company that thou wouldst sing Tom’s song with us to-night. ’Twill break their hearts if thou wilt not. Come, Nick, thou’lt sing it for us all, and set old Albans town afire!” said Carew, pleadingly.
Nick shook his head.
“Come, Nick,” said Carew, coaxingly, “we must hear that sweet voice of thine in Albans town to-night. Come, there’s a dear, good lad, and give us just one little song! Come, act the man and sing, as thou alone in all the world canst sing, in Albans town this night; and on my word, and on the remnant of mine honour, I’ll leave thee go back to Stratford town to-morrow morning!”
“To Stratford—to-morrow?” stammered Nick, with a glad, incredulous cry, while his heart leaped up within him.
“Ay, verily; upon my faith as the fine fag-end of a very proper gentleman—thou shalt go back to Stratford town to-morrow if thou wilt but do thy turn with us to-night.”
Nick caught the master-player’s arm as they rode along, almost crying for very joy: “Oh, that I will, sir—and do my very best. And, oh, Master Carew, I ha’ thought so ill o’ thee! Forgive me, sir; I did na know thee well.”