When he had said that, nothing would do but Nick must sit down and eat with them; so they made a place for him and for Master Carew. Nick bent his head and said a grace, at which some of them laughed, until Carew shook his head with a stern frown; and before he ate he bowed politely to them all, as his mother had taught him to do. They all bowed mockingly, and hilariously offered him wine, which, when he refused, they pressed upon him, until Carew stopped them, saying that he would have no more of that. As he spoke he clapped his hand upon his poniard and scowled blackly. They all laughed, but offered Nick no more wine; instead, they picked him choice morsels, and made a great deal of him, until his silly young head was quite turned, and he sat up and gave himself a few airs—not many, for Stratford was no great place in which to pick up airs. When they had eaten they wanted Nick to sing; but again Carew interposed. “Nay,” said he; “he hath just eaten his fill, so he cannot sing. Moreover, he is no jackdaw to screech in such a cage as this. He shall not sing until to-morrow in the play.” At this some of the leading players who held shares in the venture demurred, doubting if Nick could sing at all; but—“Hark ’e,” said Master Carew, shortly, clapping his hand upon his poniard, “I say that he can. Do ye take me?” So they said no more; and shortly after he took Nick away, and left them over their tankards, singing uproariously. The Blue Boar Inn had not a bed to spare, nor had the players kept a place for Carew; at which he smiled grimly, said he’d not forget it, and took lodgings for himself and Nick at the Three Tuns in the next street. Nick spoke indeed of his mother’s cousin, with whom he had meant to stay, but the master-player protested warmly; so, little loath, and much flattered by the attentions of so great a man, Nick gave over the idea and said no more about it. When the chamberlain had shown them to their room and they were both undressed, Nick knelt beside the bed and said a prayer, as he always did at home. Carew watched him curiously. It was quiet there, and the light dim; Nick was young, and his yellow hair was very curly. Carew could hear the faint breath murmuring through the boy’s lips as he prayed, and while he stared at the little white figure his mouth twitched in a queer way. But he tossed his head, and muttered to himself, “What, Gaston Carew, turning soft? Nay, nay. I’ll do it—on my soul, I will!” rolled into bed, and was soon fast asleep. * * * * * As for Nick, what with the excitement of the day, the dazzling fancies in his brain, his tired legs, the weird night noises in the town, and strange, tremendous dreams, he scarce could get to sleep at all; but toward morning he fell into a refreshing doze, and did not wake until the town was loud with May. CHAPTER IX THE MAY-DAY PLAY