Carew looked up. His eyes were swollen, and his face was covered with a two days’ beard. He had slept in his clothes, and they were full of broken straw and creases. But his haggard face lit up when he saw the boy, and he came to the grating with an eager exclamation: “And thou hast truly come? To the man thou dost hate so bitterly, but wilt not hate any more. Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. ’Twill not be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast.” “Why, sir,” said Nick, “it is not so dark outside—’tis scarcely noon; and thou wilt soon be out.” “Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill,” said the master-player, quietly. “I’ve spent my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I’ve taken my last cue. Last night, at twelve o’clock, I heard the bellman under the prison walls call my name with the names of those already condemned. The play is nearly out, Nick, and the people will be going home. It has been a wild play, Nick, and ill played.” “Here, if ye’ve anything to say, be saying it,” said the turnkey. “’Tis a shilling’s worth, ye mind.” Carew lifted up his head in the old haughty way, and clapped his shackled hand to his hip—they had taken his poniard when he came into the gaol. A queer look came over his face; taking his hand away, he wiped it hurriedly upon his jerkin. There were dark stains upon the silk. “Ye sent for me, sir,” said Nick. Carew passed his hand across his brow. “Yes, yes, I sent for thee. I have something to tell thee, Nick.” He hesitated, and looked through the bars at the boy, as if to read his thoughts. “Thou’lt be good and true to Cicely—thou’lt deal fairly with my girl? Why, surely, yes.” He paused again, as if irresolute. “I’ll trust thee, Nick. We’ve taken money, thou and I; good gold and silver—tsst! what’s that?” He stopped suddenly. Nick heard no sound but the Spaniard’s cursing. “’Tis my fancy,” Carew said. “Well, then, we’ve taken much good money, Nick; and I have not squandered all of it. Hark’e—thou knowest the old oak wainscot in the dining-hall, and the carven panel by the Spanish chest? Good, then! Upon the panel is a cherubin, and—tsst! what’s that, I say?” There was a stealthy rustling in the right-hand cell. The fellow in it had his ear pressed close against the bars. “He is listening,” said Nick. The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one word the master-player said. “Peace, thou dog!” cried Carew, and kicked the grating. But the fellow only yelled the louder. Carew looked sorely troubled. “I dare not let him hear,” said he. “The very walls of Newgate leak.” “_Yak, yah, yah, thou gallows-bird!_” “Yet I must tell thee, Nick.” “_Yah, yah, dangle-rope!_”