“Quick, quick!” cried Carew. “Go back, go back! There, hark!—dost not hear them call? Quick, out again—they call thee back!” With that he thrust Nick through the door. The man upon the stage came up, slipped something into his hand—Nick, all bewildered, knew not what; and there he stood, quite stupefied, not knowing what to do. Then Carew came out hastily and led him down the stage, bowing, and pressing his hand to his heart, and smiling like a summer sunrise; so that Nick, seeing this, did the same, and bowed as neatly as he could; though, to be sure, his was only a simple, country-bred bow, and no such ceremonious to-do as Master Carew’s courtly London obeisance. Every one was standing up and shouting so that not a soul could hear his ears, until the ironmonger’s apprentice bellowed above the rest; “Whoy, bullies!” he shouted, amid a chorus of cheers and laughter, “didn’t I say ’twas catched out in the fields—it be a skylark, sure enough! Come, Muster Skylark, sing that song again, an’ thou shalt ha’ my brand-new cap!” Then many voices cried out together, “Sing it again! The Skylark—the Skylark!” Nick looked up, startled. “Why, Master Carew,” said he, with a tremble in his voice, “do they mean me?” Carew put one hand beneath Nick’s chin and turned his face up, smiling. The master-player’s cheeks were flushed with triumph, and his dark eyes danced with pride. “Ay, Nicholas Skylark; ’tis thou they mean.” The viol and the music came again from overhead, and when they ceased Nick sang the little song once more. And when the master-player had taken him outside, and the play was over, some fine ladies came and kissed him, to his great confusion; for no one but his mother or his kin had ever done so before, and these had much perfume about them, musk and rose-attar, so that they smelled like rose-mallows in July. The players of the Lord Admiral’s company were going about shaking hands with Carew and with each other as if they had not met for years, and slapping one another upon the back; and one came over, a tall, solemn, black-haired man, he who had written the song, and stood with his feet apart and stared at Nick, but spoke never a word, which Nick thought was very singular. But as he turned away he said, with a world of pity in his voice, “And I have writ two hundred plays, yet never saw thy like. Lad, lad, thou art a jewel in a wild swine’s snout!” which Nick did not understand at all; nor why Master Carew said so sharply, “Come, Heywood, hold thy blabbing tongue; we are all in the same sty.” “Speak for thyself, Gat Carew!” answered Master Heywood, firmly. “I’ll have no hand in this affair, I tell thee once for all!” Master Carew flushed queerly and bit his lip, and, turning hastily away, took Nick to walk about the town. Nick then, for the first time, looked into his hand to see what the man upon the stage had given him. It was a gold rose-noble. CHAPTER X AFTER THE PLAY