"I'll wager it's all a joke," added the speaker, dropping his voice,
but still addressing Ralph, and ignoring the people that stood around
them.

Ralph turned about, and, giving but a glance to his interlocutor,
passed out of the crowd without a word.

The little man remained a moment or two behind, and then slunk down
the street in the direction which Ralph had taken.

There was to be a performance at the theatre that night, and already
the people had begun to troop towards St. Leonard's Gate. Chairs were
being carried down the causeway, with link-boys walking in front of
them, and coaches were winding their way among the fires in the
streets. Scarlet cloaks were mingling with the gray jerkins of the
townspeople, and swords were here and there clanking on the pavement.

The theatre was a rude wooden structure that stood near the banks of
the river, on a vacant plot of ground that bordered the city on the
east and skirted the fields. It had a gallery that sloped upwards from
the pit, and the more conspicuous seats in it were draped in crimson
cloth. The stage, which went out as a square chamber from one side of
the circular auditorium, was lighted by lamps that hung above the
heads of the actors.

Before the performance began every seat was filled. The men hailed
their friends from opposite sides of the house, and laughed and
chaffed, and sang snatches of Royalist and other ballads. The women,
who for the most part wore veils or masks, whispered together, flirted