As though determined to draw him into converse, the little man shrugged his shoulders, and added, "Clarendon's work that, eh ?" There was still no response, so the speaker continued: "It'll deceive none.

It's lang sin' the like of it stood true in England--worse luck!" The dialect in which this was spoken was of that mongrel sort which in these troublous days was sometimes adopted by degenerate Scotchmen who, living in England, had reasons of their own for desiring to conceal their nationality.
"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.