clanked on the pavement as he walked. One hand was covered with
a gauntlet of canary-colored kid, perfumed to a degree that would
shame any belle of to-day, the other, which rested lightly on his
sword-hilt, flashed with a splendid opal, splendidly set. He was
a handsome fellow too, with fair waving hair (for he had the good
taste to discard the ugly wigs then in vogue), dark, bright,
handsome eyes, a thick blonde moustache, a tall and remarkably
graceful figure, and an expression of countenance wherein easy
good-nature and fiery impetuosity had a hard struggle for
mastery. That he was a courtier of rank, was apparent from his
rich attire and rather aristocratic bearing and a crowd of
hangers-on followed him as he went, loudly demanding spur-money.
A group of timbril-girls, singing shrilly the songs of the day,
called boldly to him as he passed; and one of them, more free and
easy than the rest, danced up to him striking her timbrel, and
shouting rather than singing the chorus of the then popular ditty

"What care I for pest or plague?
We can die but once, God wot,
Kiss me darling - stay with me:
Love me - love me, leave me not!"

The darling in question turned his bright blue eyes on that
dashing street-singer with a cool glance of recognition.

"Very sorry, Nell," he said, in a nonchalant tone, "but I'm
afraid I must. How long have you been here, may I ask?"

"A full hour by St. Paul's; and where has Sir Norman Kingsley
been, may I ask? I thought you were dead of the plague."