Some one came and tapped him on the shoulder. It was the sub-precentor. “Master Gyles would speak with thee, sir,” said he, in a low tone, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice in the quiet that was in the hall.
Carew drew his hand hastily over his face, as if to take the old one off and put a new one on, then arose and followed the man.
The old precentor stood with his hands still clasped against his breast. “Mirabile!” he was saying with bated breath. “It is impossible, and I have dreamed! Yet credo—I believe—quia impossibile est—because it is impossible. Tell me, Carew, do I wake or dream—or, stay, was it a soul I heard? Ay, Carew, ’twas a soul: the lad’s own white, young soul. My faith, I said he was of no account! Satis verborum—say no more. Humanum est errare—I am a poor old fool; and there’s a sour bug flown in mine eye that makes it water so!” He wiped his eyes, for the tears were running down his cheeks.
“Thou’lt take him, then?” asked Carew.
“Take him?” cried the old precentor, catching the master-player by the hand. “Marry, that will I; a voice like that grows not on every bush. Take him? Pouf! I know my place—he shall be entered on the rolls at once.”
“Good!” said Carew. “I shall have him learn to dance, and teach him how to act myself. He stays with me, ye understand; thy school fare is miserly. I’ll dress him, too; for these students’ robes are shabby stuff. But for the rest—”
“Trust me,” said Master Gyles; “he shall be the first singer of them all. He shall be taught—but who can teach the lark its song, and not do horrid murder on it? Faith, Carew, I’ll teach the lad myself; ay, all I know. I studied in the best schools in the world.”
“And, hark ’e, Master Gyles,” said Carew, sternly all at once; “thou’lt come no royal placard and seizure on me—ye have sworn. The boy is mine to have and to hold with all that he earns, in spite of thy prerogatives.”