The sleepy inn-folk roused a bit to send a cheery volley of, “Fare ye well, sirs; come again,” after the departing players, and the long cavalcade cantered briskly out of the inn-yard, in double rank, with a great clinking of bridle-chains and a drifting odor of wet leather and heavy perfume.

Nick sat very erect and rode his best, feeling like some errant knight of the great Round Table, ready to right the whole world’s wrongs.  “But what about the horse?” said he.  “We can na keep him in Stratford, sir.”

“Oh, that’s all seen to,” said the master-player. “’Tis to be sent back by the weekly carrier.”

“And where do I turn into the Stratford road, sir?” asked Nick, as the players clattered down the cobbled street in a cloud of mist that steamed up so thickly from the stones that the horses seemed to have no legs, but to float like boats.

“Some distance further on,” replied Carew, carelessly. “’Tis not the way we came that thou shalt ride to-day; that is t’ other end of town, and the gate not open yet.  But the longest way round is the shortest way home, so let’s be spurring on.”

At the corner of the street a cross and sleepy cobbler was strapping a dirty urchin, who bellowed lustily.  Nick winced.

“Hollo!” cried Carew.  “What’s to do?”

“Why, sir,” said Nick, ruefully, “father will thresh me well this night.”

“Nay,” said Carew, in a quite decided tone; “that he’ll not, I promise thee!”—­and as he spoke he chuckled softly to himself.

The man before them turned suddenly around and grinned queerly; but, catching the master-player’s eye, whipped his head about like a weather-vane in a gale, and cantered on.

As they came down the narrow street the watchmen were just swinging wide the city gates, and gave a cheer to speed the parting guests, who gave a rouse in turn, and were soon lost to sight in the mist which hid the valley in a great gray sea.

“How shall I know where to turn off, sir?” asked Nick, a little anxiously. “’Tis all alike.”

“I’ll tell thee,” said the master-player; “rest thee easy on that score.  I know the road thou art to ride much better than thou dost thyself.”

He smiled quite frankly as he spoke, and Nick could not help wondering why the man before them again turned around and eyed him with that sneaking grin.

He did not like the fellow’s looks.  He had scowling black brows, hair cut as close as if the rats had gnawed it off, a pair of ill-shaped bandy-legs, a wide, unwholesome slit of a mouth, and a nose like a raspberry tart.  His whole appearance was servile and mean, and there was a sly malice in his furtive eyes.  Besides that, and a thing which strangely fascinated Nick’s gaze, there was a hole through the gristle of his right ear, scarred about as if it had been burned, and through this hole the fellow had tied a bow of crimson ribbon, like a butterfly alighted upon his ear.