He had trim, straight legs, this stranger, and a slender, lithe body in a tawny silken jerkin. Square-shouldered, too, was he, and over one shoulder hung a plum-colored cloak bordered with gold braid. His long hose were the color of his cloak, and his shoes were russet leather, with rosettes of plum, and such high heels as Nick had never seen before. His bonnet was of tawny velvet, with a chain twisted round it, fastened by a jeweled brooch through which was thrust a curly cock-feather. A fine white Holland-linen shirt peeped through his jerkin at the throat, with a broad lace collar; and his short hair curled crisply all over his head. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless, high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye. Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared. The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. “What! How now?” he cried sharply. “Dost like or like me not?” “Why, sir,” stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say—“why, sir,—” and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed. “Come, come,” snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, “I am a swashing, ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford dolts to giggle at. What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman in proud Verona’s streets, laid in Stratford’s common stocks, like a silly apprentice’s slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old Bless-his-heart here first!” and with that he clapped his hand upon the hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders. “Dost take me, boy?” “Why, sir,” hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger’s wild words and imperious way, “ye surely are the master-player.” “There!” cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in the hedge. “Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! Say, boy,” he laughed, and turned to Nick, “thou art no fool. Why, boy, I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?—a black murrain on the town!” And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back afraid of him. [Illustration: “‘WHAT! HOW NOW?’ CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. ‘DOST LIKE OR LIKE ME NOT?’”] “But nay,” hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, “a town like that is its own murrain—let it sicken on itself!”