Dawn was breaking down the river; a grey dawn as yet, albeit above the
mists rolling low upon the tideway a clear sky promised gold to come--a
golden Christmas Day. The mist, however, had a chill which searched the
bones. The red-eyed waterman pulled as though his arms were numb. Tom
Nashe coughed and huddled his cloak about him, as he turned for a last
backward glance on Bankside, where a few lights yet gleamed, and the
notes of a belated guitar tinkled on, dulled by the vapours, calling
like a thin ghost above the deeper baying of the hounds.
"Take care of thyself, lad," said Shakespeare kindly, stretching out a
hand to help his friend draw the cloak closer.
"Behoved me think of that sooner, I doubt," Nashe answered, glancing up
with a wry, pathetic smile, yet gratefully. He dropped his eyes to the
cloak and quoted--
"_Sometime it was of cloth-in-grain,
'Tis now but a sigh-clout, as you may see;
It will hold out neither wind nor rain_--
and--and--I thank thee, Will----
_But I'll take my old cloak about me._