Nick came straight to where they stood, and bowing, he and Cicely together, doffed his cap, and said in his most London tone, “We bid ye all good-e’en, good folk.” His courtly speech and manner, as well as his clothes and Cicely’s jaunty gown, no little daunted the simple country folk. Nobody spoke, but, standing silent, all stared at the two quaint little vagabonds as mild kine stare at passing sheep in a quiet lane. “We need somewhat to eat this night, and we want a place to sleep,” said Nick. “The beds must be right clean—we have good appetites. If ye can do for us, we will dance for you anything that ye may desire—the ‘Queen’s Own Measure,’ ‘La Donzella,’ the new ‘Allemand’ of my Lord Pembroke, a pavone or a tinternell, or the ‘Galliard of Savoy.’ Which doth it please you, mistresses?” and he bowed to the huddling young women, who scarcely knew what to make of it. “La! Joan,” whispered one, “he calleth thee ‘mistress’! Speak up, wench.” But Joan stoutly held her peace. “Or if ye will, the little maid will dance the coranto for you, straight from my Lord Chancellor’s dancing-master; and while she dances I will sing.” “Why, hark ’e, Rob,” spoke out one motherly dame, “they two do look clean-like. Children, too—who’d gi’ them stones when they beg for bread? I’ll do for them this night myself; and thou, the good man, and Kit can sleep in the hutch. So there, dears; now let’s see the Lord Chancellor’s tantrums.” “’Tis not a tantrums, goody,” said Nick, politely, “but a coranto.” “La! young master, what’s the odds, just so we sees it done? Some folks calls whittles ‘knives,’ and thinks ’t wunnot cut theys fingers!” Nick took his place at the side of the ring. “Now, Cicely!” said he. “Thou’lt call ‘Sa—sa!’ and give me the time of the coup d’archet?” she whispered, timidly hesitant, as she stepped to the midst of the ring. “Ay, then,” said he, “’tis off, ’tis off!” and struck up a lively tune, snapping his fingers for the time. Cicely, bowing all about her, slowly began to dance. It was a pretty sight to see: her big eyes wide and earnest, her cheeks a little flushed, her short hair curling, and her crimson gown fluttering about her as she danced the quaint running step forward and back across the grass, balancing archly, with her hands upon her hips and a little smile upon her lips, in the swaying motion of the coupee, courtesying gracefully as one tiny slippered foot peeped out from her rustling skirt, tapping on the turf, now in front and now behind. Nick sang like a blackbird in the hedge. And how those country lads and lasses stared to see such winsome, dainty grace! “La me!” gaped one, “’tis fairy folk—she doth na even touch the ground!” “The pretty dear!” the mothers said. “Doll, why canst thou na do the like, thou lummox?” “Tut,” sighed the buxom Doll, “I have na wingses on my feet!” Then Cicely, breathless, bowed, and ran to Nick’s side asking, “Was it all right, Nick?”