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?"