"Only this," she cried, "that this Dorien North, who has so painted the name black, and who but last night struck Nicholas Berwick, is in very truth little Dorien's father. So goes the man's name the Puritan maid told me. Moreover, he was a player also. Oh! Darby, dost not see? I thought 'twas the other—Don Sherwood."
"'Twas like a woman to hit so wide o' the mark," answered Darby. "Did'st not think there might chance be two of the name? In any case what is't to thee, Deb?"
"Oh!" she said, laying her face against his arm, "I cannot tell thee; ask no more, but go thou and find him and tell him the story of Nell Quinten, and how I thought that Dorien North she told me of was he; and afterwards if he wilt come with thee, bring him here to me. Perchance he may be at Blackfriars, or—or 'The Tabard Inn,' or even abroad upon the streets. In any case, find him quickly, dear heart, for the time is short and I must away to Shottery, as I promised Nick,—poor Nick,—poor Nick." So she fell to sobbing and crying.
The young fellow gazed at her in that distress which overtakes a man when a woman weeps.
"Marry," he said, "I wish thou would'st give over thy tears. I weary of them and they will mend naught. There, cheer up, sweet. I will surely find Sherwood, and at once, as 'tis thy wish."
It was high noon when Darby Thornbury returned. With him came the player Sherwood and another. The three entered Master Blossom's house, and Darby sought his sister.
"Don Sherwood waits below," he said, simply. "I met him on London Bridge. He hath brought his cousin Dorien North with him."
"I thank thee," the girl answered. "I will go to them."
Presently she entered Dame Blossom's little parlour where the two men awaited her.
She stood a moment, looking from one to the other. Neither spoke nor stirred.