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The tavern knight

by Rafael Sabatini · English · Gutenberg #3030 · 405,567 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The tavern knight

Author: Rafael Sabatini


        
Release date: January 1, 2002 [eBook #3030]
                Most recently updated: March 10, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3030

Credits: Produced by Polly Stratton, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TAVERN KNIGHT ***




Produced by Polly Stratton





THE TAVERN KNIGHT


By Rafael Sabatini



CONTENTS

     I.  ON THE MARCH

     II.  ARCADES AMBO

     III.  THE LETTER

     IV.  AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE

     V.  AFTER WORCESTER FIELD

     VI.  COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE

     VII.  THE TAVERN KNIGHT'S STORY

     VIII.  THE TWISTED BAR

     IX.  THE BARGAIN

     X.  THE ESCAPE

     XI.  THE ASHBURNS

     XII.  THE HOUSE THAT WAS ROLAND MARLEIGH'S

     XIII.  THE METAMORPHOSIS OF KENNETH

     XIV.  THE HEART OF CYNTHIA ASHBURN

     XV.  JOSEPH'S RETURN

     XVI.  THE RECKONING

     XVII.  JOSEPH DRIVES A BARGAIN

     XVIII.  COUNTER-PLOT

     XIX.  THE INTERRUPTED JOURNEY

     XX.  THE CONVERTED HOGAN

     XXI.  THE MESSAGE KENNETH BORE

     XXII.  SIR CRISPIN'S UNDERTAKING

     XXIII.  GREGORY'S ATTRITION

     XXIV.  THE WOOING OF CYNTHIA

     XXV.  CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT

     XXVI.  TO FRANCE

     XXVII.  THE AUBERGINE DU SOLEIL





THE TAVERN KNIGHT




CHAPTER I. ON THE MARCH

He whom they called the Tavern Knight laughed an evil laugh--such a
laugh as might fall from the lips of Satan in a sardonic moment.

He sat within the halo of yellow light shed by two tallow candles, whose
sconces were two empty bottles, and contemptuously he eyed the youth
in black, standing with white face and quivering lip in a corner of
the mean chamber. Then he laughed again, and in a hoarse voice, sorely
suggestive of the bottle, he broke into song. He lay back in his chair,
his long, spare legs outstretched, his spurs jingling to the lilt of his
ditty whose burden ran:

          On the lip so red of the wench that's sped
          His passionate kiss burns, still-O!
          For 'tis April time, and of love and wine
          Youth's way is to take its fill-O!
          Down, down, derry-do!

          So his cup he drains and he shakes his reins,
          And rides his rake-helly way-O!
          She was sweet to woo and most comely, too,
          But that was all yesterday-O!
          Down, down, derry-do!

The lad started forward with something akin to a shiver.

“Have done,” he cried, in a voice of loathing, “or, if croak you must,
choose a ditty less foul!”

“Eh?” The ruffler shook back the matted hair from his lean, harsh
face, and a pair of eyes that of a sudden seemed ablaze glared at his
companion; then the lids drooped until those eyes became two narrow
slits--catlike and cunning--and again he laughed.

“Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have a temerity that should save
you from grey hairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancy seizes on?
'Swounds, man, for three weary months have I curbed my moods, and worn
my throat dry in praising the Lord; for three months have I been a
living monument of Covenanting zeal and godliness; and now that at last
I have shaken the dust of your beggarly Scotland from my heels, you--the
veriest milksop that ever ran tottering from its mother's lap would
chide me because, yon bottle being done, I sing to keep me from waxing
sad in the contemplation of its emptiness!”

There was scorn unutterable on the lad's face as he turned aside.

“When I joined Middleton's horse and accepted service under you, I held
you to be at least a gentleman,” was his daring rejoinder.

For an instant that dangerous light gleamed again from his companion's
eye. Then, as before, the lids drooped, and, as before, he laughed.

“Gentleman!” he mocked. “On my soul, that's good! And what may you know
of gentlemen, Sir Scot? Think you a gentleman is a Jack Presbyter, or a
droning member of your kirk committee, strutting it like a crow in
the gutter? Gadswounds, boy, when I was your age, and George Villiers
lived--”

“Oh, have done!” broke in the youth impetuously. “Suffer me to leave
you, Sir Crispin, to your bottle, your croaking, and your memories.”

“Aye, go your ways, sir; you'd be sorry company for a dead man--the
sorriest ever my evil star led me into. The door is yonder, and should
you chance to break your saintly neck on the stairs, it is like to be
well for both of us.”

And with that Sir Crispin Galliard lay back in his chair once more, and
took up the thread of his interrupted song

          But, heigh-o! she cried, at the Christmas-tide,
          That dead she would rather be-O!
          Pale and wan she crept out of sight, and wept

          'Tis a sorry--

A loud knock that echoed ominously through the mean chamber, fell in
that instant upon the door. And with it came a panting cry of--

“Open, Cris! Open, for the love of God!”

Sir Crispin's ballad broke off short, whilst the lad paused in the act
of quitting the room, and turned to look to him for direction.

“Well, my master,” quoth Galliard, “for what do you wait?”

“To learn your wishes, sir,” was the answer sullenly delivered.

“My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook less waiting!
Open, fool!”

Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the door,
which opened immediately upon the street. Into the apartment stumbled a
roughly clad man of huge frame. He was breathing hard, and fear was writ
large upon his rugged face. An instant he paused to close the door after
him, then turning to Galliard, who had risen and who stood eyeing him in
astonishment--

“Hide me somewhere, Cris,” he panted--his accent proclaiming his Irish
origin. “My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this night!”

“'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?”

“Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've killed a man!”

“If he's dead, why run?”

The Irishman made an impatient gesture.

“A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised the whole
of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of my body, 'twill be
a short shrift they'll give me. The King will serve me as poor Wrycraft
was served two days ago at Kendal. Mother of Mercy!” he broke off,
as his ear caught the clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from
without. “Have you a hole I can creep into?”

“Up those stairs and into my room with you!” said Crispin shortly. “I
will try to head them off. Come, man, stir yourself; they are here.”

Then, as with nimble alacrity Hogan obeyed him and slipped from the
room, he turned to the lad, who had been a silent spectator of what
had passed. From the pocket of his threadbare doublet he drew a pack of
greasy playing cards.

“To table,” he said laconically.

But the boy, comprehending what was required of him, drew back at sight
of those cards as one might shrink from a thing unclean.

“Never!” he began. “I'll not defile--”

“To table, fool!” thundered Crispin, with a vehemence few men could have
withstood. “Is this a time for Presbyterian scruples? To table, and help
a me play this game, or, by the living God, I'll--” Without completing
his threat he leaned forward until Kenneth felt his hot, wine-laden
breath upon his cheek. Cowed by his words, his gesture, and above all,
his glance, the lad drew up a chair, mumbling in explanation--intended
as an excuse to himself for his weakness--that he submitted since a
man's life was at stake.

Opposite him Galliard resumed his seat with a mocking smile that made
him wince. Taking up the cards, he flung a portion of them to the boy,
whilst those he retained he spread fanwise in his hand as if about to
play. Silently Kenneth copied his actions.

Nearer and louder grew the sounds of the approach, lights flashed before
the window, and the two men, feigning to play, sat on and waited.

“Have a care, Master Stewart,” growled Crispin sourly, then in a louder
voice--for his quick eye had caught a glimpse of a face that watched
them from the window--“I play the King of Spades!” he cried, with
meaning look.

A blow was struck upon the door, and with it came the command to “Open
in the King's name!” Softly Sir Crispin rapped out an oath. Then he
rose, and with a last look of warning to Kenneth, he went to open.
And as he had greeted Hogan he now greeted the crowd mainly of
soldiers--that surged about the threshold.

“Sirs, why this ado? Hath the Sultan Oliver descended upon us?”

In one hand he still held his cards, the other he rested upon the edge
of the open door. It was a young ensign who stood forward to answer him.

“One of Lord Middleton's officers hath done a man to death not half an
hour agone; he is an Irishman Captain Hogan by name.”

“Hogan--Hogan?” repeated Crispin, after the manner of one who fumbles in
his memory. “Ah, yes--an Irishman with a grey head and a hot temper. And
he is dead, you say?”

“Nay, he has done the killing.”

“That I can better understand. 'Tis not the first time, I'll be sworn.”

“But it will be the last, Sir Crispin.”

“Like enough. The King is severe since we crossed the Border.” Then in
a brisker tone: “I thank you for bringing me this news,” said he, “and I
regret that in my poor house there be naught I can offer you wherein to
drink His Majesty's health ere you proceed upon your search. Give you
good night, sir.” And by drawing back a pace he signified his wish to
close the door and be quit of them.

“We thought,” faltered the young officer, “that--that perchance you
would assist us by--”

“Assist you!” roared Crispin, with a fine assumption of anger. “Assist
you take a man? Sink me, sir, I would have you know I am a soldier, not
a tipstaff!”

The ensign's cheeks grew crimson under the sting of that veiled insult.

“There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name for you.”

“Like enough--when I am not by,” sneered Crispin. “The world is full of
foul tongues in craven heads. But, sirs, the night air is chill and you
are come inopportunely, for, as you'll perceive, I was at play. Haply
you'll suffer me to close the door.”

“A moment, Sir Crispin. We must search this house. He is believed to
have come this way.”

Crispin yawned. “I will spare you the trouble. You may take it from me
that he could not be here without my knowledge. I have been in this room
these two hours past.”

“Twill not suffice,” returned the officer doggedly. “We must satisfy
ourselves.”

“Satisfy yourselves?” echoed the other, in tones of deep amazement.
“What better satisfaction can I afford you than my word? 'Swounds, sir
jackanapes,” he added, in a roar that sent the lieutenant back a pace
as though he had been struck, “am I to take it that your errand is a
trumped-up business to affront me? First you invite me to turn tipstaff,
then you add your cursed innuendoes of what people say of me, and now
you end by doubting me! You must satisfy yourself!” he thundered, waxing
fiercer at every word. “Linger another moment on that threshold, and
d----n me, sir, I'll give you satisfaction of another flavour! Be off!”

Before that hurricane of passion the ensign recoiled, despite himself.

“I will appeal to General Montgomery,” he threatened.

“Appeal to the devil! Had you come hither with your errand in a seemly
fashion you had found my door thrown wide in welcome, and I had received
you courteously. As it is, sir, the cause for complaint is on my side,
and complain I will. We shall see whether the King permits an old
soldier who has followed the fortunes of his family these eighteen years
to be flouted by a malapert bantam of yesterday's brood!”

The subaltern paused in dismay. Some demur there was in the gathered
crowd. Then the officer fell back a pace, and consulted an elderly
trooper at his elbow. The trooper was of opinion that the fugitive must
have gone farther. Moreover, he could not think, from what Sir Crispin
had said, that it would have been possible for Hogan to have entered the
house. With this, and realizing that much trouble and possible loss of
time must result from Sir Crispin's obstinacy, did they attempt to force
a way into the house, and bethinking himself, also, maybe, how well this
rascally ruffler stood with Lord Middleton, the ensign determined to
withdraw, and to seek elsewhere.

And so he took his leave with a venomous glance, and a parting threat
to bring the matter to the King's ears, upon which Galliard slammed the
door before he had finished.

There was a curious smile on Crispin's face as he walked slowly to the
table, and resumed his seat.

“Master Stewart,” he whispered, as he spread his cards anew, “the comedy
is not yet played out. There is a face glued to the window at this
moment, and I make little doubt that for the next hour or so we shall be
spied upon. That pretty fellow was born to be a thief-taker.”

The boy turned a glance of sour reproof upon his companion. He had not
stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the door.

“You lied to them,” he said at last.

“Sh! Not so loud, sweet youth,” was the answer that lost nothing of
menace by being subdued. “Tomorrow, if you please, I will account to
you for offending your delicate soul by suggesting a falsehood in your
presence. To-night we have a man's life to save, and that, I think, is
work enough. Come, Master Stewart, we are being watched. Let us resume
our game.”

His eye, fixed in cold command upon the boy, compelled obedience.
And the lad, more out of awe of that glance than out of any desire to
contribute to the saving of Hogan, mutely consented to keep up this
pretence. But in his soul he rebelled. He had been reared in an
atmosphere of honourable and religious bigotry. Hogan was to him a
coarse ruffler; an evil man of the sword; such a man as he abhorred and
accounted a disgrace to any army--particularly to an army launched upon
England under the auspices of the Solemn League and Covenant.

Hogan had been guilty of an act of brutality; he had killed a man; and
Kenneth deemed himself little better, since he assisted in harbouring
instead of discovering him, as he held to be his duty. But 'neath the
suasion of Galliard's inexorable eye he sat limp and docile, vowing
to himself that on the morrow he would lay the matter before Lord
Middleton, and thus not only endeavour to make amends for his present
guilty silence, but rid himself also of the companionship of this
ruffianly Sir Crispin, to whom no doubt a hempen justice would be meted.

Meanwhile, he sat on and left his companion's occasional sallies
unanswered. In the street men stirred and lanthorns gleamed fitfully,
whilst ever and anon a face surmounted by a morion would be pressed
against the leaded panes of the window.

Thus an hour wore itself out during which poor Hogan sat above, alone
with his anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.




CHAPTER II. ARCADES AMBO


Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and rose. It
was close upon an hour and a half since Hogan's advent. In the streets
the sounds had gradually died down, and peace seemed to reign again
in Penrith. Yet was Sir Crispin cautious--for to be cautious and
mistrustful of appearances was the lesson life had taught him.

“Master Stewart,” said he, “it grows late, and I doubt me you would be
abed. Give you good night!”

The lad rose. A moment he paused, hesitating, then--

“To-morrow, Sir Crispin--” he began. But Crispin cut him short.

“Leave to-morrow till it dawn, my friend. Give you good night. Take one
of those noisome tapers with you, and go.”

In sullen silence the boy took up one of the candle-bearing bottles and
passed out through the door leading to the stairs.

For a moment Crispin remained standing by the table, and in that moment
the expression of his face was softened. A momentary regret of his
treatment of the boy stirred in him. Master Stewart might be a milksop,
but Crispin accounted him leastways honest, and had a kindness for
him in spite of all. He crossed to the window, and throwing it wide he
leaned out, as if to breathe the cool night air, what time he hummed the
refrain of `Rub-a-dub-dub' for the edification of any chance listeners.

For a half-hour he lingered there, and for all that he used the occasion
to let his mind stray over many a theme, his eyes were alert for the
least movement among the shadows of the street. Reassured at last that
the house was no longer being watched, he drew back, and closed the
lattice.

Upstairs he found the Irishman seated in dejection upon his bed,
awaiting him.

“Soul of my body!” cried Hogan ruefully, “I was never nearer being
afraid in my life.”

Crispin laughed softly for answer, and besought of him the tale of what
had passed.

“Tis simple enough, faith,” said Hogan coolly. “The landlord of The
Angel hath a daughter maybe 'twas after her he named his inn--who owns
a pair of the most seductive eyes that ever a man saw perdition in. She
hath, moreover, a taste for dalliance, and my brave looks and martial
trappings did for her what her bold eyes had done for me. We were
becoming the sweetest friends, when, like an incarnate fiend, that
loutish clown, her lover, sweeps down upon us, and, with more jealousy
than wit, struck me--struck me, Harry Hogan! Soul of my body, think of
it, Cris!” And he grew red with anger at the recollection. “I took
him by the collar of his mean smock and flung him into the kennel--the
fittest bed he ever lay in. Had he remained there it had been well
for him; but the fool, accounting himself affronted, came up to demand
satisfaction. I gave it him, and plague on it--he's dead!”

“An ugly tale,” was Crispin's sour comment.

“Ugly, maybe,” returned Hogan, spreading out his palms, “but what choice
had I? The fool came at me, bilbo in hand, and I was forced to draw.'

“But not to slay, Hogan!”

“Twas an accident. Sink me, it was! I sought his sword-arm; but the
light was bad, and my point went through his chest instead.”

For a moment Crispin stood frowning, then his brow cleared, as though he
had put the matter from him.

“Well, well--since he's dead, there's an end to it.”

“Heaven rest his soul!” muttered the Irishman, crossing himself piously.
And with that he dismissed the subject of the great wrong that through
folly he had wrought--the wanton destruction of a man's life, and the
poisoning of a woman's with a remorse that might be everlasting.

“It will tax our wits to get you out of Penrith,” said Crispin. Then,
turning and looking into the Irishman's great, good-humoured face--“I am
sorry you leave us, Hogan,” he added.

“Not so am I,” quoth Hogan with a shrug. “Such a march as this is little
to my taste. Bah! Charles Stuart or Oliver Cromwell, 'tis all one to me.
What care I whether King or Commonwealth prevail? Shall Harry Hogan be
the better or the richer under one than under the other? Oddslife, Cris,
I have trailed a pike or handled a sword in well-nigh every army in
Europe. I know more of the great art of war than all the King's generals
rolled into one. Think you, then, I can rest content with a miserable
company of horse when plunder is forbidden, and even our beggarly pay
doubtful? Whilst, should things go ill--as well they may, faith, with
an army ruled by parsons--the wage will be a swift death on field or
gallows, or a lingering one in the plantations, as fell to the lot of
those poor wretches Noll drove into England after Dunbar. Soul of my
body, it is not thus that I had looked to fare when I took service at
Perth. I had looked for plunder, rich and plentiful plunder, according
to the usages of warfare, as a fitting reward for a toilsome march and
the perils gone through.

“Thus I know war, and for this have I followed the trade these twenty
years. Instead, we have thirty thousand men, marching to battle as prim
and orderly as a parcel of acolytes in a Corpus-Christi procession.
'Twas not so bad in Scotland haply because the country holds naught
a man may profitably plunder--but since we have crossed the Border,
'slife, they'll hang you if you steal so much as a kiss from a wench in
passing.”

“Why, true,” laughed Crispin, “the Second Charles hath an over-tender
stomach. He will not allow that we are marching through an enemy's
country; he insists that England is his kingdom, forgetting that he has
yet to conquer it, and--”

“Was it not also his father's kingdom?” broke in the impetuous Hogan.
“Yet times are sorely changed since we followed the fortunes of the
Martyr. In those days you might help yourself to a capon, a horse,
a wench, or any other trifle of the enemy's, without ever a word of
censure or a question asked. Why, man, it is but two days since His
Majesty had a poor devil hanged at Kendal for laying violent hands upon
a pullet. Pox on it, Cris, my gorge rises at the thought! When I
saw that wretch strung up, I swore to fall behind at the earliest
opportunity, and to-night's affair makes this imperative.”

“And what may your plans be?” asked Crispin.

“War is my trade, not a diversion, as it is with Wilmot and Buckingham
and the other pretty gentlemen of our train. And since the King's army
is like to yield me no profit, faith, I'll turn me to the Parliament's.
If I get out of Penrith with my life, I'll shave my beard and cut my
hair to a comely and godly length; don a cuckoldy steeple hat and a
black coat, and carry my sword to Cromwell with a line of text.”

Sir Crispin fell to pondering. Noting this, and imagining that he
guessed aright the reason:

“I take it, Cris,” he put in, keenly glancing at the other, “that you
are much of my mind?”

“Maybe I am,” replied Crispin carelessly.

“Why, then,” cried Hogan, “need we part company?”

There was a sudden eagerness in his tone, born of the admiration in
which this rough soldier of fortune held one whom he accounted his
better in that same harsh trade. But Galliard answered coldly:

“You forget, Harry.”

“Not so! Surely on Cromwell's side your object--”

“T'sh! I have well considered. My fortunes are bound up with the King's.
In his victory alone lies profit for me; not the profit of pillage,
Hogan, but the profit of those broad lands that for nigh upon twenty
years have been in usurping hands. The profit I look for, Hogan, is my
restoration to Castle Marleigh, and of this my only hope lies in the
restoration of King Charles. If the King doth not prevail--which God
forfend!--why, then, I can but die. I shall have naught left to hope for
from life. So you see, good Hogan,” he ended with a regretful smile, “my
going with you is not to be dreamed of.”

Still the Irishman urged him, and a good half-hour did he devote to it,
but in vain. Realizing at last the futility of his endeavours, he sighed
and moved uneasily in his chair, whilst the broad, tanned face was
clouded with regret. Crispin saw this, and approaching him, he laid a
hand upon his shoulder.

“I had counted upon your help to clear the Ashburns from Castle Marleigh
and to aid me in my grim work when the time is ripe. But if you go--”

“Faith, I may aid you yet. Who shall say?” Then of a sudden there crept
into the voice of this hardened pike-trader a note of soft concern.
“Think you there be danger to yourself in remaining?” he inquired.

“Danger? To me?” echoed Crispin.

“Aye--for having harboured me. That whelp of Montgomery's Foot suspects
you.”

“Suspects? Am I a man of straw to be overset by a breath of suspicion?”

“There is your lieutenant, Kenneth Stewart.”

“Who has been a party to your escape, and whose only course is therefore
silence, lest he set a noose about his own neck. Come, Harry,” he added,
briskly, changing his manner, “the night wears on, and we have your
safety to think of.”

Hogan rose with a sigh.

“Give me a horse,” said he, “and by God's grace tomorrow shall find me
in Cromwell's camp. Heaven prosper and reward you, Cris.”

“We must find you clothes more fitting than these--a coat more staid and
better attuned to the Puritan part you are to play.”

“Where have you such a coat?”

“My lieutenant has. He affects the godly black, from a habit taken in
that Presbyterian Scotland of his.”

“But I am twice his bulk!”

“Better a tight coat to your back than a tight rope to your neck, Harry.
Wait.”

Taking a taper, he left the room, to return a moment later with the coat
that Kenneth had worn that day, and which he had abstracted from the
sleeping lad's chamber.

“Off with your doublet,” he commanded, and as he spoke he set himself to
empty the pocket of Kenneth's garment; a handkerchief and a few papers
he found in them, and these he tossed carelessly on the bed. Next he
assisted the Irishman to struggle into the stolen coat.

“May the Lord forgive my sins,” groaned Hogan, as he felt the cloth
straining upon his back and cramping his limbs. “May He forgive me, and
see me safely out of Penrith and into Cromwell's camp, and never again
will I resent the resentment of a clown whose sweetheart I have made too
free with.”

“Pluck that feather from your hat,” said Crispin.

Hogan obeyed him with a sigh.

“Truly it is written in Scripture that man in his time plays many parts.
Who would have thought to see Harry Hogan playing the Puritan?”

“Unless you improve your acquaintance with Scripture you are not like to
play it long,” laughed Crispin, as he surveyed him. “There, man, you'll
do well enough. Your coat is somewhat tight in the back, somewhat short
in the skirt; but neither so tight nor so short but that it may be
preferred to a winding-sheet, and that is the alternative, Harry.”

Hogan replied by roundly cursing the coat and his own lucklessness. That
done--and in no measured terms--he pronounced himself ready to set out,
whereupon Crispin led the way below once more, and out into a hut that
did service as a stable.

By the light of a lanthorn he saddled one of the two nags that stood
there, and led it into the yard. Opening the door that abutted on to
a field beyond, he bade Hogan mount. He held his stirrup for him, and
cutting short the Irishman's voluble expressions of gratitude, he gave
him “God speed,” and urged him to use all dispatch in setting as great a
distance as possible betwixt himself and Penrith before the dawn.




CHAPTER III. THE LETTER


It was with a countenance sadly dejected that Crispin returned to his
chamber and sate himself wearily upon the bed. With elbows on his knees
and chin in his palms he stared straight before him, the usual steely
brightness of his grey eyes dulled by the despondency that sat upon his
face and drew deep furrows down his fine brow.

With a sigh he rose at last and idly fingered the papers he had taken
from the pocket of Kenneth's coat. As he did so his glance was arrested
by the signature at the foot of one. “Gregory Ashburn” was the name he
read.

Ashen grew his cheeks as his eyes fastened upon that name, whilst the
hand, to which no peril ever brought a tremor, shook now like an aspen.
Feverishly he spread the letter on his knee, and with a glance, from
dull that it had been, grown of a sudden fierce and cruel, he read the
contents.



DEAR KENNETH,

Again I write in the hope that I may prevail upon you to quit Scotland
and your attachment to a king, whose fortunes prosper not, nor can
prosper. Cynthia is pining, and if you tarry longer from Castle Marleigh
she must perforce think you but a laggard lover. Than this I have no
more powerful argument wherewith to draw you from Perth to Sheringham,
but this I think should prevail where others have failed me. We await
you then, and whilst we wait we daily drink your health. Cynthia
commends herself to your memory as doth my brother, and soon we hope to
welcome you at Castle Marleigh. Believe, my dear Kenneth, that whilst I
am, I am yours in affection.

                                             GREGORY ASHBURN

Twice Crispin read the letter through. Then with set teeth and straining
eyes he sat lost in thought.

Here indeed was a strange chance! This boy whom he had met at Perth,
and enrolled in his company, was a friend of Ashburn's--the lover of
Cynthia. Who might this Cynthia be?

Long and deep were his ponderings upon the unfathomable ways of
Fate--for Fate he now believed was here at work to help him, revealing
herself by means of this sign even at the very moment when he decried
his luck. In memory he reviewed his meeting with the lad in the yard
of Perth Castle a fortnight ago. Something in the boy's bearing, in his
air, had caught Crispin's eye. He had looked him over, then approached,
and bluntly asked his name and on what business he was come there. The
youth had answered him civilly enough that he was Kenneth Stewart
of Bailienochy, and that he was come to offer his sword to the King.
Thereupon he had interested himself in the lad's behalf and had gained
him a lieutenancy in his own company. Why he was attracted to a youth
on whom never before had he set eyes was a matter that puzzled him not
a little. Now he held, he thought, the explanation of it. It was the way
of Fate.

This boy was sent into his life by a Heaven that at last showed
compassion for the deep wrongs he had suffered; sent him as a key
wherewith, should the need occur, to open him the gates of Castle
Marleigh.

In long strides he paced the chamber, turning the matter over in his
mind. Aye, he would use the lad should the need arise. Why scruple? Had
he ever received aught but disdain and scorn at the hands of Kenneth.

Day was breaking ere he sought his bed, and already the sun was up when
at length he fell into a troubled sleep, vowing that he would mend his
wild ways and seek to gain the boy's favour against the time when he
might have need of him.

When later he restored the papers to Kenneth, explaining to what use he
had put the coat, he refrained from questioning him concerning Gregory
Ashburn. The docility of his mood on that occasion came as a surprise to
Kenneth, who set it down to Sir Crispin's desire to conciliate him into
silence touching the harbouring of Hogan. In that same connexion Crispin
showed him calmly and clearly that he could not now inform without
involving himself to an equally dangerous extent. And partly through
the fear of this, partly won over by Crispin's persuasions, the lad
determined to hold his peace.

Nor had he cause to regret it thereafter, for throughout that tedious
march he found his roystering companion singularly meek and kindly.
Indeed he seemed a different man. His old swagger and roaring bluster
disappeared; he drank less, diced less, blasphemed less, and stormed
less than in the old days before the halt at Penrith; but rode, a
silent, thoughtful figure, so self-contained and of so godly a mien as
would have rejoiced the heart of the sourest Puritan. The wild tantivy
boy had vanished, and the sobriquet of “Tavern Knight” was fast becoming
a misnomer.

Kenneth felt drawn more towards him, deeming him a penitent that had
seen at last the error of his ways. And thus things prevailed until the
almost triumphal entry into the city of Worcester on the twenty-third of
August.




CHAPTER IV. AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE


For a week after the coming of the King to Worcester, Crispin's
relations with Kenneth steadily improved. By an evil chance, however,
there befell on the eve of the battle that which renewed with heightened
intensity the enmity which the lad had fostered for him, but which
lately he had almost overcome.

The scene of this happening--leastways of that which led to it--was The
Mitre Inn, in the High Street of Worcester.

In the common-room one day sat as merry a company of carousers as ever
gladdened the soul of an old tantivy boy. Youthful ensigns of
Lesley's Scottish horse--caring never a fig for the Solemn League and
Covenant--rubbed shoulders with beribboned Cavaliers of Lord Talbot's
company; gay young lairds of Pitscottie's Highlanders, unmindful of the
Kirk's harsh commandments of sobriety, sat cheek by jowl with rakehelly
officers of Dalzell's Brigade, and pledged the King in many a stoup of
canary and many a can of stout March ale.

On every hand spirits ran high and laughter filled the chamber, the
mirth of some having its source in a neighbour's quip, that of others
having no source at all save in the wine they had taken.

At one table sat a gentleman of the name of Faversham, who had ridden on
the previous night in that ill-fated camisado that should have
resulted in the capture of Cromwell at Spetchley, but which, owing to a
betrayal--when was a Stuart not betrayed and sold?--miscarried. He was
relating to the group about him the details of that disaster.

“Oddslife, gentlemen,” he was exclaiming, “I tell you that, but for that
roaring dog, Sir Crispin Galliard, the whole of Middleton's regiment had
been cut to pieces. There we stood on Red Hill, trapped as ever fish
in a net, with the whole of Lilburne's men rising out of the ground to
enclose and destroy us. A living wall of steel it was, and on every hand
the call to surrender. There was dismay in my heart, as I'll swear there
was dismay in the heart of every man of us, and I make little doubt,
gentlemen, that with but scant pressing we had thrown down our arms, so
disheartened were we by that ambush. Then of a sudden there arose above
the clatter of steel and Puritan cries, a loud, clear, defiant shout of
'Hey for Cavaliers!'”

“I turned, and there in his stirrups stood that madman Galliard, waving
his sword and holding his company together with the power of his will,
his courage, and his voice. The sight of him was like wine to our blood.
'Into them, gentlemen; follow me!' he roared. And then, with a hurricane
of oaths, he hurled his company against the pike-men. The blow was
irresistible, and above the din of it came that voice of his again: 'Up,
Cavaliers! Slash the cuckolds to ribbons, gentlemen!' The cropears gave
way, and like a river that has burst its dam, we poured through the
opening in their ranks and headed back for Worcester.”

There was a roar of voices as Faversham ended, and around that table
“The Tavern Knight” was for some minutes the only toast.

Meanwhile half a dozen merry-makers at a table hard by, having drunk
themselves out of all sense of fitness, were occupied in baiting a
pale-faced lad, sombrely attired, who seemed sadly out of place in that
wild company--indeed, he had been better advised to have avoided it.

The matter had been set afoot by a pleasantry of Ensign Tyler's, of
Massey's dragoons, with a playful allusion to a letter in a feminine
hand which Kenneth had let fall, and which Tyler had restored to him.
Quip had followed quip until in their jests they transcended all bounds.
Livid with passion and unable to endure more, Kenneth had sprung up.

“Damnation!” he blazed, bringing his clenched hand down upon the table.
“One more of your foul jests and he that utters it shall answer to me!”

The suddenness of his action and the fierceness of his tone and
gesture--a fierceness so grotesquely ill-attuned to his slender frame
and clerkly attire left the company for a moment speechless with
amazement. Then a mighty burst of laughter greeted him, above which
sounded the shrill voice of Tyler, who held his sides, and down whose
crimson cheeks two tears of mirth were trickling.

“Oh, fie, fie, good Master Stewart!” he gasped. “What think you would
the reverend elders say to this bellicose attitude and this profane
tongue of yours?”

“And what think you would the King say to this drunken poltroonery of
yours?” was the hot unguarded answer. “Poltroonery, I say,” he repeated,
embracing the whole company in his glance.

The laughter died down as Kenneth's insult penetrated their befuddled
minds. An instant's lull there was, like the lull in nature that
precedes a clap of thunder. Then, as with one accord, a dozen of them
bore down upon him.

It was a vile thing they did, perhaps; but then they had drunk deep, and
Kenneth Stewart counted no friend amongst them. In an instant they had
him, kicking and biting, on the floor; his doublet was torn rudely open,
and from his breast Tyler plucked the letter whose existence had led to
this shameless scene.

But ere he could so much as unfold it, a voice rang harsh and
imperative:

“Hold!”

Pausing, they turned to confront a tall, gaunt man in a leather jerkin
and a broad hat decked by goose-quill, who came slowly forward.

“The Tavern Knight,” cried one, and the shout of “A rouse for the hero
of Red Hill!” was taken up on every hand. For despite his sour visage
and ungracious ways there was not a roysterer in the Royal army to whom
he was not dear.

But as he now advanced, the coldness of his bearing and the forbidding
set of his face froze them into silence.

“Give me that letter,” he demanded sternly of Tyler.

Taken aback, Tyler hesitated for a second, whilst Crispin waited with
hand outstretched. Vainly did he look round for sign or word of help or
counsel. None was afforded him by his fellow-revellers, who one and all
hung back in silence.

Seeing himself thus unsupported, and far from wishing to try conclusions
with Galliard, Tyler with an ill grace surrendered the paper; and, with
a pleasant bow and a word of thanks, delivered with never so slight
a saturnine smile, Crispin turned on his heel and left the tavern as
abruptly as he had entered it.

The din it was that had attracted him as he passed by on his way to the
Episcopal Palace where a part of his company was on guard duty. Thither
he now pursued his way, bearing with him the letter which so opportunely
he had become possessed of, and which he hoped might throw further light
upon Kenneth's relations with the Ashburns.

But as he reached the palace there was a quick step behind him, and a
hand fell upon his arm. He turned.

“Ah, 'tis you, Kenneth,” he muttered, and would have passed on, but the
boy's hand took him by the sleeve.

“Sir Crispin,” said he, “I came to thank you.”

“I have done nothing to deserve your thanks. Give you good evening.” And
he made shift to mount the steps when again Kenneth detained him.

“You are forgetting the letter, Sir Crispin,” he ventured, and he held
out his hand to receive it.

Galliard saw the gesture, and for a moment it crossed his mind in
self-reproach that the part he chose to play was that of a bully. A
second he hesitated. Should he surrender the letter unread, and fight on
without the aid of the information it might bring him? Then the thought
of Ashburn and of his own deep wrongs that cried out for vengeance,
overcame and stifled the generous impulse. His manner grew yet more
frozen as he made answer:

“There has been too much ado about this letter to warrant my so lightly
parting with it. First I will satisfy myself that I have been no
unconscious abettor of treason. You shall have your letter tomorrow,
Master Stewart.”

“Treason!” echoed Kenneth. And before that cold rebuff of Crispin's his
mood changed from conciliatory to resentful--resentful towards the fates
that made him this man's debtor.

“I assure you, on my honour,” said he, mastering his feelings, “that
this is but a letter from the lady I hope to make my wife. Assuredly,
sir, you will not now insist upon reading it.”

“Assuredly I shall.”

“But, sir--”

“Master Stewart, I am resolved, and were you to talk from now till
doomsday, you would not turn me from my purpose. So good night to you.”

“Sir Crispin,” cried the boy, his voice quavering with passion, “while I
live you shall not read that letter!”

“Hoity-toity, sir! What words! What heroics! And yet you would have me
believe this paper innocent?”

“As innocent as the hand that penned it, and if I so oppose your reading
it, it is because thus much I owe her. Believe me, sir,” he added, his
accents returning to a beseeching key, “when again I swear that it is no
more than such a letter any maid may write her lover. I thought that you
had understood all this when you rescued me from those bullies at
The Mitre. I thought that what you did was a noble and generous deed.
Instead--” The lad paused.

“Continue, sir,” Galliard requested coldly. “Instead?”

“There can be no instead, Sir Crispin. You will not mar so good an
action now. You will give me my letter, will you not?”

Callous though he was, Crispin winced. The breeding of earlier days--so
sadly warped, alas!--cried out within him against the lie that he
was acting by pretending to suspect treason in that woman's pothooks.
Instincts of gentility and generosity long dead took life again,
resuscitated by that call of conscience. He was conquered.

“There, take your letter, boy, and plague me no more,” he growled, as he
held it out to Kenneth. And without waiting for reply or acknowledgment,
he turned on his heel, and entered the palace. But he had yielded
overlate to leave a good impression and, as Kenneth turned away, it was
with a curse upon Galliard, for whom his detestation seemed to increase
at every step.




CHAPTER V. AFTER WORCESTER FIELD


The morn of the third of September--that date so propitious to Cromwell,
so disastrous to Charles--found Crispin the centre of a company of
gentlemen in battle-harness, assembled at The Mitre Inn. For a toast he
gave them “The damnation of all crop-ears.”

“Sirs,” quoth he, “a fair beginning to a fair day. God send the evening
find us as merry.”

It was not to be his good fortune, however, to be in the earlier work
of the day. Until afternoon he was kept within the walls of Worcester,
chafing to be where hard knocks were being dealt--with Montgomery at
Powick Bridge, or with Pittscottie on Bunn's Hill. But he was forced to
hold his mood in curb, and wait until Charles and his advisers should
elect to make the general attack.

It came at last, and with it came the disastrous news that Montgomery
was routed, and Pittscottie in full retreat, whilst Dalzell had
surrendered, and Keith was taken. Then was it that the main body of the
Royal army formed up at the Sidbury Gate, and Crispin found himself in
the centre, which was commanded by the King in person. In the brilliant
charge that followed there was no more conspicuous figure, no voice
rang louder in encouragement to the men. For the first time that day
Cromwell's Ironsides gave back before the Royalists, who in that fierce,
irresistible charge, swept all before them until they had reached
the battery on Perry Wood, and driven the Roundheads from it
hell-to-leather.

It was a glorious moment, a moment in which the fortunes of the day hung
in the balance; the turn of the tide it seemed to them at last.

Crispin was among the first to reach the guns, and with a great shout of
“Hurrah for Cavaliers!” he had cut down two gunners that yet lingered.
His cry lacked not an echo, and a deafening cheer broke upon the
clamorous air as the Royalists found themselves masters of the position.
Up the hill on either side pressed the Duke of Hamilton and the Earl of
Derby to support the King. It but remained for Lesley's Scottish horse
to follow and complete the rout of the Parliamentarian forces. Had they
moved at that supreme moment who shall say what had been the issue of
Worcester field? But they never stirred, and the Royalists waiting on
Perry Wood cursed Lesley for a foul traitor who had sold his King.

With bitterness did they then realize that their great effort was to be
barren, their gallant charge in vain. Unsupported, their position grew
fast untenable.

And presently, when Cromwell had gathered his scattered Ironsides, that
gallant host was driven fighting, down the hill and back to the shelter
of Worcester. With the Roundheads pressing hotly upon them they gained
at last the Sidbury Gate, but only to find that an overset ammunition
wagon blocked the entrance. In this plight, and without attempting
to move it, they faced about to make a last stand against the Puritan
onslaught.

Charles had flung himself from his charger and climbed the obstruction,
and in this he was presently followed by others, amongst whom was
Crispin.

In the High Street Galliard came upon the King, mounted on a fresh
horse, addressing a Scottish regiment of foot. The soldiers had thrown
down their arms and stood sullenly before him, refusing to obey his
command to take them up again and help him attempt, even at that late
hour, to retrieve the fortunes of the day. Crispin looked on in scorn
and loathing. His passions awakened at the sight of Lesley's inaction
needed but this last breath to fan it into a very blaze of wrath. And
what he said to them touching themselves, their country, and the Kirk
Committee that had made sheep of them, was so bitter and contemptuous
that none but men in the most parlous and pitiable of conditions could
have suffered it.

He was still hurling vituperations at them when Colonel Pride with
a troop of Parliamentarian horse--having completely overcome the
resistance at the Sidbury Gate--rode into the town. At the news of this,
Crispin made a last appeal to the infantry.

“Afoot, you Scottish curs!” he thundered. “Would you rather be cut to
pieces as you stand? Up, you dogs, and since you know not how to live,
die at least without shame!”

But in vain did he rail. In sullen quiet they remained, their weapons on
the ground before them. And then, as Crispin was turning away to see to
his own safety, the King rode up again, and again he sought to revive
the courage that was dead in those Scottish hearts. If they would not
stand by him, he cried at last, let them slay him there, sooner than
that he should be taken captive to perish on the scaffold.

While he was still urging them, Crispin unceremoniously seized his
bridle.

“Will you stand here until you are taken, sire?” he cried. “Leave them,
and look to your safety.”

Charles turned a wondering eye upon the resolute, battle-grimed face of
the man that thus addressed him. A faint, sad smile parted his lips.

“You are right, sir,” he made answer. “Attend me.” And turning about he
rode down a side street with Galliard following closely in his wake.

With the intention of doffing his armour and changing his apparel, he
made for the house in New Street where he had been residing. As they
drew up before the door, Crispin, chancing to look over his shoulder,
rapped out an oath.

“Hasten, sire,” he exclaimed, “here is a portion of Colonel's Pride's
troop.”

The King looked round, and at sight of the Parliamentarians, “It is
ended,” he muttered despairingly. But already Crispin had sprung from
his horse.

“Dismount, sire,” he roared, and he assisted him so vigorously as to
appear to drag him out of the saddle.

“Which way?” demanded Charles, looking helplessly from left to right.
“Which way?”

But Crispin's quick mind had already shaped a plan. Seizing the royal
arm--for who in such straits would deal ceremoniously?--he thrust the
King across the threshold, and, following, closed the door and shot its
only bolt. But the shout set up by the Puritans announced to them that
their movement had been detected.

The King turned upon Sir Crispin, and in the half-light of the passage
wherein they stood Galliard made out the frown that bent the royal
brows.

“And now?” demanded Charles, a note almost of reproach in his voice.

“And now begone, sire,” returned the knight. “Begone ere they come.”

“Begone?” echoed Charles, in amazement. “But whither, sir? Whither and
how?”

His last words were almost drowned in the din without, as the Roundheads
pulled up before the house.

“By the back, sire,” was the impatient answer. “Through door or
window--as best you can. The back must overlook the Corn-Market; that is
your way. But hasten--in God's name hasten!--ere they bethink them of it
and cut off your retreat.”

As he spoke a violent blow shook the door.

“Quick, Your Majesty,” he implored, in a frenzy.

Charles moved to depart, then paused. “But you, sir? Do you not come
with me?”

Crispin stamped his foot, and turned a face livid with impatience upon
his King. In that moment all distinction of rank lay forgotten.

“I must remain,” he answered, speaking quickly. “That crazy door will
not hold for a second once a stout man sets his shoulder to it. After
the door they will find me, and for your sake I trust I may prove of
stouter stuff. Fare you well, sire,” he ended in a softer tone. “God
guard Your Majesty and send you happier days.”

And, bending his knee, Crispin brushed the royal hand with his hot lips.

A shower of blows clattered upon the timbers of the door, and one of
its panels was splintered by a musket-shot. Charles saw it, and with a
muttered word that was not caught by Crispin, he obeyed the knight, and
fled.

Scarce had he disappeared down that narrow passage, when the door gave
way completely and with a mighty crash fell in. Over the ruins of it
sprang a young Puritan-scarce more than a boy--shouting: “The Lord of
Hosts!”

But ere he had taken three strides the point of Crispin's tuck-sword
gave him pause.

“Halt! You cannot pass this way.”

“Back, son of Moab!” was the Roundhead's retort. “Hinder me not, at your
peril.”

Behind him, in the doorway, pressed others, who cried out to him to cut
down the Amalekite that stood between them and the young man Charles
Stuart. But Crispin laughed grimly for answer, and kept the officer in
check with his point.

“Back, or I cut you down,” threatened the Roundhead. “I am seeking the
malignant Stuart.”

“If by those blasphemous words you mean his sacred Majesty, learn that
he is where you will never be--in God's keeping.”

“Presumptuous hound,” stormed the lad, “giveway!”

Their swords met, and for a moment they ground one against the other;
then Crispin's blade darted out, swift as a lightning flash, and took
his opponent in the throat.

“You would have it so, rash fool,” he deprecated.

The boy hurtled back into the arms of those behind, and as he fell he
dropped his rapier, which rolled almost to Crispin's feet. The knight
stooped, and when again he stood erect, confronting the rebels in that
narrow passage, he held a sword in either hand.

There was a momentary pause in the onslaught, then to his dismay Crispin
saw the barrel of a musket pointed at him over the shoulder of one of
his foremost assailants. He set his teeth for what was to come, and
braced himself with the hope that the King might already have made good
his escape.

The end was at hand, he thought, and a fitting end, since his last hope
of redress was gone-destroyed by that fatal day's defeat.

But of a sudden a cry rang out in a voice wherein rage and anguish
were blended fearfully, and simultaneously the musket barrel was dashed
aside.

“Take him alive!” was the cry of that voice. “Take him alive!” It was
Colonel Pride himself, who having pushed his way forward, now beheld the
bleeding body of the youth Crispin had slain. “Take him alive!” roared
the old man. Then his voice changing to one of exquisite agony--“My son,
my boy,” he moaned.

At a glance Crispin caught the situation; but the old Puritan's grief
left him unmoved.

“You must have me alive?” he laughed grimly. “Gadslife, but the honour
is like to cost you dear. Well, sirs? Who will be next to court the
distinction of dying by the sword of a gentleman?” he mocked them. “Come
on, you sons of dogs!”

His answer was an angry growl, and straightway two men sprang forward.
More than two could not attack him at once by virtue of the narrowness
of the passage. Again steel clashed on steel. Crispin--lithe as a
panther crouched low, and took one of their swords on each of his.

A disengage and a double he foiled with ease, then by a turn of the
wrist he held for a second one opponent's blade; and before the fellow
could disengage again, he had brought his right-hand sword across, and
stabbed him in the neck. Simultaneously his other opponent had rushed
in and thrust. It was a risk Crispin was forced to take, trusting to
his armour to protect him. It did him the service he hoped from it; the
trooper's sword glanced harmlessly aside, whilst the fellow himself,
overbalanced by the fury of his onslaught, staggered helplessly forward.
Ere he could recover, Crispin had spitted him from side to side betwixt
the straps that held his back and breast together.

As the two men went down, one after the other, the watching troopers set
up a shout of rage, and pressed forward in a body. But the Tavern Knight
stood his ground, and his points danced dangerously before the eyes of
the two foremost. Alarmed, they shouted to those behind to give
them room to handle their swords; but too late. Crispin had seen the
advantage, and taken it. Twice he had thrust, and another two sank
bleeding to the ground.

At that there came a pause, and somewhere in the street a knot of them
expostulated with Colonel Pride, and begged to be allowed to pick off
that murderous malignant with their pistols. But the grief-stricken
father was obdurate. He would have the Amalekite alive that he might
cause him to die a hundred deaths in one.

And so two more were sent in to try conclusions with the indomitable
Galliard. They went to work more warily. He on the left parried
Crispin's stroke, then knocking up the knight's blade, he rushed in and
seized his wrist, shouting to those behind to follow up. But even as
he did so, Crispin sent back his other antagonist, howling and writhing
with the pain of a transfixed sword-arm, and turned his full attention
upon the foe that clung to him. Not a second did he waste in thought. To
have done so would have been fatal. Instinctively he knew that whilst
he shortened his blade, others would rush in; so, turning his wrist, he
caught the man a crushing blow full in the face with the pommel of his
disengaged sword.

Fulminated by that terrific stroke, the man reeled back into the arms of
another who advanced.

Again there fell a pause. Then silently a Roundhead charged Sir Crispin
with a pike. He leapt nimbly aside, and the murderous lunge shot past
him; as he did so he dropped his left-hand sword and caught at the
halberd. Exerting his whole strength in a mighty pull, he brought
the fellow that wielded it toppling forward, and received him on his
outstretched blade.

Covered with blood--the blood of others--Crispin stood before them now.
He was breathing hard and sweating at every pore, but still grim and
defiant. His strength, he realized, was ebbing fast. Yet he shook
himself, and asked them with a gibing laugh did they not think that they
had better shoot him.

The Roundheads paused again. The fight had lasted but a few moments,
and already five of them were stretched upon the ground, and a sixth
disabled. There was something in the Tavern Knight's attitude and
terrific, blood-bespattered appearance that deterred them. From out
of his powder-blackened face his eyes flashed fiercely, and a mocking
diabolical smile played round the corners of his mouth. What manner
of man, they asked themselves, was this who could laugh in such an
extremity? Superstition quickened their alarm as they gazed upon
his undaunted front, and told themselves this was no man they fought
against, but the foul fiend himself.

“Well, sirs,” he mocked them presently. “How long am I to await your
pleasure?”

They snarled for answer, yet hung back until Colonel Pride's voice
shook them into action. In a body they charged him now, so suddenly and
violently that he was forced to give way. Cunningly did he ply his sword
before them, but ineffectually. They had adopted fresh tactics, and
engaging his blade they acted cautiously and defensively, advancing
steadily, and compelling him to fall back.

Sir Crispin guessed their scheme at last, and vainly did he try to hold
his ground; his retreat slackened perhaps, but it was still a retreat,
and their defensive action gave him no opening. Vainly, yet by every
trick of fence he was master of, did he seek to lure the two foremost
into attacking him; stolidly they pursued the adopted plan, and steadily
they impelled him backward.

At last he reached the staircase, and he realized that did he allow
himself to go farther he was lost irretrievably. Yet farther was he
driven; despite the strenuous efforts he put forth, until on his right
there was room for a man to slip on to the stairs and take him in the
flank. Twice one of his opponents essayed it, and twice did Galliard's
deadly point repel him. But at the third attempt the man got through,
another stepped into his place in front, and thus from two, Crispin's
immediate assailants became increased to three.

He realized that the end was at hand, and wildly did he lay about him,
but to no purpose. And presently, he who had gained the stairs leaped
suddenly upon him sideways, and clung to his swordarm. Before he could
make a move to shake himself free, the two that faced him had caught at
his other arm.

Like one possessed he struggled then, for the sheer lust of striving;
but they that held him gripped effectively.

Thrice they bore him struggling to the ground, and thrice he rose again
and sought to shake them from him as a bull shakes off a pack of dogs.
But they held fast, and again they forced him down; others sprang to
their aid, and the Tavern Knight could rise no more.

“Disarm the dog!” cried Pride. “Disarm and truss him hand and foot.”

“Sirs, you need not,” he answered, gasping. “I yield me. Take my sword.
I'll do your bidding.”

The fight was fought and lost, but it had been a great Homeric struggle,
and he rejoiced almost that upon so worthy a scene of his life was the
curtain to fall, and again to hope that, thanks to the stand he had
made, the King should have succeeded in effecting his escape.




CHAPTER VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE


Through the streets of Worcester the Roundheads dragged Sir Crispin, and
for all that he was as hard and callous a man as any that ever buckled
on a cuirass, the horrors that in going he beheld caused him more than
once to shudder.

The place was become a shambles, and the very kennels ran with blood.
The Royalist defeat was by now complete, and Cromwell's fanatic butchers
overran the town, vying to outdo one another in savage cruelty
and murder. Houses were being broken into and plundered, and their
inmates--resisting or unresisting; armed or unarmed; men, women and
children alike were pitilessly being put to the sword. Charged was the
air of Worcester with the din of that fierce massacre. The crashing of
shivered timbers, as doors were beaten in, mingled with the clatter and
grind of sword on sword, the crack of musket and pistol, the clank of
armour, and the stamping of men and horses in that troubled hour.

And above all rang out the fierce, raucous blasphemy of the slayers,
and the shrieks of agony, the groans, the prayers, and curses of their
victims.

All this Sir Crispin saw and heard, and in the misery of it all, he
for the while forgot his own sorry condition, and left unheeded the
pike-butt wherewith the Puritan at his heels was urging him along.

They paused at length in a quarter unknown to him before a tolerably
large house. Its doors hung wide, and across the threshold, in and out,
moved two continuous streams of officers and men.

A while Crispin and his captors stood in the spacious hall; then they
ushered him roughly into one of the abutting rooms. Here he was brought
face to face with a man of middle height, red and coarse of countenance
and large of nose, who stood fully armed in the centre of the chamber.
His head was uncovered, and on the table at his side stood the morion he
had doffed. He looked up as they entered, and for a few seconds rested
his glance sourly upon the lank, bold-eyed prisoner, who coldly returned
his stare.

“Whom have we here?” he inquired at length, his scrutiny having told him
nothing.

“One whose offence is too heinous to have earned him a soldier's death,
my lord,” answered Pride.

“Therein you lie, you damned rebel!” cried Crispin. “If accuse you must,
announce the truth. Tell Master Cromwell”--for he had guessed the man's
identity--“that single-handed I held my own against you and a score of
you curs, and that not until I had cut down seven of them was I taken.
Tell him that, master psalm-singer, and let him judge whether you lied
or not. Tell him, too, that you, who--”

“Have done!” cried Cromwell at length, stamping his foot. “Peace, or
I'll have you gagged. Now, Colonel, let us hear your accusation.”

At great length, and with endless interlarding of proverbs did Pride
relate how this impious malignant had been the means of the young man,
Charles Stuart, making good his escape when otherwise he must have
fallen into their hands. He accused him also of the murder of his son
and of four other stout, God-fearing troopers, and urged Cromwell to let
him deal with the malignant as he deserved.

The Lord General's answer took expression in a form that was little
puritanical. Then, checking himself:

“He is the second they have brought me within ten minutes charged with
the same offence,” said he. “The other one is a young fool who gave
Charles Stuart his horse at Saint Martin's Gate. But for him again the
young man had been taken.”

“So he has escaped!” cried Crispin. “Now, God be praised!”

Cromwell stared at him blankly for a moment, then:

“You will do well, sir,” he muttered sourly, “to address the Lord on
your own behalf. As for that young man of Baal, your master, rejoice
not yet in his escape. By the same crowning mercy in which the Lord hath
vouchsafed us victory to-day shall He also deliver the malignant youth
into my hands. For your share in retarding his capture your life, sir,
shall pay forfeit. You shall hang at daybreak together with that other
malignant who assisted Charles at the Saint Martin's Gate.”

“I shall at least hang in good company,” said Crispin pleasantly, “and
for that, sir, I give you thanks.”

“You will pass the night with that other fool,” Cromwell continued,
without heeding the interruption, “and I pray that you may spend it in
such meditation as shall fit you for your end. Take him away.”

“But, my lord,” exclaimed Pride, advancing.

“What now?”

Crispin caught not his answer, but his half-whispered words were earnest
and pleading. Cromwell shook his head.

“I cannot sanction it. Let it satisfy you that he dies. I condole with
you in your bereavement, but it is the fortune of war. Let the thought
that your son died in a godly cause be of comfort to you. Bear in mind,
Colonel Pride, that Abraham hesitated not to offer up his child to the
Lord. And so, fare you well.”

Colonel Pride's face worked oddly, and his eyes rested for a second
upon the stern, unmoved figure of the Tavern Knight in malice and
vindictiveness. Then, shrugging his shoulders in token of unwilling
resignation, he withdrew, whilst Crispin was led out.

In the hall again they kept him waiting for some moments, until at
length an officer came up, and bidding him follow, led the way to the
guardroom. Here they stripped him of his back-and-breast, and when that
was done the officer again led the way, and Crispin followed between two
troopers. They made him mount three flights of stairs, and hurried him
along a passage to a door by which a soldier stood mounting guard. At
a word from the officer the sentry turned, and unfastening the heavy
bolts, he opened the door. Roughly the officer bade Sir Crispin enter,
and stood aside that he might pass.

Crispin obeyed him silently, and crossed the threshold to find himself
within a mean, gloomy chamber, and to hear the heavy door closed and
made fast again behind him. His stout heart sank a little as he realized
that that closed door shut out to him the world for ever; but once again
would he cross that threshold, and that would be the preface to the
crossing of the greater threshold of eternity.

Then something stirred in one of that room's dark corners, and he
started, to see that he was not alone, remembering that Cromwell had
said he was to have a companion in his last hours.

“Who are you?” came a dull voice--a voice that was eloquent of misery.

“Master Stewart!” he exclaimed, recognizing his companion. “So it was
you gave the King your horse at the Saint Martin's Gate! May Heaven
reward you. Gadswounds,” he added, “I had little thought to meet you
again this side the grave.”

“Would to Heaven you had not!” was the doleful answer. “What make you
here?”

“By your good leave and with your help I'll make as merry as a man may
whose sands are all but run. The Lord General--whom the devil roast in
his time will make a pendulum of me at daybreak, and gives me the night
in which to prepare.”

The lad came forward into the light, and eyed Sir Crispin sorrowfully.

“We are companions in misfortune, then.”

“Were we ever companions in aught else? Come, sir, be of better cheer.
Since it is to be our last night in this poor world, let us spend it as
pleasantly as may be.”

“Pleasantly?”

“Twill clearly be difficult,” answered Crispin, with a laugh. “Were we
in Christian hands they'd not deny us a black jack over which to relish
our last jest, and to warm us against the night air, which must be
chill in this garret. But these crop-ears...” He paused to peer into the
pitcher on the table. “Water! Pah! A scurvy lot, these psalm-mongers!”

“Merciful Heaven! Have you no thought for your end?”

“Every thought, good youth, every thought, and I would fain prepare me
for the morning's dance in a more jovial and hearty fashion than Old
Noll will afford me--damn him!”

Kenneth drew back in horror. His old dislike for Crispin was all aroused
by this indecent flippancy at such a time. Just then the thought of
spending the night in his company almost effaced the horror of the
gallows whereof he had been a prey.

Noting the movement, Crispin laughed disdainfully, and walked towards
the window. It was a small opening, by which two iron bars, set
crosswise, defied escape. Moreover, as Crispin looked out, he realized
that a more effective barrier lay in the height of the window itself.
The house overlooked the river on that side; it was built upon an
embankment some thirty feet high; around this, at the base of the
edifice, and some forty feet below the window, ran a narrow pathway
protected by an iron railing. But so narrow was it, that had a man
sprung from the casement of Crispin's prison, it was odds he would have
fallen into the river some seventy feet below. Crispin turned away with
a sigh. He had approached the window almost in hope; he quitted it in
absolute despair.

“Ah, well,” said he, “we will hang, and there's the end of it.”

Kenneth had resumed his seat in the corner, and, wrapped in his cloak,
he sat steeped in meditation, his comely young face seared with lines of
pain. As Crispin looked upon him then, his heart softened and went
out to the lad--went out as it had done on the night when first he had
beheld him in the courtyard of Perth Castle.

He recalled the details of that meeting; he remembered the sympathy
that had drawn him to the boy, and how Kenneth had at first appeared to
reciprocate that feeling, until he came to know him for the rakehelly,
godless ruffler that he was. He thought of the gulf that gradually had
opened up between them. The lad was righteous and God-fearing, truthful
and sober, filled with stern ideals by which he sought to shape
his life. He had taxed Crispin with his dissoluteness, and Crispin,
despising him for a milksop, had returned to his disgust with mockery,
and had found a fiendish pleasure in arousing that disgust at every
turn.

To-night, as Crispin eyed the youth, and remembered that at dawn he was
to die in his company, he realized that he had used him ill, that his
behaviour towards him had been that of the dissolute ruffler he was
become, rather than of the gentleman he had once accounted himself.

“Kenneth,” he said at length, and his voice bore so unusually mild a
ring that the lad looked up in surprise. “I have heard tell that it
is no uncommon thing for men upon the threshold of eternity to seek to
repair some of the evil they may have done in life.”

Kenneth shuddered. Crispin's words reminded him again of his approaching
end. The ruffler paused a moment, as if awaiting a reply or a word of
encouragement. Then, as none came, he continued:

“I am not one of your repentant sinners, Kenneth. I have lived my
life--God, what a life!--and as I have lived I shall die, unflinching
and unchanged. Dare one to presume that a few hours spent in whining
prayers shall atone for years of reckless dissoluteness? 'Tis a
doctrine of cravens, who, having lacked in life the strength to live as
conscience bade them, lack in death the courage to stand by that life's
deeds. I am no such traitor to myself. If my life has been vile my
temptations have been sore, and the rest is in God's hands. But in my
course I have sinned against many men; many a tall fellow's life have
I wantonly wrecked; some, indeed, I have even taken in wantonness or
anger. They are not by, nor, were they, could I now make amends. But you
at least are here, and what little reparation may lie in asking pardon
I can make. When I first saw you at Perth it was my wish to make you my
friend--a feeling I have not had these twenty years towards any man.
I failed. How else could it have been? The dove may not nest with the
carrion bird.”

“Say no more, sir,” cried Kenneth, genuinely moved, and still more
amazed by this curious humility in one whom he had never known other
than arrogant and mocking. “I beseech you, say no more. For what
trifling wrongs you may have done me I forgive you as freely as I would
be forgiven. Is it not written that it shall be so?” And he held out his
hand.

“A little more I must say, Kenneth,” answered the other, leaving the
outstretched hand unheeded. “The feeling that was born in me towards you
at Perth Castle is on me again. I seek not to account for it. Perchance
it springs from my recognition of the difference betwixt us; perchance I
see in you a reflection of what once I was myself--honourable and true.
But let that be. The sun is setting over yonder, and you and I will
behold it no more. That to me is a small thing. I am weary. Hope is
dead; and when that is dead what does it signify that the body die also?
Yet in these last hours that we shall spend together I would at least
have your esteem. I would have you forget my past harshness and the
wrongs that I may have done you down to that miserable affair of your
sweetheart's letter, yesterday. I would have you realize that if I am
vile, I am but such as a vile world hath made me. And tomorrow when we
go forth together, I would have you see in me at least a man in whose
company you are not ashamed to die.”

Again the lad shuddered.

“Shall I tell you my story, Kenneth? I have a strong desire to go
over this poor life of mine again in memory, and by giving my thoughts
utterance it may be that they will take more vivid shape. For the rest
my tale may wile away a little of the time that's left, and when you
have heard me you shall judge me, Kenneth. What say you?”

Despite the parlous condition whereunto the fear of the morrow had
reduced him, this new tone of Galliard's so wrought upon him then that
he was almost eager in his request that Sir Crispin should unfold his
story. And this the Tavern Knight then set himself to do.




CHAPTER VII. THE TAVERN KNIGHT'S STORY


Sir Crispin walked from the window by which he had been standing, to the
rough bed, and flung himself full length upon it. The only chair that
dismal room contained was occupied by Kenneth. Galliard heaved a sigh of
physical satisfaction.

“Fore George, I knew not I was so tired,” he murmured. And with that he
lapsed for some moments into silence, his brows contracted in the frown
of one who collects his thoughts. At length he began, speaking in
calm, unemotional tones that held perchance deeper pathos than a more
passionate utterance could have endowed them with:

“Long ago--twenty years ago--I was, as I have said, an honourable lad,
to whom the world was a fair garden, a place of rosebuds, fragrant
with hope. Those, Kenneth, were my illusions. They are the illusions of
youth; they are youth itself, for when our illusions are gone we are
no longer young no matter what years we count. Keep your illusions,
Kenneth; treasure them, hoard them jealously for as long as you may.”

“I dare swear, sir,” answered the lad, with bitter humour, “that such
illusions as I have I shall treasure all my life. You forget, Sir
Crispin.”

“'Slife, I had indeed forgotten. For the moment I had gone back twenty
years, and to-morrow was none so near.” He laughed softly, as though his
lapse of memory amused him. Then he resumed:

“I was the only son, Kenneth, of the noblest gentleman that ever
lived--the heir to an ancient, honoured name, and to a castle as proud
and lands as fair and broad as any in England.

“They lie who say that from the dawn we may foretell the day. Never was
there a brighter dawn than that of my life; never a day so wasted; never
an evening so dark. But let that be.

“Our lands were touched upon the northern side by those of a house with
which we had been at feud for two hundred years and more. Puritans they
were, stern and haughty in their ungodly righteousness. They held us
dissolute because we enjoyed the life that God had given us, and there I
am told the hatred first began.

“When I was a lad of your years, Kenneth, the hall--ours was the castle,
theirs the hall--was occupied by two young sparks who made little shift
to keep up the pious reputation of their house. They dwelt there with
their mother--a woman too weak to check their ways, and holding, mayhap,
herself, views not altogether puritanical. They discarded the sober
black their forbears had worn for generations, and donned gay Cavalier
garments. They let their love-locks grow; set plumes in their castors
and jewels in their ears; they drank deep, ruffled it with the boldest
and decked their utterance with great oaths--for to none doth blasphemy
come more readily than to lips that in youth have been overmuch shaped
in unwilling prayer.

“Me they avoided as they would a plague, and when at times we met, our
salutations were grave as those of, men on the point of crossing swords.
I despised them for their coarse, ruffling apostasy more than ever
my father had despised their father for a bigot, and they guessing or
knowing by instinct what was in my mind held me in deeper rancour even
than their ancestors had done mine. And more galling still and yet a
sharper spur to their hatred did those whelps find in the realization
that all the countryside held, as it had held for ages, us to be their
betters. A hard blow to their pride was that, but their revenge was not
long in coming.

“It chanced they had a cousin--a maid as sweet and fair and pure as they
were hideous and foul. We met in the meads--she and I. Spring was the
time--God! It seems but yesterday!--and each in our bearing towards the
other forgot the traditions of the names we bore. And as at first we had
met by chance, so did we meet later by contrivance, not once or twice,
but many times. God, how sweet she was! How sweet was all the world! How
sweet it was to live and to be young! We loved. How else could it
have been? What to us were traditions, what to us the hatred that for
centuries had held our families asunder? In us it lay to set aside all
that.

“And so I sought my father. He cursed me at first for an unnatural son
who left unheeded the dictates of our blood. But anon, when on my
knees I had urged my cause with all the eloquent fervour that is but
of youth--youth that loves--my father cursed no more. His thoughts went
back maybe to the days of his own youth, and he bade me rise and go
a-wooing as I listed. Nay, more than that he did. The first of our name
was he out of ten generations to set foot across the threshold of the
hall; he went on my behalf to sue for their cousin's hand.

“Then was their hour. To them that had been taught the humiliating
lesson that we were their betters, one of us came suing. They from whom
the countryside looked for silence when one of us spoke, had it in their
hands at length to say us nay. And they said it. What answer my father
made them, Kenneth, I know not, but very white was his face when I met
him on the castle steps on his return. In burning words he told me of
the insult they had put upon him, then silently he pointed to the Toledo
that two years before he had brought me out of Spain, and left me. But
I had understood. Softly I unsheathed that virgin blade and read the
Spanish inscription, that through my tears of rage and shame seemed
blurred; a proud inscription was it, instinct with the punctilio
of proud Spain--'Draw me not without motive, sheathe me not without
honour.' Motive there was and to spare; honour I swore there should be;
and with that oath, and that brave sword girt to me, I set out to my
first combat.”

Sir Crispin paused and a sigh escaped him, followed by a laugh of
bitterness.

“I lost that sword years ago,” said he musingly. “The sword and I have
been close friends in life, but my companion has been a blade of coarser
make, carrying no inscriptions to prick at a man's conscience and make a
craven of him.”

He laughed again, and again he fell a-musing, till Kenneth's voice
aroused him.

“Your story, sir.”

Twilight shadows were gathering in their garret, and as he turned his
face towards the youth, he was unable to make out his features; but
his tone had been eager, and Crispin noted that he sat with head bent
forward and that his eyes shone feverishly.

“It interests you, eh? Ah, well--hot foot I went to the hall, and with
burning words I called upon those dogs to render satisfaction for the
dishonour they had put upon my house. Will you believe, Kenneth, that
they denied me? They sheltered their craven lives behind a shield of
mock valour. They would not fight a boy, they said, and bade me get my
beard grown when haply they would give ear to my grievance.

“And so, a shame and rage a hundredfold more bitter than that which I
had borne thither did I carry thence. My father bade me treasure up the
memory of it against the time when my riper years should compel them to
attend me, and this, by my every hope of heaven, I swore to do. He bade
me further efface for ever from my mind all thought or hope of union
with their cousin, and though I made him no answer at the time, yet in
my heart I promised to obey him in that, too. But I was young--scarce
twenty. A week without sight of my mistress and I grew sick with
despair. Then at length I came upon her, pale and tearful, one evening,
and in an agony of passion and hopelessness I flung myself at her feet,
and implored her to keep true to me and wait, and she, poor maid, to her
undoing swore that she would. You are yourself a lover, Kenneth, and you
may guess something of the impatience that anon beset me. How could I
wait? I asked her this.

“Some fifty miles from the castle there was a little farm, in the very
heart of the country, which had been left me by a sister of my mother's.
Thither I now implored her to repair with me. I would find a priest to
wed us, and there we should live a while in happiness, in solitude, and
in love. An alluring picture did I draw with all a lover's cunning, and
to the charms of it she fell a victim. We fled three days later.

“We were wed in the village that pays allegiance to the castle,
and thereafter we travelled swiftly and undisturbed to that little
homestead. There in solitude, with but two servants--a man and a maid
whom I could trust--we lived and loved, and for a season, brief as all
happiness is doomed to be, we were happy. Her cousins had no knowledge
of that farm of mine, and though they searched the country for many
a mile around, they searched in vain. My father knew--as I learned
afterwards--but deeming that what was done might not be undone, he held
his peace. In the following spring a babe was born to us, and our bliss
made heaven of that cottage.

“Twas a month or so after the birth of our child that the blow
descended. I was away, enjoying alone the pleasures of the chase; my man
was gone a journey to the nearest town, whence he would not return until
the morrow. Oft have I cursed the folly that led me to take my gun and
go forth into the woods, leaving no protector for my wife but one weak
woman.

“I returned earlier than I had thought to do, led mayhap by some angel
that sought to have me back in time. But I came too late. At my gate
I found two freshly ridden horses tethered, and it was with a dull
foreboding in my heart that I sprang through the open door. Within--O
God, the anguish of it!--stretched on the floor I beheld my love, a
gaping sword-wound in her side, and the ground all bloody about her.
For a moment I stood dumb in the spell of that horror, then a movement
beyond, against the wall, aroused me, and I beheld her murderers
cowering there, one with a naked sword in his hand.

“In that fell hour, Kenneth, my whole nature changed, and one who had
ever been gentle was transformed into the violent, passionate man that
you have known. As my eye encountered then her cousins, my blood seemed
on the instant curdled in my veins; my teeth were set hard; my nerves
and sinews knotted; my hands instinctively shifted to the barrel of my
fowling-piece and clutched it with the fierceness that was in me--the
fierceness of the beast about to spring upon those that have brought it
to bay.

“For a moment I stood swaying there, my eyes upon them, and holding
their craven glances fascinated. Then with a roar I leapt forward, the
stock of my fowling-piece swung high above my head. And, as God lives,
Kenneth, I had sent them straight to hell ere they could have raised a
hand or made a cry to stay me. But as I sprang my foot slipped in the
blood of my beloved, and in my fall I came close to her where she lay.
The fowling-piece had escaped my grasp and crashed against the wall.

“I scarce knew what I did, but as I lay beside her it came to me that I
did not wish to rise again--that already I had lived overlong. It came
to me that, seeing me fallen, haply those cowards would seize the chance
to make an end of me as I lay. I wished it so in that moment's frenzy,
for I made no attempt to rise or to defend myself; instead I set my arms
about my poor murdered love, and against her cold cheek I set my face
that was well-nigh as cold.

“And thus I lay, nor did they keep me long. A sword was passed through
me from back to breast, whilst he who did it cursed me with a foul
oath. The room grew dim; methought it swayed and that the walls were
tottering; there was a buzz of sound in my ears, then a piercing cry in
a baby voice. At the sound of it I vaguely wished for the strength to
rise. As in the distance, I heard one of those butchers cry, “Haste,
man; slit me that squalling bastard's throat!” And then I must have
swooned.”

Kenneth shuddered.

“My God, how horrible!” he cried. “But you were avenged, Sir Crispin,”
 he added eagerly; “you were avenged?”

“When I regained consciousness,” Crispin continued, as if he had not
heard Kenneth's exclamation, “the cottage was in flames, set alight by
them to burn the evidence of their foul deed. What I did I know not. I
have tried to urge my memory along from the point of my awakening, but
in vain. By what miracle I crawled forth, I cannot tell; but in the
morning I was found by my man lying prone in the garden, half a dozen
paces from the blackened ruins of the cottage, as near death as man may
go and live.

“God willed that I should not die, but it was close upon a year before
I was restored to any semblance of my former self, and then I was so
changed that I was hardly to be recognized as that same joyous, vigorous
lad, who had set out, fowling-piece on shoulder, one fine morning a year
agone. There was grey in my hair, as much as there is now, though I was
but twenty-one; my face was seared and marked as that of a man who had
lived twice my years. It was to my faithful servant that I owed my life,
though I ask myself to-night whether I have cause for gratitude towards
him on that score.

“So soon as I had regained sufficient strength, I went secretly home,
wishing that men might continue to believe me dead. My father I found
much aged by grief, but he was kind and tender with me beyond all words.
From him I had it that our enemies were gone to France; it would seem
they had thought it better to remain absent for a while. He had learnt
that they were in Paris, and hither I determined forthwith to follow
them. Vainly did my father remonstrate with me; vainly did he urge me
rather: to bear my story to the King at Whitehall and seek for justice.
I had been well advised had I obeyed this counsel, but I burned to take
my vengeance with my own hands, and with this purpose I repaired to
France.

“Two nights after my arrival in Paris it was my ill-fortune to be
embroiled in a rough-and-tumble in the streets, and by an ill-chance I
killed a man--the first was he of several that I have sent whither I
am going to-morrow. The affair was like to have cost me my life, but by
another of those miracles which have prolonged it, I was sent instead
to the galleys on the Mediterranean. It was only wanting that, after all
that already I had endured, I should become a galley-slave!

“For twelve long years I toiled at an oar, and waited. If I lived I
would return to England; and if I returned, woe unto those that had
wrecked my life--my body and my soul. I did live, and I did return. The
Civil War had broken out, and I came to throw my sword into the balance
on the King's side: I came, too, to be avenged, but that would wait.

“Meanwhile, the score had grown heavier. I went home to find the castle
in usurping hands--in the hands of my enemies. My father was dead; he
died a few months after I had gone to France; and those murderers had
advanced a claim that through my marriage with their cousin, since dead,
and through my own death, there being no next of kin, they were
the heirs-at-law. The Parliament allowed their claim, and they were
installed. But when I came they were away, following the fortunes of the
Parliament that had served them so well. And so I determined to let my
vengeance wait until the war were ended and the Parliament destroyed. In
a hundred engagements did I distinguish myself by my recklessness even
as at other seasons I distinguished myself by my debaucheries.

“Ah, Kenneth, you have been hard upon me for my vices, for my abuses of
the cup, and all the rest. But can you be hard upon me still, knowing
what I had suffered, and what a weight of misery I bore with me? I,
whose life was wrecked beyond salvation; who only lived that I might
slit the throats of those that had so irreparably wronged me. Think you
still that it was so vicious a thing, so unpardonable an offence to seek
the blessed nepenthe of the wine-cup, the heavenly forgetfulness that
its abuses brought me? Is it strange that I became known as the wildest
tantivy boy that rode with the King? What else had I?”

“In all truth your trials were sore,” said the lad in a voice that
contained a note of sympathy. And yet there was a certain restraint that
caught the Tavern Knight's ear. He turned his head and bent his eyes in
the lad's direction, but it was quite dark by now, and he failed to make
out his companion's face.

“My tale is told, Kenneth. The rest you can guess. The King did not
prevail and I was forced to fly from England with those others who
escaped from the butchers that had made a martyr of Charles. I took
service in France under the great Conde, and I saw some mighty battles.
At length came the council of Breda and the invitation to Charles the
Second to receive the crown of Scotland. I set out again to follow his
fortunes as I had followed his father's, realizing that by so doing I
followed my own, and that did he prevail I should have the redress and
vengeance so long awaited. To-day has dashed my last hope; to-morrow
at this hour it will not signify. And yet much would I give to have my
fingers on the throats of those two hounds before the hangman's close
around my own.”

There was a spell of silence as the two men sat, both breathing heavily
in the gloom that enveloped them. At length:

“You have heard my story, Kenneth,” said Crispin.

“I have heard, Sir Crispin, and God knows I pity you.”

That was all, and Galliard felt that it was not enough. He had lacerated
his soul with those grim memories to earn a yet kinder word. He had
looked even to hear the lad suing for pardon for the harsh opinions
wherein he had held him. Strange was this yearning of his for the boy's
sympathy. He who for twenty years had gone unloving and unloved, sought
now in his extremity affection from a fellow-man.

And so in the gloom he waited for a kinder word that came not; then--so
urgent was his need--he set himself to beg it.

“Can you not understand now, Kenneth, how I came to fall so low? Can you
not understand this dissoluteness of mine, which led them to dub me the
Tavern Knight after the King conferred upon me the honour of knighthood
for that stand of mine in Fifeshire? You must understand, Kenneth,”
 he insisted almost piteously, “and knowing all, you must judge me more
mercifully than hitherto.”

“It is not mine to judge, Sir Crispin. I pity you with all my heart,”
 the lad replied, not ungently.

Still the knight was dissatisfied. “Yours it is to judge as every man
may judge his fellowman. You mean it is not yours to sentence. But if
yours it were, Kenneth, what then?”

The lad paused a moment ere he answered. His bigoted Presbyterian
training was strong within him, and although, as he said, he pitied
Galliard, yet to him whose mind was stuffed with life's precepts, and
who knew naught of the trials it brings to some and the temptations to
which they were not human did they not succumb--it seemed that vice was
not to be excused by misfortune. Out of mercy then he paused, and for
a moment he had it even in his mind to cheer his fellow-captive with a
lie. Then, remembering that he was to die upon the morrow, and that
at such a time it was not well to risk the perdition of his soul by an
untruth, however merciful, he answered slowly:

“Were I to judge you, since you ask me, sir, I should be merciful
because of your misfortunes. And yet, Sir Crispin, your profligacy and
the evil you have wrought in life must weigh heavily against you.” Had
this immaculate bigot, this churlish milksop been as candid with himself
as he was with Crispin, he must have recognized that it was mainly
Crispin's offences towards himself that his mind now dwelt on in deeper
rancour than became one so well acquainted with the Lord's Prayer.

“You had not cause enough,” he added impressively, “to defile your soul
and risk its eternal damnation because the evil of others had wrecked
your life.”

Crispin drew breath with the sharp hiss of one in pain, and for a moment
after all was still. Then a bitter laugh broke from him.

“Bravely answered, reverend sir,” he cried with biting scorn. “I marvel
only that you left your pulpit to gird on a sword; that you doffed your
cassock to don a cuirass. Here is a text for you who deal in texts, my
brave Jack Presbyter--'Judge you your neighbour as you would yourself
be judged; be merciful as you would hope for mercy.' Chew you the cud of
that until the hangman's coming in the morning. Good night to you.”

And throwing himself back upon the bed, Crispin sought comfort in sleep.
His limbs were heavy and his heart was sick.

“You misapprehend me, Sir Crispin,” cried the lad, stung almost to shame
by Galliard's reproach, and also mayhap into some fear that hereafter
he should find little mercy for his own lack of it towards a poor
fellow-sinner. “I spoke not as I would judge, but as the Church
teaches.”

“If the Church teaches no better I rejoice that I was no churchman,”
 grunted Crispin.

“For myself,” the lad pursued, heeding not the irreverent interruption,
“as I have said, I pity you with all my heart. More than that, so deeply
do I feel, so great a loathing and indignation has your story sown in
my heart, that were our liberty now restored us I would willingly join
hands with you in wreaking vengeance on these evildoers.”

Sir Crispin laughed. He judged the tone rather than the words, and it
rang hollow.

“Where are your wits, O casuist?” he cried mockingly. “Where are your
doctrines? 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!' Pah!”

And with that final ejaculation, pregnant with contempt and bitterness,
he composed himself to sleep.

He was accursed he told himself. He must die alone, as he had lived.




CHAPTER VIII. THE TWISTED BAR


Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept.
Kenneth sat huddled on his chair, and in awe and amazement he listened
to his companion's regular breathing. He had not Galliard's nerves nor
Galliard's indifference to death, so that neither could he follow his
example, nor yet so much as realize how one should slumber upon the very
brink of eternity.

For a moment his wonder stood perilously near to admiration; then his
religious training swayed him, and his righteousness almost drew from
him a contempt of this man's apathy. There was much of the Pharisee's
attitude towards the publican in his mood.

Anon that regular breathing grew irritating to him; it drew so marked a
contrast 'twixt Crispin's frame of mind and his own. Whilst Crispin had
related his story, the interest it awakened had served to banish the
spectre of fear which the thought of the morrow conjured up. Now that
Crispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grew
numb and sick with the horror of his position.

Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head and
hands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dull
uneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved.
Would she hear of his end? Would she weep for him?--as though it
mattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought him
to the same issue--to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands still
tighter, and the perspiration would stand' out in beads upon his callow
brow.

At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so much
a prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator. He felt himself a
craven--doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner he
despised--and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman should
meet his end.

“But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall be brave,” he muttered, and
knew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that might
uphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken might
be his spirit now.

Meanwhile Crispin slept. When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was on
his face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloak
and a slouched hat whose broad brim left the features unrevealed.

Still half asleep, and blinking like an owl, he sat up.

“I have always held burnt sack to be well enough, but--”

He stopped short, fully awake at last, and, suddenly remembering his
condition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breath
and in a voice as indifferent as he could make it:

“What's o'clock?” he asked.

“Past midnight, miserable wretch,” was the answer delivered in a deep
droning voice. “Hast entered upon thy last day of life--a day whose sun
thou'lt never see. But five hours more are left thee.”

“And it is to tell me this that you have awakened me?” demanded Galliard
in such a voice that he of the cloak recoiled a step, as if he thought
a blow must follow. “Out on you for an unmannerly cur to break upon a
gentleman's repose.”

“I come,” returned the other in his droning voice, “to call upon thee to
repent.”

“Plague me not,” answered Crispin, with a yawn. “I would sleep.”

“Soundly enough shalt thou sleep in a few hours' time. Bethink thee,
miserable sinner, of thy soul.”

“Sir,” cried the Tavern Knight, “I am a man of marvellous short
endurance. But mark you this your ways to heaven are not my ways.
Indeed, if heaven be peopled by such croaking things as you, I shall be
thankful to escape it. So go, my friend, ere I become discourteous.”

The minister stood in silence for a moment; then setting his lanthorn
upon the table, he raised his hands and eyes towards the low ceiling of
the chamber.

“Vouchsafe, O Lord,” he prayed, “to touch yet the callous heart of this
obdurate, incorrigible sinner, this wicked, perjured and blasphemous
malignant, whose--”

He got no further. Crispin was upon his feet, his harsh countenance
thrust into the very face of the minister; his eyes ablaze.

“Out!” he thundered, pointing to the door. “Out! Begone! I would not
be guilty at the end of my life of striking a man in petticoats. But go
whilst I can bethink me of it! Go--take your prayers to hell.”

The minister fell back before that blaze of passion. For a second he
appeared to hesitate, then he turned towards Kenneth, who stood behind
in silence. But the lad's Presbyterian rearing had taught him to hate a
sectarian as he would a papist or as he would the devil, and he did no
more than echo Galliard's words--though in a gentler key.

“I pray you go,” he said. “But if you would perform an act of charity,
leave your lanthorn. It will be dark enough hereafter.”

The minister looked keenly at the boy, and won over by the humility
of his tone, he set the lanthorn on the table. Then moving towards the
door, he stopped and addressed himself to Crispin.

“I go since you oppose with violence my ministrations. But I shall pray
for you, and I will return anon, when perchance your heart shall be
softened by the near imminence of your end.”

“Sir,” quoth Crispin wearily, “you would outtalk a woman.”

“I've done, I've done,” he cried in trepidation, making shift to depart.
On the threshold he paused again. “I leave you the lanthorn,” he
said. “May it light you to a godlier frame of mind. I shall return at
daybreak.” And with that he went.

Crispin yawned noisily when he was gone, and stretched himself. Then
pointing to the pallet:

“Come, lad, 'tis your turn,” said he.

Kenneth shivered. “I could not sleep,” he cried. “I could not.”

“As you will.” And shrugging his shoulders, Crispin sat down on the edge
of the bed.

“For cold comforters commend me to these cropeared cuckolds,” he
grumbled. “They are all thought for a man's soul, but for his body they
care nothing. Here am I who for the last ten hours have had neither meat
nor drink. Not that I mind the meat so much, but, 'slife, my throat is
dry as one of their sermons, and I would cheerfully give four of my
five hours of life for a posset of sack. A paltry lot are they, Kenneth,
holding that because a man must die at dawn he need not sup to-night.
Heigho! Some liar hath said that he who sleeps dines, and if I sleep
perchance I shall forget my thirst.”

He stretched himself upon the bed, and presently he slept again.

It was Kenneth who next awakened him. He opened his eyes to find the lad
shivering as with an ague. His face was ashen.

“Now, what's amiss? Oddslife, what ails you?” he cried.

“Is there no way, Sir Crispin? Is there naught you can do?” wailed the
youth.

Instantly Galliard sat up.

“Poor lad, does the thought of the rope affright you?”

Kenneth bowed his head in silence.

“Tis a scurvy death, I own. Look you, Kenneth, there is a dagger in my
boot. If you would rather have cold steel, 'tis done. It is the last
service I may render you, and I'll be as gentle as a mistress. Just
there, over the heart, and you'll know no more until you are in
Paradise.”

Turning down the leather of his right boot, he thrust his hand down the
side of his leg. But Kenneth sprang back with a cry.

“No, no,” he cried, covering his face with his hands. “Not that!
You don't understand. It is death itself I would cheat. What odds to
exchange one form for another? Is there no way out of this? Is there no
way, Sir Crispin?” he demanded with clenched hands.

“The approach of death makes you maudlin, sir,” quoth the other, in whom
this pitiful show of fear produced a profound disgust. “Is there no way;
say you? There is the window, but 'tis seventy feet above the river; and
there is the door, but it is locked, and there is a sentry on the other
side.”

“I might have known it. I might have known that you would mock me. What
is death to you, to whom life offers nothing? For you the prospect of it
has no terrors. But for me--bethink you, sir, I am scarce eighteen years
of age,” he added brokenly, “and life was full of promise for me. O God,
pity me!”

“True, lad, true,” the knight returned in softened tones. “I had
forgotten that death is not to you the blessed release that it is to me.
And yet, and yet,” he mused, “do I not die leaving a task unfulfilled--a
task of vengeance? And by my soul, I know no greater spur to make a man
cling to life. Ah,” he sighed wistfully, “if indeed I could find a way.”

“Think, Sir Crispin, think,” cried the boy feverishly.

“To what purpose? There is the window. But even if the bars were moved,
which I see no manner of accomplishing, the drop to the river is seventy
feet at least. I measured it with my eyes when first we entered here. We
have no rope. Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tied together would
scarce yield us ten feet. Would you care to jump the remaining sixty?”

At the very thought of it the lad trembled, noting which Sir Crispin
laughed softly.

“There. And yet, boy, it would be taking a risk which if successful
would mean life--if otherwise, a speedier end than even the rope will
afford you. Oddslife,” he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, and
seizing the lanthorn. “Let us look at these bars.”

He stepped across to the window, and held the light so that its rays
fell full upon the base of the vertical iron that barred the square.

“It is much worn by rust, Kenneth,” he muttered. “The removal of this
single piece of iron,” and he touched the lower arm of the cross,
“should afford us passage. Who knows? Hum!”

He walked back to the table and set the lanthorn down. In a tremble,
Kenneth watched his every movement, but spoke no word.

“He who throws a main,” said Galliard, “must set a stake upon the board.
I set my life--a stake that is already forfeit--and I throw for liberty.
If I win, I win all; if I lose, I lose naught. 'Slife, I have thrown
many a main with Fate, but never one wherein the odds were more
generous. Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and we will attempt it if
we can but move the bar.”

“You mean to leap?” gasped the lad.

“Into the river. It is the only way.”

“O God, I dare not. It is a fearsome drop.”

“Longer, I confess, than they'll give you in an hour's time, if you
remain; but it may lead elsewhere.”

The boy's mouth was parched. His eyes burned in their sockets, and yet
his limbs shook with cold--but not the cold of that September night.

“I'll try it,” he muttered with a gulp. Then suddenly clutching
Galliard's arm, he pointed to the window.

“What ails you now?” quoth Crispin testily.

“The dawn, Sir Crispin. The dawn.”

Crispin looked, and there, like a gash in the blackness of the heavens,
he beheld a streak of grey.

“Quick, Sir Crispin; there is no time to lose. The minister said he
would return at daybreak.”

“Let him come,” answered Galliard grimly, as he moved towards the
casement.

He gripped the lower bar with his lean, sinewy hands, and setting his
knee against the masonry beneath it, he exerted the whole of his huge
strength--that awful strength acquired during those years of toil as a
galley-slave, which even his debaucheries had not undermined. He felt
his sinews straining until it seemed that they must crack; the sweat
stood out upon his brow; his breathing grew stertorous.

“It gives,” he panted at last. “It gives.”

He paused in his efforts, and withdrew his hands.

“I must breathe a while. One other effort such as that, and it is done.
'Fore George,” he laughed, “it is the first time water has stood my
friend, for the rains have sadly rusted that iron.”

Without, their sentry was pacing before the door; his steps came nearer,
passed, and receded; turned, came nigh again, and again passed on.
As once more they grew faint, Crispin seized the bar and renewed his
attempt. This time it was easier. Gradually it ceded to the strain
Galliard set upon it.

Nearer came the sentry's footsteps, but they went unheeded by him who
toiled, and by him who watched with bated breath and beating heart. He
felt it giving--giving--giving. Crack!

With a report that rang through the room like a pistol shot, it broke
off in its socket. Both men caught their breath, and stood for a second
crouching, with straining ears. The sentry had stopped at their door.

Galliard was a man of quick action, swift to think, and as swift to
execute the thought. To thrust Kenneth into a corner, to extinguish the
light, and to fling himself upon the bed was all the work of an instant.

The key grated in the lock, and Crispin answered it with a resounding
snore. The door opened, and on the threshold stood the Roundhead
trooper, holding aloft a lanthorn whose rays were flashed back by his
polished cuirass. He beheld Crispin on the bed with closed eyes and open
mouth, and he heard his reassuring and melodious snore. He saw Kenneth
seated peacefully upon the floor, with his back against the wall, and
for a moment he was puzzled.

“Heard you aught?” he asked.

“Aye,” answered Kenneth, in a strangled voice, “I heard something like a
shot out there.”

The gesture with which he accompanied the words was fatal. Instinctively
he had jerked his thumb towards the window, thereby drawing the
soldier's eyes in that direction. The fellow's glance fell upon the
twisted bar, and a sharp exclamation of surprise escaped him.

Had he been aught but a fool he must have guessed at once how it came
so, and having guessed it, he must have thought twice ere he
ventured within reach of a man who could so handle iron. But he was a
slow-reasoning clod, and so far, thought had not yet taken the place of
surprise. He stepped into, the chamber and across to the window, that he
might more closely view that broken bar.

With eyes that were full of terror and despair, Kenneth watched him;
their last hope had failed them. Then, as he looked, it seemed to him
that in one great leap from his recumbent position on the bed, Crispin
had fallen upon the soldier.

The lanthorn was dashed from the fellow's hand, and rolled to Kenneth's
feet. The fellow had begun' a cry, which broke off suddenly into a
gurgle as Galliard's fingers closed about his windpipe. He was a big
fellow, and in his mad struggles he carried: Crispin hither and thither
about the room. Together: they hurtled against the table, which would
have: gone crashing over had not Kenneth caught it and drawn it softly
to the wall.

Both men were now upon the bed. Crispin had guessed the soldier's intent
to fling himself upon the ground so that the ring of his armour might
be heard, and perchance bring others to his aid. To avoid this, Galliard
had swung him towards the bed, and hurled him on to it. There he pinned
him with his knee, and with his fingers he gripped the Roundhead's
throat, pressing the apple inwards with his thumb.

“The door, Kenneth!” he commanded, in a whisper. “Close the door!”

Vain were the trooper's struggles to free himself from that throttling
grip. Already his efforts grew his face was purple; his veins stood out
in ropes upon his brow till they seemed upon the point of bursting; his
eyes protruded like a lobster's and there was a horrible grin upon his
mouth; still his heels beat the bed, and still he struggled. With his
fingers he plucked madly at the throttling hands on his neck, and
tore at them with his nails until the blood streamed from them. Still
Galliard held him firmly, and with a smile--a diabolical smile it seemed
to the poor, half-strangled wretch--he gazed upon his choking victim.

“Someone comes!” gasped Kenneth suddenly. “Someone comes, Sir Crispin!”
 he repeated, shaking his hands in a frenzy.

Galliard listened. Steps were approaching. The soldier heard them also,
and renewed his efforts. Then Crispin spoke.

“Why stand you there like a fool?” he growled. “Quench the light--stay,
we may want it! Cast your cloak over it! Quick, man, quick!”

The steps came nearer. The lad had obeyed him, and they were in
darkness.

“Stand by the door,” whispered Crispin. “Fall upon him as he enters,
and see that no cry escapes him. Take him by the throat, and as you love
your life, do not let him get away.”

The footsteps halted. Kenneth crawled softly to his post. The soldier's
struggles grew of a sudden still, and Crispin released his throat at
last. Then calmly drawing the fellow's dagger, he felt for the straps
of his cuirass, and these he proceeded to cut. As he did so the door was
opened.

By the light of the lamp burning in the passage they beheld silhouetted
upon the threshold a black figure crowned by a steeple hat. Then the
droning voice of the Puritan minister greeted them.

“Your hour is at hand!” he announced.

“Is it time?” asked Galliard from the bed. And as he put the question he
softly thrust aside the trooper's breastplate, and set his hand to the
fellow's heart. It still beat faintly.

“In another hour they will come for you,” answered the minister. And
Crispin marvelled anxiously what Kenneth was about. “Repent then,
miserable sinners, whilst yet--”

He broke off abruptly, awaking out of his religious zeal to a sense
of strangeness at the darkness and the absence of the sentry, which
hitherto he had not remarked.

“What hath--” he began. Then Galliard heard a gasp, followed by the
noise of a fall, and two struggling men came rolling across the chamber
floor.

“Bravely done, boy!” he cried, almost mirthfully. “Cling to him,
Kenneth; cling to him a second yet!”

He leapt from the bed, and guided by the faint light coming through the
door, he sprang across the intervening space and softly closed it.
Then he groped his way along the wall to the spot where he had seen the
lanthorn stand when Kenneth had flung his cloak over it. As he went, the
two striving men came up against him.

“Hold fast, lad,” he cried, encouraging Kenneth, “hold him yet a moment,
and I will relieve you!”

He reached the lanthorn at last, and pulling aside the cloak, he lifted
the light and set it upon the table.




CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN


By the lanthorn's yellow glare Crispin beheld the two men-a mass of
writhing bodies and a bunch of waving legs--upon the ground. Kenneth,
who was uppermost, clung purposefully to the parson's throat. The
faces of both were alike distorted, but whilst the lad's breath came in
gasping hisses, the other's came not at all.

Going over to the bed, Crispin drew the unconscious trooper's
tuck-sword. He paused for a moment to bend over the man's face; his
breath came faintly, and Crispin knew that ere many moments were sped
he would regain consciousness. He smiled grimly to see how well he had
performed his work of suffocation without yet utterly destroying life.

Sword in hand, he returned to Kenneth and the parson. The Puritan's
struggles were already becoming mere spasmodic twitchings; his face was
as ghastly as the trooper's had been a while ago.

“Release him, Kenneth,” said Crispin shortly.

“He struggles still.”

“Release him, I say,” Galliard repeated, and stooping he caught the
lad's wrist and compelled him to abandon his hold.

“He will cry out,” exclaimed Kenneth, in apprehension.

“Not he,” laughed Crispin. “Leastways, not yet awhile. Observe the
wretch.”

With mouth wide agape, the minister lay gasping like a fish newly
taken from the water. Even now that his throat was free he appeared to
struggle for a moment before he could draw breath. Then he took it in
panting gulps until it seemed that he must choke in his gluttony of air.

“Fore George,” quoth Crispin, “I was no more than in time. Another
second, and we should have had him, too, unconscious. There, he is
recovering.”

The blood was receding from the swollen veins of the parson's head, and
his cheeks were paling to their normal hue. Anon they went yet paler
than their wont, as Galliard rested the point of his sword against the
fellow's neck.

“Make sound or movement,” said Crispin coldly, “and I'll pin you to the
floor like a beetle. Obey me, and no harm shall come to you.”

“I will obey you,” the fellow answered, in a wheezing whisper. “I swear
I will. But of your charity, good sir, I beseech you remove your sword.
Your hand might slip, sir,” he whined, a wild terror in his eyes.

Where now was the deep bass of his whilom accents? Where now the
grotesque majesty of his bearing, and the impressive gestures that
erstwhile had accompanied his words of denunciation?

“Your hand might slip, sir,” he whined again.

“It might--and, by Gad, it shall if I hear more from you. So that you
are discreet and obedient, have no fear of my hand.” Then, still keeping
his eye upon the fellow: “Kenneth,” he said, “attend to the crop-ear
yonder, he will be recovering. Truss him with the bedclothes, and gag
him with his scarf. See to it, Kenneth, and do it well, but leave his
nostrils free that he may breathe.”

Kenneth carried out Galliard's orders swiftly and effectively, what time
Crispin remained standing over the recumbent minister. At length, when
Kenneth announced that it was done, he bade the Puritan rise.

“But have a care,” he added, “or you shall taste the joys of the
Paradise you preach of. Come, sir parson; afoot!”

A prey to a fear that compelled unquestioning obedience, the fellow rose
with alacrity.

“Stand there, sir. So,” commanded Crispin, his point within an inch of
the man's Geneva bands. “Take your kerchief, Kenneth, and pinion his
wrists behind him.”

That done, Crispin bade the lad unbuckle and remove the parson's belt.
Next he ordered that man of texts to be seated upon their only chair,
and with that same belt he commanded Kenneth to strap him to it. When
at length the Puritan was safely bound, Crispin lowered his rapier, and
seated himself upon the table edge beside him.

“Now, sir parson,” quoth he, “let us talk a while. At your first outcry
I shall hurry you into that future world whither it is your mission to
guide the souls of others. Maybe you'll find it a better world to preach
of than to inhabit, and so, for your own sake, I make no doubt you
will obey me. To your honour, to your good sense and a parson's natural
horror of a lie, I look for truth in answer to what questions I may
set you. Should I find you deceiving me, sir, I shall see that your
falsehood overtakes you.” And eloquently raising his blade, he intimated
the exact course he would adopt. “Now, sir, attend to me. How soon are
our friends likely to discover this topsy-turvydom?”

“When they come for you,” answered the parson meekly.

“And how soon, O prophet, will they come?”

“In an hour's time, or thereabout,” replied the Puritan, glancing
towards the window as he spoke. Galliard followed his glance, and
observed that the light was growing perceptibly stronger.

“Aye,” he commented, “in an hour's time there should be light enough to
hang us by. Is there no chance of anyone coming sooner?”

“None that I can imagine. The only other occupants of the house are a
party of half a dozen troopers in the guardroom below.”

“Where is the Lord General?”

“Away--I know not where. But he will be here at sunrise.”

“And the sentry that was at our door--is he not to a changed 'twixt this
and hanging-time?”

“I cannot say for sure, but I think not. The guard was relieved just
before I came.”

“And the men in the guardroom--answer me truthfully, O Elijah--what
manner of watch are they keeping?”

“Alas, sir, they have drunk enough this night to put a rakehelly
Cavalier to shame. I was but exhorting them.”

When Kenneth had removed the Puritan's girdle, a small Bible--such as
men of his calling were wont to carry--had dropped out. This Kenneth had
placed upon the table. Galliard now took it up, and, holding it before
the Puritan's eyes, he watched him narrowly the while.

“Will you swear by this book that you have answered nothing but the
truth?”

Without a moment's hesitation the parson pledged his oath, that, to the
best of his belief, he had answered accurately.

“That is well, sir. And now, though it grieve me to cause you some
slight discomfort, I must ensure your silence, my friend.”

And, placing his sword upon the table, he passed behind the Puritan, and
taking the man's own scarf, he effectively gagged him with it.

“Now, Kenneth,” said he, turning to the lad. Then he stopped abruptly as
if smitten by a sudden thought. Presently--“Kenneth,” he continued in a
different tone, “a while ago I mind me you said that were your liberty
restored you, you would join hands with me in punishing the evildoers
who wrecked my life.”

“I did, Sir Crispin.”

For a moment the knight paused. It was a vile thing that he was about to
do, he told himself, and as he realized how vile, his impulse was to say
no more; to abandon the suddenly formed project and to trust to his own
unaided wits and hands. But as again he thought of the vast use this lad
would be to him--this lad who was the betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn--he
saw that the matter was not one hastily to be judged and dismissed.
Carefully he weighed it in the balance of his mind. On the one hand was
the knowledge that did they succeed in making good their escape,
Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter to his friends the Ashburns--the
usurpers of Castle Marleigh. What then more natural than his taking with
him the man who had helped him to escape, and who shared his own danger
of recapture? And with so plausible a motive for admission to Castle
Marleigh, how easy would not his vengeance become? He might at first
wean himself into their good graces, and afterwards--

Before his mental eyes there unfolded itself the vista of a great
revenge; one that should be worthy of him, and commensurate with the
foul deed that called for it.

In the other scale the treacherous flavour of this method weighed
heavily. He proposed to bind the lad to a promise, the shape of whose
fulfilment he would withhold--a promise the lad would readily give, and
yet, one that he must sooner die than enter into, did he but know what
manner of fulfilment would be exacted. It amounted to betraying the lad
into a betrayal of his friends--the people of his future wife. Whatever
the issue for Crispin, 'twas odds Kenneth's prospect of wedding this
Cynthia would be blighted for all time by the action into which Galliard
proposed to thrust him all unconscious.

So stood the case in Galliard's mind, and the scales fell now on one
side, now on the other. But against his scruples rose the memory of the
treatment which the lad had meted out to him that night; the harshness
of the boy's judgment; the irrevocable contempt wherein he had clearly
seen that he was held by this fatuous milksop. All this aroused his
rancour now, and steeled his heart against the voice of honour. What
was this boy to him, he asked himself, that he should forego for him the
accomplishing of his designs? How had this lad earned any consideration
from him? What did he owe him? Naught! Still, he would not decide in
haste.

It was characteristic of the man whom Kenneth held to be destitute of
all honourable principles, to stand thus in the midst of perils, when
every second that sped lessened their chances of escape, turning over
in his mind calmly and collectedly a point of conduct. It was in his
passions only that Crispin was ungovernable, in violence only that he
was swift--in all things else was he deliberate.

Of this Kenneth had now a proof that set him quaking with impatient
fear. Anxiously, his hands clenched and his face pale, he watched his
companion, who stood with brows knit in thought, and his grey
eyes staring at the ground. At length he could brook that, to him,
incomprehensible and mad delay no longer.

“Sir Crispin,” he whispered, plucking at his sleeve; “Sir Crispin.”

The knight flashed him a glance that was almost of anger. Then the fire
died out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. In that second's glance
he had seen the lad's face; the fear and impatience written on it had
disgusted him, and caused the scales to fall suddenly and definitely
against the boy.

“I was thinking how it might be accomplished,” he said.

“There is but one way,” cried the lad.

“On the contrary, there are two, and I wish to choose carefully.”

“If you delay your choice much longer, none will be left you,” cried
Kenneth impatiently.

Noting the lad's growing fears, and resolved now upon his course,
Galliard set himself to play upon them until terror should render the
boy as wax in his hands.

“There speaks your callow inexperience,” said he, with a pitying smile.
“When you shall have lived as long as I have done, and endured as much;
when you shall have set your wits to the saving of your life as often
as have I--you will have learnt that haste is fatal to all enterprises.
Failure means the forfeiture of something; tonight it would mean the
forfeiture of our lives, and it were a pity to let such good efforts as
these”--and with a wave of the hand he indicated their two captors--“go
wasted.”

“Sir,” exclaimed Kenneth, well-nigh beside himself, “if you come not
with me, I go alone!”

“Whither?” asked Crispin dryly.

“Out of this.”

Galliard bowed slightly.

“Fare you well, sir. I'll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it is
for you to choose between the door and the window.”

And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed to
the bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped,
and unbuckling the soldier's swordbelt--to which the scabbard was
attached--he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keeping
his back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next to
the table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restored
it to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:

“Come, Sir Crispin!” cried the lad. “Are you ready?”

Galliard wheeled sharply round.

“How? Not gone yet?” said he sardonically.

“I dare not,” the lad confessed. “I dare not go alone.”

Galliard laughed softly; then suddenly waxed grave.

“Ere we go, Master Kenneth, I would again remind you of your assurance
that were we to regain our liberty you would aid me in the task of
vengeance that lies before me.”

“Once already have I answered you that it is so.”

“And pray, are you still of the same mind?”

“I am, I am! Anything, Sir Crispin; anything so that you come away!”

“Not so fast, Kenneth. The promise that I shall ask of you is not to
be so lightly given. If we escape I may fairly claim to have saved your
life, 'twixt what I have done and what I may yet do. Is it not so?”

“Oh, I acknowledge it!”

“Then, sir, in payment I shall expect your aid hereafter to help me in
that which I must accomplish, that which the hope of accomplishing is
the only spur to my own escape.”

“You have my promise!” cried the lad.

“Do not give it lightly, Kenneth,” said Crispin gravely. “It may cause
you much discomfort, and may be fraught with danger even to your life.”

“I promise.”

Galliard bowed his head; then, turning, he took the Bible from the
table.

“With your hand upon this book, by your honour, your faith, and your
every hope of salvation, swear that if I bear you alive out of this
house you will devote yourself to me and to my task of vengeance until
it shall be accomplished or until I perish; swear that you will set
aside all personal matters and inclinations of your own, to serve me
when I shall call upon you. Swear that, and, in return, I will give
my life if need be to save yours to-night, in which case you will be
released from your oath without more ado.”

The lad paused a moment. Crispin was so impressive, the oath he imposed
so solemn, that for an instant the boy hesitated. His cautious, timid
nature whispered to him that perchance he should know more of this
matter ere he bound himself so irrevocably. But Crispin, noting the
hesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad's fears.

“Resolve yourself,” he exclaimed abruptly. “It grows light, and the time
for haste is come.”

“I swear!” answered Kenneth, overcome by his impatience. “I swear, by my
honour, my faith, and my every hope of heaven to lend you my aid, when
and how you may demand it, until your task be accomplished.”

Crispin took the Bible from the boy's hands, and replaced it on the
table. His lips were pressed tight, and he avoided the lad's eyes.

“You shall not find me wanting in my part of the bargain,” he muttered,
as he took up the soldier's cloak and hat. “Come, take that parson's
steeple hat and his cloak, and let us be going.”

He crossed to the door, and opening it he peered down the passage. A
moment he stood listening. All was still. Then he turned again. In the
chamber the steely light of the breaking day was rendering more yellow
still the lanthorn's yellow flame.

“Fare you well, sir parson,” he said. “Forgive me the discomfort I have
been forced to put upon you, and pray for the success of our escape.
Commend me to Oliver of the ruby nose. Fare you well, sir. Come,
Kenneth.”

He held the door for the lad to pass out. As they stood in the dimly
lighted passage he closed it softly after them, and turned the key in
the lock.

“Come,” he said again, and led the way to the stairs, Kenneth tiptoeing
after him with wildly beating heart.




CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE


Treading softly, and with ears straining for the slightest sound, the
two men descended to the first floor of the house. They heard nothing
to alarm them as they crept down, and not until they paused on the first
landing to reconnoitre did they even catch the murmur of voices issuing
from the guardroom below. So muffled was the sound that Crispin guessed
how matters stood even before he had looked over the balusters into
the hall beneath. The faint grey of the dawn was the only light that
penetrated the gloom of that pit.

“The Fates are kind, Kenneth,” he whispered. “Those fools sit with
closed doors. Come.”

But Kenneth laid his hand upon Galliard's sleeve. “What if the door
should open as we pass?”

“Someone will die,” muttered Crispin back. “But pray God that it may
not. We must run the risk.”

“Is there no other way?”

“Why, yes,” returned Galliard sardonically, “we can linger here until we
are taken. But, oddslife, I'm not so minded. Come.”

And as he spoke he drew the lad along.

His foot was upon the topmost stair of the flight, when of a sudden the
stillness of the house was broken by a loud knock upon the street door.
Instantly--as though they had been awaiting it there was a stir of feet
below and the bang of an overturned chair; then a shaft of yellow light
fell athwart the darkness of the hall as the guardroom door was opened.

“Back!” growled Galliard. “Back, man!”

They were but in time. Peering over the balusters they saw two troopers
pass out of the guardroom, and cross the hall to the door. A bolt was
drawn and a chain rattled, then followed the creak of hinges, and on the
stone flags rang the footsteps and the jingling of spurs of those that
entered.

“Is all well?” came a voice, which Crispin recognized as Colonel
Pride's, followed by an affirmative reply from one of the soldiers.

“Hath a minister visited the malignants?”

“Master Toneleigh is with them even now.”

In the hall Crispin could now make out the figures of Colonel Pride and
of three men who came with him. But he had scant leisure to survey them,
for the colonel was in haste.

“Come, sirs,” he heard him say, “light me to their garret. I would see
them--leastways, one of them, before he dies. They are to hang where
the Moabites hanged Gives yesterday. Had I my way... But, there lead on,
fellow.”

“Oh, God!” gasped Kenneth, as the soldier set foot upon the stairs.
Under his breath Crispin swore a terrific oath. For an instant it seemed
to him there was naught left but to stand there and await recapture.
Through his mind it flashed that they were five, and he but one; for his
companion was unarmed.

With that swiftness which thought alone can compass did he weigh the
odds, and judge his chances. He realized how desperate they were did he
remain, and even as he thought he glanced sharply round.

Dim indeed was the light, but his sight was keen, and quickened by the
imminence of danger. Partly his eyes and partly his instinct told
him that not six paces behind him there must be a door, and if Heaven
pleased it should be unlocked, behind it they must look for shelter.
It even crossed his mind in that second of crowding, galloping thought,
that perchance the room might be occupied. That was a risk he must
take--the lesser risk of the two, the choice of one of which was forced
upon him. He had determined all this ere the soldier's foot was upon the
third step of the staircase, and before the colonel had commenced the
ascent. Kenneth stood palsied with fear, gazing like one fascinated at
the approaching peril.

Then upon his ear fell the fierce whisper: “Come with me, and tread
lightly as you love your life.”

In three long strides, and by steps that were softer than a cat's,
Crispin crossed to the door which he had rather guessed than seen. He
ran his hand along until he caught the latch. Softly he tried it; it
gave, and the door opened. Kenneth was by then beside him. He paused to
look back.

On the opposite wall the light of the trooper's lanthorn fell brightly.
Another moment and the fellow would have reached and turned the corner
of the stairs, and his light must reveal them to him. But ere that
instant was passed Crispin had drawn his companion through, and closed
the door as softly as he had opened it. The chamber was untenanted
and almost bare of furniture, at which discovery Crispin breathed more
freely.

They stood there, and heard the ascending footsteps, and the clank-clank
of a sword against the stair-rail. A bar of yellow light came under the
door that sheltered them. Stronger it grew and farther it crept along
the floor; then stopped and receded again, as he who bore the lanthorn
turned and began to climb to the second floor. An instant later and the
light had vanished, eclipsed by those who followed in the fellow's wake.

“The window, Sir Crispin,” cried Kenneth, in an excited whisper--“the
window!”

“No,” answered Crispin calmly. “The drop is a long one, and we should
but light in the streets, and be little better than we are here. Wait.”

He listened. The footsteps had turned the corner leading to the floor
above. He opened the door, partly at first, then wide. For an instant
he stood listening again. The steps were well overhead by now; soon they
would mount the last flight, and then discovery must be swift to follow.

“Now,” was all Crispin said, and, drawing his sword he led the way
swiftly, yet cautiously, to the stairs once more. In passing he glanced
over the rails. The guardroom door stood ajar, and he caught the murmurs
of subdued conversation. But he did not pause. Had the door stood wide
he would not have paused then. There was not a second to be lost; to
wait was to increase the already overwhelming danger. Cautiously, and
leaning well upon the stout baluster, he began the descent. Kenneth
followed him mechanically, with white face and a feeling of suffocation
in his throat.

They gained the corner, and turning, they began what was truly the
perilous part of their journey. Not more than a dozen steps were there;
but at the bottom stood the guardroom door, and through the chink of
its opening a shaft of light fell upon the nethermost step. Once a stair
creaked, and to their quickened senses it sounded like a pistol-shot. As
loud to Crispin sounded the indrawn breath of apprehension from Kenneth
that followed it. He had almost paused to curse the lad when, thinking
him of how time pressed, he went on.

Within three steps of the bottom were they, and they could almost
distinguish what was being said in the room, when Crispin stopped, and
turning his head to attract Kenneth's attention, he pointed straight
across the hall to a dimly visible door. It was that of the chamber
wherein he had been brought before Cromwell. Its position had occurred
to him some moments before, and he had determined then upon going that
way.

The lad followed the indication of his finger, and signified by a nod
that he understood. Another step Galliard descended; then from the
guardroom came a loud yawn, to send the boy cowering against the wall.
It was followed by the sound of someone rising; a chair grated upon the
floor, and there was a movement of feet within the chamber. Had Kenneth
been alone, of a certainty terror would have frozen him to the wall.

But the calm, unmovable Crispin proceeded as if naught had chanced; he
argued that even if he who had risen were coming towards the door, there
was nothing to be gained by standing still. Their only chance lay now in
passing before it might be opened.

They that walk through perils in a brave man's company cannot but gain
confidence from the calm of his demeanour. So was it now with Kenneth.
The steady onward march of that tall, lank figure before him drew him
irresistibly after it despite his tremors. And well it was for him that
this was so. They gained the bottom of the staircase at length; they
stood beside the door of the guardroom, they passed it in safety. Then
slowly--painfully slowly--to avoid their steps from ringing upon the
stone floor, they crept across towards the door that meant safety to Sir
Crispin. Slowly, step by step, they moved, and with every stride Crispin
looked behind him, prepared to rush the moment he had sign they were
discovered. But it was not needed. In silence and in safety they were
permitted to reach the door. To Crispin's joy it was unfastened. Quietly
he opened it, then with calm gallantry he motioned to his companion to
go first, holding it for him as he passed in, and keeping watch with eye
and ear the while.

Scarce had Kenneth entered the chamber when from above came the sound
of loud and excited voices, announcing to them that their flight was at
last discovered. It was responded to by a rush of feet in the guardroom,
and Crispin had but time to dart in after his companion and close the
door ere the troopers poured out into the hall and up the stairs, with
confused shouts that something must be amiss.

Within the room that sheltered him Crispin chuckled, as he ran his hand
along the edge of the door until he found the bolt, and softly shot it
home.

“'Slife,” he muttered, “'twas a close thing! Aye, shout, you cuckolds,”
 he went on. “Yell yourselves hoarse as the crows you are! You'll hang us
where Gives are hanged, will you?”

Kenneth tugged at the skirts of his doublet. “What now?” he inquired.

“Now,” said Crispin, “we'll leave by the window, if it please you.”

They crossed the room, and a moment or two later they had dropped on
to the narrow railed pathway overlooking the river, which Crispin had
observed from their prison window the evening before. He had observed,
too, that a small boat was moored at some steps about a hundred yards
farther down the stream, and towards that spot he now sped along
the footpath, followed closely by Kenneth. The path sloped in that
direction, so that by the time the spot was reached the water flowed not
more than six feet or so beneath them. Half a dozen steps took them
down this to the moorings of that boat, which fortunately had not been
removed.

“Get in, Kenneth,” Crispin commanded. “There, I'll take the oars, and
I'll keep under shelter of the bank lest those blunderers should bethink
them of looking out of our prison window. Oddswounds, Kenneth, I am
hungry as a wolf, and as dry--ough, as dry as Dives when he begged for a
sup of water. Heaven send we come upon some good malignant homestead ere
we go far, where a Christian may find a meal and a stoup of ale. 'Tis a
miracle I had strength enough to crawl downstairs. Swounds, but an empty
stomach is a craven comrade in a desperate enterprise. Hey! Have a care,
boy. Now, sink me if this milksop hasn't fainted!”





CHAPTER XI. THE ASHBURNS


Gregory Ashburn pushed back his chair and made shift to rise from the
table at which he and his brother had but dined.

He was a tall, heavily built man, with a coarse, florid countenance set
in a frame of reddish hair that hung straight and limp. In the colour of
their hair lay the only point of resemblance between the brothers.
For the rest Joseph was spare and of middle weight, pale of face,
thin-lipped, and owning a cunning expression that was rendered very evil
by virtue of the slight cast in his colourless eyes.

In earlier life Gregory had not been unhandsome; debauchery and sloth
had puffed and coarsened him. Joseph, on the other hand, had never been
aught but ill-favoured.

“Tis a week since Worcester field was fought,” grumbled Gregory, looking
lazily sideways at the mullioned windows as he spoke, “and never a word
from the lad.”

Joseph shrugged his narrow shoulders and sneered. It was Joseph's habit
to sneer when he spoke, and his words were wont to fit the sneer.

“Doth the lack of news trouble you?” he asked, glancing across the table
at his brother.

Gregory rose without meeting that glance.

“Truth to tell it does trouble me,” he muttered.

“And yet,” quoth Joseph, “tis a natural thing enough. When battles are
fought it is not uncommon for men to die.”

Gregory crossed slowly to the window, and stared out at the trees of the
park which autumn was fast stripping.

“If he were among the fallen--if he were dead then indeed the matter
would be at an end.”

“Aye, and well ended.”

“You forget Cynthia,” Gregory reproved him.

“Forget her? Not I, man. Listen.” And he jerked his thumb in the
direction of the wainscot.

To the two men in that rich chamber of Castle Marleigh was borne the
sound--softened by distance of a girlish voice merrily singing.

Joseph laughed a cackle of contempt.

“Is that the song of a maid whose lover comes not back from the wars?”
 he asked.

“But bethink you, Joseph, the child suspects not the possibility of his
having fallen.”

“Gadswounds, sir, did your daughter give the fellow a thought she must
be anxious. A week yesterday since the battle, and no word from him.
I dare swear, Gregory, there's little in that to warrant his mistress
singing.”

“Cynthia is young--a child. She reasons not as you and I, nor seeks to
account for his absence.”

“Troubles not to account for it,” Joseph amended.

“Be that as it may,” returned Gregory irritably, “I would I knew.”

“That which we do not know we may sometimes infer. I infer him to be
dead, and there's the end of it.”

“What if he should not be?”

“Then, my good fool, he would be here.”

“It is unlike you, Joseph, to argue so loosely. What if he should be a
prisoner?”

“Why, then, the plantations will do that which the battle hath left
undone. So that, dead or captive, you see it is all one.”

And, lifting his glass to the light, he closed one eye, the better to
survey with the other the rich colour of the wine. Not that Joseph was
curious touching that colour, but he was a juggler in gestures, and at
that moment he could think of no other whereby he might so naturally
convey the utter indifference of his feelings in the matter.

“Joseph, you are wrong,” said Gregory, turning his back upon the window
and facing his brother. “It is not all one. What if he return some day?”

“Oh, what if--what if--what if!” cried Joseph testily. “Gregory, what a
casuist you might have been had not nature made you a villain! You
are as full of “what if s” as an egg of meat. Well what if some day he
should return? I fling your question back--what if?”

“God only knows.”

“Then leave it to Him,” was the flippant answer; and Joseph drained his
glass.

“Nay, brother, 'twere too great a risk. I must and I will know whether
Kenneth were slain or not. If he is a prisoner, then we must exert
ourselves to win his freedom.”

“Plague take it,” Joseph burst out. “Why all this ado? Why did you ever
loose that graceless whelp from his Scottish moor?”

Gregory sighed with an air of resigned patience.

“I have more reasons than one,” he answered slowly. “If you need that
I recite them to you, I pity your wits. Look you, Joseph, you have more
influence with Cromwell; more--far more--than have I, and if you are
minded to do so, you can serve me in this.”

“I wait but to learn how.”

“Then go to Cromwell, at Windsor or wherever he may be, and seek to
learn from him if Kenneth is a prisoner. If he is not, then clearly he
is dead.”

Joseph made a gesture of impatience.

“Can you not leave Fate alone?”

“Think you I have no conscience, Joseph?” cried the other with sudden
vigour.

“Pish! you are womanish.”

“Nay, Joseph, I am old. I am in the autumn of my days, and I would see
these two wed before I die.”

“And are damned for a croaking, maudlin' craven,” added Joseph. “Pah!
You make me sick.”

There was a moment's silence, during which the brothers eyed each other,
Gregory with a sternness before which Joseph's mocking eye was forced at
length to fall.

“Joseph, you shall go to the Lord General.”

“Well,” said Joseph weakly, “we will say that I go. But if Kenneth be a
prisoner, what then?”

“You must beg his liberty from Cromwell. He will not refuse you.”

“Will he not? I am none so confident.”

“But you can make the attempt, and leastways we shall have some definite
knowledge of what has befallen the boy.”

“The which definite knowledge seems to me none so necessary. Moreover,
Gregory, bethink you; there has been a change, and the wind carries an
edge that will arouse every devil of rheumatism in my bones. I am not a
lad, Gregory, and travelling at this season is no small matter for a man
of fifty.”

Gregory approached the table, and leaning his hand upon it:

“Will you go?” he asked, squarely eyeing his brother.

Joseph fell a-pondering. He knew Gregory to be a man of fixed ideas, and
he bethought him that were he now to refuse he would be hourly plagued
by Gregory's speculations touching the boy's fate and recriminations
touching his own selfishness. On the other hand, however, the journey
daunted him. He was not a man to sacrifice his creature comforts, and to
be asked to sacrifice them to a mere whim, a shadow, added weight to his
inclination to refuse the undertaking.

“Since you have the matter so much at heart,” said he at length, “does
it not occur to you that you could plead with greater fervour, and be
the likelier to succeed?”

“You know that Cromwell will lend a more willing ear to you than to
me--perchance because you know so well upon occasion how to weave your
stock of texts into your discourse,” he added with a sneer. “Will you
go, Joseph?”

“Bethink you that we know not where he is. I may have to wander for
weeks o'er the face of England.”

“Will you go?” Gregory repeated.

“Oh, a pox on it,” broke out Joseph, rising suddenly. “I'll go since
naught else will quiet you. I'll start to-morrow.”

“Joseph, I am grateful. I shall be more grateful yet if you will start
to-day.”

“No, sink me, no.”

“Yes, sink me, yes,” returned Gregory. “You must, Joseph.”

Joseph spoke of the wind again; the sky, he urged, was heavy with rain.
“What signifies a day?” he whined.

But Gregory stood his ground until almost out of self-protection the
other consented to do his bidding and set out as soon as he could make
ready.

This being determined, Joseph left his brother, and cursing Master
Stewart for the amount of discomfort which he was about to endure on his
behoof, he went to prepare for the journey.

Gregory lingered still in the chamber where they had dined, and sat
staring moodily before him at the table-linen. Anon, with a half-laugh
of contempt, he filled a glass of muscadine, and drained it. As he set
down the glass the door opened, and on the threshold stood a very dainty
girl, whose age could not be more than twenty. Gregory looked on the
fresh, oval face, with its wealth of brown hair crowning the low, broad
forehead, and told himself that in his daughter he had just cause for
pride. He looked again, and told himself that his brother was right;
she had not the air of a maid whose lover returns not from the wars.
Her lips were smiling, and the eyes--low-lidded and blue as the
heavens--were bright with mirth.

“Why sit you there so glum,” she cried, “whilst my uncle, they tell me,
is going on a journey?”

Gregory was minded to put her feelings to the test.

“Kenneth,” he replied with significant emphasis, watching her closely.

The mirth faded from her eyes, and they took on a grave expression that
added to their charm. But Gregory had looked for fear, leastways deep
concern, and in this he was disappointed.

“What of him, father?” she asked, approaching.

“Naught, and that's the rub. It is time we had news, and as none comes,
your uncle goes to seek it.”

“Think you that ill can have befallen him?”

Gregory was silent a moment, weighing his answer. Then

“We hope not, sweetheart,” said he. “He may be a prisoner. We last had
news of him from Worcester, and 'tis a week and more since the battle
was fought there. Should he be a captive, your uncle has sufficient
influence to obtain his enlargement.”

Cynthia sighed, and moved towards the window.

“Poor Kenneth,” she murmured gently. “He may be wounded.”

“We shall soon learn,” he answered. His disappointment grew keener;
where he had looked for grief he found no more than an expression of
pitying concern. Nor was his disappointment lessened when, after a spell
of thoughtful silence, she began to comment upon the condition of the
trees in the park below. Gregory had it in his mind to chide her for
this lack of interest in the fate of her intended husband, but he let
the impulse pass unheeded. After all, if Kenneth lived she should marry
him. Hitherto she had been docile and willing enough to be guided by
him; she had even displayed a kindness for Kenneth; no doubt she would
do so again when Joseph returned with him--unless he were among the
Worcester slain, in which case, perhaps, it would prove best that his
fate was not to cause her any prostration of grief.

“The sky is heavy, father,” said Cynthia from the window. “Poor uncle!
He will have rough weather for his journey.”

“I rejoice that someone wastes pity on poor uncle,” growled Joseph,
who re-entered, “this uncle whom your father drives out of doors in all
weathers to look for his daughter's truant lover.”

Cynthia smiled upon him.

“It is heroic of you, uncle.”

“There, there,” he grumbled, “I shall do my best to find the laggard,
lest those pretty eyes should weep away their beauty.”

Gregory's glance reproved this sneer of Joseph's, whereupon Joseph drew
close to him:

“Broken-hearted, is she not?” he muttered, to which Gregory returned no
answer.

An hour later, as Joseph climbed into his saddle, he turned to his
brother again, and directing his eyes upon the girl, who stood patting
the glossy neck of his nag:

“Come, now,” said he, “you see that matters are as I said.”

“And yet,” replied Gregory sternly, “I hope to see you return with the
boy. It will be better so.”

Joseph shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. Then, taking leave of his
brother and his niece, he rode out with two grooms at his heels, and
took the road South.




CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSE THAT WAS ROLAND MARLEIGH'S


It was high noon next day, and Gregory Ashburn was taking the air upon
the noble terrace of Castle Marleigh, when the beat of hoofs, rapidly
approaching up the avenue, arrested his attention. He stopped in his
walk, and, turning, sought to discover who came. His first thought was
of his brother; his second, of Kenneth. Through the half-denuded trees
he made out two mounted figures, riding side by side; and from the fact
of there being two, he adduced that this could not be Joseph returning.

Even as he waited he was joined by Cynthia, who took her stand beside
him, and voiced the inquiry that was in his mind. But her father could
no more than answer that he hoped it might be Kenneth.

Then the horsemen passed from behind the screen of trees and came into
the clearing before the terrace, and unto the waiting glances of Ashburn
and his daughter was revealed a curiously bedraggled and ill-assorted
pair. The one riding slightly in advance looked like a Puritan of the
meaner sort, in his battered steeple-hat and cloak of rusty black. The
other was closely wrapped in a red mantle, uptilted behind by a sword of
prodigious length, and for all that his broad, grey hat was unadorned
by any feather, it was set at a rakish, ruffling, damn-me angle that
pronounced him no likely comrade for the piously clad youth beside him.

But beneath that brave red cloak--alack!--as was presently seen when
they dismounted, that gentleman was in a sorry plight. He wore a leather
jerkin, so cut and soiled that any groom might have disdained it; a pair
of green breeches, frayed to their utmost; and coarse boots of untanned
leather, adorned by rusty spurs.

On the terrace Gregory paused a moment to call his groom to attend
the new-comers, then he passed down the steps to greet Kenneth with
boisterous effusion. Behind him, slow and stately as a woman of twice
her years, came Cynthia. Calm was her greeting of her lover, contained
in courteous expressions of pleasure at beholding him safe, and
suffering him to kiss her hand.

In the background, his sable locks uncovered out of deference to the
lady, stood Sir Crispin, his face pale and haggard, his lips parted, and
his grey eyes burning as they fell again, after the lapse of years, upon
the stones of this his home--the castle to which he was now come, hat in
hand, to beg for shelter.

Gregory was speaking, his hands resting upon Kenneth's shoulder.

“We have been much exercised concerning you, lad,” he was saying. “We
almost feared the worst, and yesterday Joseph left us to seek news of
you at Cromwell's hands. Where have you tarried?”

“Anon, sir; you shall learn anon. The story is a long one.”

“True; you will be tired, and perchance you would first rest a while.
Cynthia will see to it. But what scarecrow have you there? What
tatterdemalion is this?” he cried, pointing to Galliard. He had imagined
him a servant, but the dull flush that overspread Sir Crispin's face
told him of his error.

“I would have you know, sir,” Crispin began, with some heat, when
Kenneth interrupted him.

“Tis to this gentleman, sir, that I owe my presence here. He was my
fellow-prisoner, and but for his quick wit and stout arm I should be
stiff by now. Anon, sir, you shall hear the story of it, and I dare
swear it will divert you. This gentleman is Sir Crispin Galliard, lately
a captain of horse with whom I served in Middleton's Brigade.”

Crispin bowed low, conscious of the keen scrutiny in which Gregory's
eyes were bent upon him. In his heart there arose a fear that, haply
after all, the years that were sped had not wrought sufficient change in
him.

“Sir Crispin Galliard,” Ashburn was saying, after the manner of one who
is searching his memory. “Galliard, Galliard--not he whom they called
'Rakehelly Galliard,' and who gave us such trouble in the late King's
time?”

Crispin breathed once more. Ashburn's scrutiny was explained.

“The same, sir,” he answered, with a smile and a fresh bow. “Your
servant, sir; and yours, madam.”

Cynthia looked with interest at the lank, soldierly figure. She, too,
had heard--as who had not?--wild stories of this man's achievements. But
of no feat of his had she been told that could rival that of his escape
from Worcester; and when, that same evening, Kenneth related it, as they
supped, her low-lidded eyes grew very wide, and as they fell on Crispin,
admiration had taken now the place of interest.

Romance swayed as great a portion of her heart as it does of most
women's. She loved the poets and their songs of great deeds; and here
was one who, in the light of that which they related of him, was like an
incarnation of some hero out of a romancer's ballad.

Kenneth she never yet had held in over high esteem; but of a sudden, in
the presence of this harsh-featured dog of war, this grim, fierce-eyed
ruffler, he seemed to fade, despite his comeliness of face and form,
into a poor and puny insignificance. And when, presently, he unwisely
related how, when in the boat he had fainted, the maiden laughed
outright for very scorn.

At this plain expression of contempt, her father shot her a quick,
uneasy glance. Kenneth stopped short, bringing his narrative abruptly to
a close. Reproachfully he looked at her, turning first red, then white,
as anger chased annoyance through his soul. Galliard looked on with
quiet relish; her laugh had contained that which for days he had carried
in his heart. He drained his bumper slowly, and made no attempt to
relieve the awkward silence that sat upon the company.

Truth to tell, there was emotion enough in the soul of him who was wont
to be the life of every board he sat at to hold him silent and even
moody.

Here, after eighteen years, was he again in his ancestral home of
Marleigh. But how was he returned? As one who came under a feigned name,
to seek from usurping hands a shelter 'neath his own roof; a beggar of
that from others which it should have been his to grant or to deny
those others. As an avenger he came. For justice he came, and armed with
retribution; the flame of a hate unspeakable burning in his heart, and
demanding the lives--no less--of those that had destroyed him and his.
Yet was he forced to sit a mendicant almost at that board whose head was
his by every right; forced to sit and curb his mood, giving no outward
sign of the volcano that boiled and raged within his soul as his eye
fell upon the florid, smiling face and portly, well-fed frame of Gregory
Ashburn. For the time was not yet. He must wait; wait until Joseph's
return, so that he might spend his vengeance upon both together.

Patient had he been for eighteen years, confident that ere he died, a
just and merciful God would give him this for which he lived and waited.
Yet now that the season was at hand; now upon the very eve of that for
which he had so long been patient, a frenzy of impatience fretted him.

He drank deep that night, and through deep drinking his manner
thawed--for in his cups it was not his to be churlish to friend or foe.
Anon Cynthia withdrew; next Kenneth, who went in quest of her. Still
Crispin sat on, and drank his host's health above his breath, and his
perdition under it, till in the end Gregory, who never yet had found
his master at the bottle, grew numb and drowsy, and sat blinking at the
tapers.

Until midnight they remained at table, talking of this and that, and
each understanding little of what the other said. As the last hour of
night boomed out through the great hall, Gregory spoke of bed.

“Where do I lie to-night?” asked Crispin.

“In the northern wing,” answered Gregory with a hiccough.

“Nay, sir, I protest,” cried Galliard, struggling to his feet, and
swaying somewhat as he stood. “I'll sleep in the King's chamber, none
other.”

“The King's chamber?” echoed Gregory, and his face showed the confused
struggles of his brain. “What know you of the King's chamber?”

“That it faces the east and the sea, and that it is the chamber I love
best.”

“What can you know of it since, I take it, you have never seen it!”

“Have I not?” he began, in a voice that was awful in its threatening
calm. Then, recollecting himself, and shaking some of the drunkenness
from him: “In the old days, when the Marleighs were masters here,” he
mumbled, “I was often within these walls. Roland Marleigh was my friend.
The King's chamber was ever accorded me, and there, for old time's sake,
I'll lay these old bones of mine to-night.”

“You were Roland Marleigh's friend?” gasped Gregory. He was very white
now, and there was a sheen of moisture on his face. The sound of that
name had well-nigh sobered him. It was almost as if the ghost of Roland
Marleigh stood before him. His knees were loosened, and he sank back
into the chair from which he had but risen.

“Aye, I was his friend!” assented Crispin. “Poor Roland! He married your
sister, did he not, and it was thus that, having no issue and the family
being extinct, Castle Marleigh passed to you?”

“He married our cousin,” Gregory amended. “They were an ill-fated
family.”

“Ill-fated, indeed, an all accounts be true,” returned Crispin in a
maudlin voice. “Poor Roland! Well, for old time's sake, I'll sleep in
the King's chamber, Master Ashburn.”

“You shall sleep where you list, sir,” answered Gregory, and they rose.

“Do you look to honour us long at Castle Marleigh, Sir Crispin?” was
Gregory's last question before separating from his guest.

“Nay, sir, 'tis likely I shall go hence to-morrow,” answered Crispin,
unmindful of what he said.

“I trust not,” said Gregory, in accents of relief that belied him. “A
friend of Roland Marleigh's must ever be welcome in the house that was
Roland Marleigh's.”

“The house that was Roland Marleigh's,” Crispin muttered. “Heigho!
Life is precarious as the fall of a die at best an ephemeral business.
To-night you say the house that was Roland Marleigh's; presently men
will be saying the house that the Ashburns lived--aye, and died--in.
Give you good night, Master Ashburn.”

He staggered off, and stumbled up the broad staircase at the head
of which a servant now awaited, taper in hand, to conduct him to the
chamber he demanded.

Gregory followed him with a dull, frightened eye. Galliard's halting,
thickly uttered words had sounded like a prophecy in his ears.




CHAPTER XIII. THE METAMORPHOSIS OF KENNETH


When the morrow came, however, Sir Crispin showed no signs of carrying
out his proposal of the night before, and departing from Castle
Marleigh. Nor, indeed, did he so much as touch upon the subject, bearing
himself rather as one whose sojourn there was to be indefinite.

Gregory offered no comment upon this; through what he had done for
Kenneth they were under a debt to Galliard, and whilst he was a fugitive
from the Parliament's justice it would ill become Gregory to hasten his
departure. Moreover, Gregory recalled little or nothing of the words
that had passed between them in their cups, save a vague memory that
Crispin had said that he had once known Roland Marleigh.

Kenneth was content that Galliard should lie idle, and not call upon him
to go forth again to lend him the aid he had pledged himself to render
when Crispin should demand it. He marvelled, as the days wore on, that
Galliard should appear to have forgotten that task of his, and that he
should make no shift to set about it. For the rest, however, it troubled
him but little; enough preoccupation did he find in Cynthia's daily
increasing coldness. Upon all the fine speeches that he made her she
turned an idle ear, or if she replied at all it was but petulantly to
interrupt them, to call him a man of great words and small deeds. All
that he did she found ill done, and told him of it. His sober, godly
garments of sombre hue afforded her the first weapon of scorn wherewith
to wound him. A crow, she dubbed him; a canting, psalm-chanting
hypocrite; a Scripture-monger, and every other contumelious epithet of
like import that she should call to mind. He heard her in amazement.

“Is it for you, Cynthia,” he cried out in his surprise, “the child of a
God-fearing house, to mock the outward symbols of my faith?”

“A faith,” she laughed, “that is all outward symbols and naught besides;
all texts and mournings and nose-twangings.”

“Cynthia!” he exclaimed, in horror.

“Go your ways, sir,” she answered, half in jest, half in earnest. “What
need hath a true faith of outward symbols? It is a matter that lies
between your God and yourself, and it is your heart He will look at,
not your coat. Why, then, without becoming more acceptable in His eyes,
shall you but render yourself unsightly in the eyes of man?”

Kenneth's cheeks were flushed with anger. From the terrace where they
walked he let his glance roam towards the avenue that split the park in
twain. Up this at that moment, with the least suspicion of a swagger
in his gait, Sir Crispin Galliard was approaching leisurely; he wore a
claret-coloured doublet edged with silver lace, and a grey hat decked
with a drooping red feather--which garments, together with the rest
of his apparel, he had drawn from the wardrobe of Gregory Ashburn.
His advent afforded Kenneth the retort he needed. Pointing him out to
Cynthia:

“Would you rather,” he cried hotly, “have me such a man as that?”

“And, pray, why not?” she taunted him. “Leastways, you would then be a
man.”

“If, madam, a debauchee, a drunkard, a profligate, a brawler be your
conception of a man, I would in faith you did not account me one.”

“And what, sir, would you sooner elect to be accounted?”

“A gentleman, madam,” he answered pompously.

“I think,” said she quietly, “that you are in as little danger of
becoming the one as the other. A gentleman does not slander a man behind
his back, particularly when he owes that man his life. Kenneth, I am
ashamed of you.”

“I do not slander,” he insisted hotly. “You yourself know of the drunken
excess wherewith three nights ago he celebrated his coming to Castle
Marleigh. Nor do I forget what I owe him, and payment is to be made in
a manner you little know of. If I said of him what I did, it was but in
answer to your taunts. Think you I could endure comparison with such a
man as that? Know you what name the Royalists give him? They call him
the Tavern Knight.”

She looked him over with an eye of quiet scorn.

“And how, sir, do they call you? The pulpit knight? Or is it the knight
of the white feather? Mr. Stewart, you weary me. I would have a man who
with a man's failings hath also a man's redeeming virtues of honesty,
chivalry, and courage, and a record of brave deeds, rather than one who
has nothing of the man save the coat--that outward symbol you lay such
store by.”

His handsome, weak face was red with fury.

“Since that is so, madam,” he choked, “I leave you to your swaggering,
ruffling Cavalier.”

And, without so much as a bow, he swung round on his heel and left her.
It was her turn to grow angry now, and well it was for him that he had
not tarried. She dwelt with scorn upon his parting taunt, bethinking
herself that in truth she had exaggerated her opinions of Galliard's
merits. Her feelings towards that ungodly gentleman were rather of pity
than aught else. A brave, ready-witted man she knew him for, as much
from the story of his escape from Worcester as for the air that clung
to him despite his swagger, and she deplored that one possessing these
ennobling virtues should have fallen notwithstanding upon such evil ways
as those which Crispin trod. Some day, perchance, when she should come
to be better acquainted with him, she would seek to induce him to mend
his course.

Such root did this thought take in her mind that soon thereafter--and
without having waited for that riper acquaintance which at first she had
held necessary--she sought to lead their talk into the channels of this
delicate subject. But he as sedulously confined it to trivial matter
whenever she approached him in this mood, fencing himself about with a
wall of cold reserve that was not lightly to be overthrown. In this
his conscience was at work. Cynthia was the flaw in the satisfaction he
might have drawn from the contemplation of the vengeance he was there to
wreak. He beheld her so pure, so sweet and fresh, that he marvelled how
she came to be the daughter of Gregory Ashburn. His heart smote him at
the thought of how she--the innocent--must suffer with the guilty, and
at the contemplation of the sorrow which he must visit upon her. Out of
this sprang a constraint when in her company, for other than stiff and
formal he dared not be lest he should deem himself no better than the
Iscariot.

During the first days he had spent at Marleigh, he had been impatient for
Joseph Ashburn's return. Now he found himself hoping each morning that
Joseph might not come that day.

A courier reached Gregory from Windsor with a letter wherein his brother
told him that the Lord General, not being at the castle, he was gone on
to London in quest of him. And Gregory, lacking the means to inform him
that the missing Kenneth was already returned, was forced to possess his
soul in patience until his brother, having learnt what was to be learnt
of Cromwell, should journey home.

And so the days sped on, and a week wore itself out in peace at Castle
Marleigh, none dreaming of the volcano on which they stood. Each night
Crispin and Gregory sat together at the board after Kenneth and Cynthia
had withdrawn, and both drank deep--the one for the vice of it, the
other (as he had always done) to seek forgetfulness.

He needed it now more than ever, for he feared that the consideration of
Cynthia might yet unman him. Had she scorned and avoided him and having
such evidences of his ways of life he marvelled that she did not--he
might have allowed his considerations of her to weigh less heavily. As
it was, she sought him out, nor seemed rebuffed at his efforts to evade
her, and in every way she manifested a kindliness that drove him almost
to the point of despair, and well-nigh to hating her.

Kenneth, knowing naught of the womanly purpose that actuated her,
and seeing but the outward signs, which, with ready jealousy, he
misconstrued and magnified, grew sullen and churlish to her, to
Galliard, and even to Gregory.

For hours he would mope alone, nursing his jealous mood, as though in
this clownish fashion matters were to be mended. Did Cynthia but speak
to Crispin, he scowled; did Crispin answer her, he grit his teeth at the
covert meaning wherewith his fancy invested Crispin's tones; whilst did
they chance to laugh together--a contingency that fortunately for his
sanity was rare--he writhed in fury. He was a man transformed, and at
times there was murder in his heart. Had he been a swordsman of more
than moderate skill and dared to pit himself against the Tavern Knight,
blood would have been shed in Marleigh Park betwixt them.

It seemed at last as if with his insensate jealousy all the evil
humours that had lain dormant in the boy were brought to the surface,
to overwhelm his erstwhile virtues--if qualities that have bigotry for a
parent may truly be accounted virtues.

He cast off, not abruptly, but piecemeal, those outward symbols--his
sombre clothes. First 'twas his hat he exchanged for a feather-trimmed
beaver of more sightly hue; then those stiff white bands that reeked of
sanctity and cant for a collar of fine point; next it was his coat that
took on a worldly edge of silver lace. And so, little by little, step
by step, was the metamorphosis effected, until by the end of the week
he came forth a very butterfly of fashion--a gallant, dazzling Cavalier.
Out of a stern, forbidding Covenanter he was transformed in a few days
into a most outrageous fop. He walked in an atmosphere of musk that he
himself exhaled; his fair hair--that a while ago had hung so straight
and limp--was now twisted into monstrous curls, a bunch of which were
gathered by his right ear in a ribbon of pale blue silk.

Galliard noted the change in amazement, yet, knowing to what follies
youth is driven when it woos, he accounted Cynthia responsible for it,
and laughed in his sardonic way, whereat the boy would blush and scowl
in one. Gregory, too, looked on and laughed, setting it down to the
same cause. Even Cynthia smiled, whereat the Tavern Knight was driven to
ponder.

With a courtier's raiment Kenneth put on, too, a courtier's ways; he
grew mincing and affected in his speech, and he--whose utterance a while
ago had been marked by a scriptural flavour--now set it off with some of
Galliard's less unseemly oaths.

Since it was a ruffling gallant Cynthia required, he swore that a
ruffling gallant should she find him; nor had he wit enough to see
that his ribbons, his fopperies, and his capers served but to make him
ridiculous in her eyes. He did indeed perceive, however, that in spite
of this wondrous transformation, he made no progress in her favour.

“What signify these fripperies?” she asked him, one day, “any more than
did your coat of decent black? Are these also outward symbols?”

“You may take them for such, madam,” he answered sulkily. “You liked me
not as I was--”

“And I like you less as you are,” she broke in.

“Cynthia, you mock me,” he cried angrily.

“Now, Heaven forbid! I do but mark the change,” she answered airily.
“These scented clothes are but a masquerade, even as your coat of black
and your cant were a masquerade. Then you simulated godliness; now
you simulate Heaven knows what. But now, as then, it is no more than a
simulation, a pretence of something that you are not.”

He left her in a pet, and went in search of Gregory, into whose ear
he poured the story of his woes that had their source in Cynthia's
unkindness. From this resulted a stormy interview 'twixt Cynthia and her
father, in which Cynthia at last declared that she would not be wedded
to a fop.

Gregory shrugged his shoulders and laughed cynically, replying that it
was the way of young men to be fools, and that through folly lay the
road to wisdom.

“Be that as it may,” she answered him with spirit, “this folly
transcends all bounds. Master Stewart may return to his Scottish
heather; at Castle Marleigh he is wasting time.”

“Cynthia!” he cried.

“Father,” she pleaded, “why be angry? You would not have me marry
against the inclinations of my heart? You would not have me wedded to a
man whom I despise?”

“By what right do you despise him?” he demanded, his brow dark.

“By the right of the freedom of my thoughts--the only freedom that a
woman knows. For the rest it seems she is but a chattel; of no more
consideration to a man than his ox or his ass with which the Scriptures
rank her--a thing to be given or taken, bought or sold, as others shall
decree.”

“Child, child, what know you of these things?” he cried. “You are
overwrought, sweetheart.” And with the promise to wait until a calmer
frame of mind in her should be more propitious to what he wished to say
further on this score, he left her.

She went out of doors in quest of solitude among the naked trees of
the park; instead she found Sir Crispin, seated deep in thought upon a
fallen trunk.

Through the trees she espied him as she approached, whilst the rustle
of her gown announced to him her coming. He rose as she drew nigh, and,
doffing his hat, made shift to pass on.

“Sir Crispin,” she called, detaining him. He turned.

“Your servant, Mistress Cynthia.”

“Are you afraid of me, Sir Crispin?”

“Beauty, madam, is wont to inspire courage rather than fear,” he
answered, with a smile.

“That, sir, is an evasion, not an answer.”

“If read aright, Mistress Cynthia, it is also an answer.”

“That you do not fear me?”

“It is not a habit of mine.”

“Why, then, have you avoided me these three days past?”

Despite himself Crispin felt his breath quickening--quickening with
a pleasure that he sought not to account for--at the thought that she
should have marked his absence from her side.

“Because perhaps if I did not,” he answered slowly, “you might come to
avoid me. I am a proud man, Mistress Cynthia.”

“Satan, sir, was proud, but his pride led him to perdition.”

“So indeed may mine,” he answered readily, “since it leads me from you.”

“Nay, sir,” she laughed, “you go from me willingly enough.”

“Not willingly, Cynthia. Oh, not willingly,” he began. Then of a sudden
he checked his tongue, and asked himself what he was saying. With a
half-laugh and a courtier manner, he continued, “Of two evils, madam, we
must choose the lesser one.”

“Madam,” she echoed, disregarding all else that he had said. “It is an
ugly word, and but a moment back you called me Cynthia.”

“Twas a liberty that methought my grey hairs warranted, and for which
you should have reproved me.”

“You have not grey hairs enough to warrant it, Sir Crispin,” she
answered archly. “But what if even so I account it no liberty?”

The heavy lids were lifted from her eyes, and as their glance, frank and
kindly, met his, he trembled. Then, with a polite smile, he bowed.

“I thank you for the honour.”

For a moment she looked at him in a puzzled way, then moved past him,
and as he stood, stiffly erect, watching her graceful figure, he thought
that she was about to leave him, and was glad of it. But ere she had
taken half a dozen steps:

“Sir Crispin,” said she, looking back at him over her shoulder, “I am
walking to the cliffs.”

Never was a man more plainly invited to become an escort; but he ignored
it. A sad smile crept into his harsh face.

“I shall tell Kenneth if I see him,” said he.

At that she frowned.

“But I do not want him,” she protested. “Sooner would I go alone.”

“Why, then, madam, I'll tell nobody.”

Was ever man so dull? she asked herself.

“There is a fine view from the cliffs,” said she.

“I have always thought so,” he agreed.

She inclined to call him a fool; yet she restrained herself. She had an
impulse to go her way without him; but, then, she desired his company,
and Cynthia was unused to having her desires frustrated. So finding him
impervious to suggestion:

“Will you not come with me?” she asked at last, point-blank.

“Why, yes, if you wish it,” he answered without alacrity.

“You may remain, sir.”

Her offended tone aroused him now to the understanding that he was
impolite. Contrite he stood beside her in a moment.

“With your permission, mistress, I will go with you. I am a dull fellow,
and to-day I know not what mood is on me. So sorry a one that I feared
I should be poor company. Still, if you'll endure me, I'll do my best to
prove entertaining.”

“By no means,” she answered coldly. “I seek not the company of dull
fellows.” And she was gone.

He stood where she had left him, and breathed a most ungallant prayer of
thanks. Next he laughed softly to himself, a laugh that was woeful with
bitterness.

“Fore George!” he muttered, “it is all that was wanting!”

He reseated himself upon the fallen tree, and there he set himself to
reflect, and to realize that he, war-worn and callous, come to Castle
Marleigh on such an errand as was his, should wax sick at the very
thought of it for the sake of a chit of a maid, with a mind to make a
mock and a toy of him. Into his mind there entered even the possibility
of flight, forgetful of the wrongs he had suffered, abandoning the
vengeance he had sworn. Then with an oath he stemmed his thoughts.

“God in heaven, am I a boy, beardless and green?” he asked himself. “Am
I turned seventeen again, that to look into a pair of eyes should make
me forget all things but their existence?” Then in a burst of passion:
“Would to Heaven,” he muttered, “they had left me stark on Worcester
Field!”

He rose abruptly, and set out to walk aimlessly along, until suddenly a
turn in the path brought him face to face with Cynthia. She hailed him
with a laugh.

“Sir laggard, I knew that willy-nilly you would follow me,” she cried.
And he, taken aback, could not but smile in answer, and profess that she
had conjectured rightly.




CHAPTER XIV. THE HEART OF CYNTHIA ASHBURN


Side by side stepped that oddly assorted pair along--the maiden whose
soul was as pure and fresh as the breeze that blew upon them from the
sea, and the man whose life years ago had been marred by a sorrow, the
quest of whose forgetfulness had led him through the mire of untold sin;
the girl upon the threshold of womanhood, her life all before her and
seeming to her untainted mind a joyous, wholesome business; the man
midway on his ill-starred career, his every hope blighted save the one
odious hope of vengeance, which made him cling to a life he had proved
worthless and ugly, and that otherwise he had likely enough cast from
him. And as they walked:

“Sir Crispin,” she ventured timidly, “you are unhappy, are you not?”

Startled by her words and the tone of them, Galliard turned his head
that he might observe her.

“I, unhappy?” he laughed; and it was a laugh calculated to acknowledge
the fitness of her question, rather than to refute it as he intended.
“Am I a clown, Cynthia, to own myself unhappy at such a season and while
you honour me with your company?”

She made a wry face in protest that he fenced with her.

“You are happy, then?” she challenged him.

“What is happiness?” quoth he, much as Pilate may have questioned what
was truth. Then before she could reply he hastened to add: “I have not
been quite so happy these many years.”

“It is not of the present moment that I speak,” she answered
reprovingly, for she scented no more than a compliment in his words,
“but of your life.”

Now either was he imbued with a sense of modesty touching the deeds
of that life of his, or else did he wisely realize that no theme could
there be less suited to discourse upon with an innocent maid.

“Mistress Cynthia,” said he as though he had not heard her question, “I
would say a word to you concerning Kenneth.”

At that she turned upon him with a pout.

“But it is concerning yourself that I would have you talk. It is not
nice to disobey a lady. Besides, I have little interest in Master
Stewart.”

“To have little interest in a future husband augurs ill for the time
when he shall come to be your husband.”

“I thought that you, at least, understood me. Kenneth will never be
husband of mine, Sir Crispin.”

“Cynthia!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, lackaday! Am I to wed a doll?” she demanded. “Is he--is he a man a
maid may love, Sir Crispin?”

“Indeed, had you but seen the half of life that I have seen,” said he
unthinkingly, “it might amaze you what manner of man a maid may love--or
at least may marry. Come, Cynthia, what fault do you find with him?”

“Why, every fault.”

He laughed in unbelief.

“And whom are we to blame for all these faults that have turned you so
against him?”

“Whom?”

“Yourself, Cynthia. You use him ill, child. If his behaviour has been
extravagant, you are to blame. You are severe with him, and he, in his
rash endeavours to present himself in a guise that shall render him
commendable in your eyes, has overstepped discretion.”

“Has my father bidden you to tell me this?”

“Since when have I enjoyed your father's confidence to that degree? No,
no, Cynthia. I plead the boy's cause to you because--I know not because
of what.”

“It is ill to plead without knowing why. Let us forget the valiant
Kenneth. They tell me, Sir Crispin”--and she turned her glorious eyes
upon him in a manner that must have witched a statue into answering
her--“that in the Royal army you were known as the Tavern Knight.”

“They tell you truly. What of that?”

“Well, what of it? Do you blush at the very thought?”

“I blush?” He blinked, and his eyes were full of humour as they met her
grave--almost sorrowing glance. Then a full-hearted peal of laughter
broke from him, and scared a flight of gulls from the rocks of
Sheringham Hithe below.

“Oh, Cynthia! You'll kill me!” he gasped. “Picture to yourself this
Crispin Galliard blushing and giggling like a schoolgirl beset by her
first lover. Picture it, I say! As well and as easily might you picture
old Lucifer warbling a litany for the edification of a Nonconformist
parson.”

Her eyes were severe in their reproach.

“It is always so with you. You laugh and jest and make a mock of
everything. Such I doubt not has been your way from the commencement,
and 'tis thus that you are come to this condition.”

Again he laughed, but this time it was in bitterness.

“Nay, sweet mistress, you are wrong--you are very wrong; it was not
always thus. Time was--” He paused. “Bah! 'Tis the coward cries “time
was”! Leave me the past, Cynthia. It is dead, and of the dead we should
speak no ill,” he jested.

“What is there in your past?” she insisted, despite his words. “What
is there in it so to have warped a character that I am assured was
once--is, indeed, still--of lofty and noble purpose? What is it has
brought you to the level you occupy--you who were born to lead; you
who--”

“Have done, child. Have done,” he begged.

“Nay, tell me. Let us sit here.” And taking hold of his sleeve, she sat
herself upon a mound, and made room for him beside her on the grass.
With a half-laugh and a sigh he obeyed her, and there, on the cliff, in
the glow of the September sun, he took his seat at her side.

A silence prevailed about them, emphasized rather than broken by the
droning chant of a fisherman mending his nets on the beach below, the
intermittent plash of the waves on the shingle, and the scream of the
gulls that circled overhead. Before the eyes of his flesh was stretched
a wide desert of sky and water, and before the eyes of his mind the
hopeless desert of his thirty-eight years.

He was almost tempted to speak. The note of sympathy in her voice
allured him, and sympathy was to him as drink to one who perishes of
thirst. A passionate, indefinable longing impelled him to pour out the
story that in Worcester he had related unto Kenneth, and thus to set
himself better in her eyes; to have her realize indeed that if he was
come so low it was more the fault of others than his own. The temptation
drew him at a headlong pace, to be checked at last by the memory that
those others who had brought him to so sorry a condition were her own
people. The humour passed. He laughed softly, and shook his head.

“There is nothing that I can tell you, child. Let us rather talk of
Kenneth.”

“I do not wish to talk of Kenneth.”

“Nay, but you must. Willy-nilly must you. Think you it is only a
war-worn, hard-drinking, swashbuckling ruffler that can sin? Does it not
also occur to you that even a frail and tender little maid may do wrong
as well?”

“What wrong have I done?” she cried in consternation.

“A grievous wrong to this poor lad. Can you not realize how the only
desire that governs him is the laudable one of appearing favourably in
your eyes?”

“That desire gives rise, then, to curious manifestations.”

“He is mistaken in the means he adopts, that is all. In his heart his
one aim is to win your esteem, and, after all, it is the sentiment that
matters, not its manifestation. Why, then, are you unkind to him?”

“But I am not unkind. Or is it unkindness to let him see that I mislike
his capers? Would it not be vastly more unkind to ignore them and
encourage him to pursue their indulgence? I have no patience with him.”

“As for those capers, I am endeavouring to show you that you yourself
have driven him to them.”

“Sir Crispin,” she cried out, “you grow tiresome.”

“Aye,” said he, “I grow tiresome. I grow tiresome because I preach of
duty. Marry, it is in truth a tiresome topic.”

“How duty? Of what do you talk?” And a flush of incipient anger spread
now on her fair cheek.

“I will be clearer,” said he imperturbably. “This lad is your betrothed.
He is at heart a good lad, an honourable and honest lad--at times haply
over-honest and over-honourable; but let that be. To please a whim, a
caprice, you set yourself to flout him, as is the way of your sex when
you behold a man your utter slave. From this--being all unversed in
the obliquity of woman--he conceives, poor boy, that he no longer finds
favour in your eyes, and to win back this, the only thing that in the
world he values, he behaves foolishly. You flout him anew, and because
of it. He is as jealous with you as a hen with her brood.”

“Jealous?” echoed Cynthia.

“Why, yes, jealous; and so far does he go as to be jealous even of me,”
 he cried, with infinitely derisive relish. “Think of it--he is jealous
of me! Jealous of him they call the Tavern Knight!”

She did think of it as he bade her. And by thinking she stumbled upon a
discovery that left her breathless.

Strange how we may bear a sentiment in our hearts without so much as
suspecting its existence, until suddenly a chance word shall so urge it
into life that it reveals itself with unmistakable distinctness. With
her the revelation began in a vague wonder at the scorn with which
Crispin invested the notion that Kenneth should have cause for jealousy
on his score. Was it, she asked herself, so monstrously unnatural? Then
in a flash the answer came--and it was, that far from being a matter for
derision, such an attitude in Kenneth lacked not for foundation.

In that moment she knew that it was because of Crispin; because of this
man who spoke with such very scorn of self, that Kenneth had become in
her eyes so mean and unworthy a creature. Loved him she haply never had,
but leastways she had tolerated--been even flattered by--his wooing.
By contrasting him now with Crispin she had grown to despise him. His
weakness, his pusillanimity, his meannesses of soul, stood out in sharp
relief by contrast with the masterful strength and the high spirit of
Sir Crispin.

So easily may our ideals change that the very graces of face and form
that a while ago had pleased her in Kenneth, seemed now effeminate
attributes, well-attuned to a vacillating, purposeless mind. Far greater
beauty did her eyes behold in this grimfaced soldier of fortune; the
man as firm of purpose as he was upright of carriage; gloomy, proud, and
reckless; still young, yet past the callow age of adolescence. Since
the day of his coming to Castle Marleigh she had brought herself to look
upon him as a hero stepped from the romancers' tales that in secret she
had read. The mystery that seemed to envelop him; those hints at a past
that was not good--but the measure of whose evil in her pure innocence
she could not guess; his very melancholy, his misfortunes, and the deeds
she had heard assigned to him, all had served to fire her fancy and more
besides, although, until that moment, she knew it not.

Subconsciously all this had long dwelt in her mind. And now of a
sudden that self-deriding speech of Crispin's had made her aware of its
presence and its meaning.

She loved him. That men said his life had not been nice, that he was
a soldier of fortune, little better than an adventurer, a man of no
worldly weight, were matters of no moment then to her. She loved him.
She knew it now because he had mockingly bidden her to think whether
Kenneth had cause to be jealous of him, and because upon thinking of it,
she found that did Kenneth know what was in her heart, he must have more
than cause.


She loved him with that rare love that will urge a woman to the last
sacrifice a man may ask; a love that gives and gives, and seeks nothing
in return; that impels a woman to follow the man at his bidding, be his
way through the world cast in places never so rugged; cleaving to him
where all besides shall have abandoned him; and, however dire his lot,
asking of God no greater blessing than that of sharing it.

And to such a love as this Crispin was blind--blind to the very
possibility of its existence; so blind that he laughed to scorn the idea
of a puny milksop being jealous of him. And so, while she sat, her soul
all mastered by her discovery, her face white and still for very awe of
it, he to whom this wealth was given, pursued the odious task of wooing
her for another.

“You have observed--you must have observed this insensate jealousy,” he
was saying, “and how do you allay it? You do not. On the contrary, you
excite it at every turn. You are exciting it now by having--and I dare
swear for no other purpose--lured me to walk with you, to sit here with
you and preach your duty to you. And when, through jealousy, he shall
have flown to fresh absurdities, shall you regret your conduct and the
fruits it has borne? Shall you pity the lad, and by kindness induce him
to be wiser? No. You will mock and taunt him into yet worse displays.
And through these displays, which are--though you may not have bethought
you of it--of your own contriving, you will conclude that he is no fit
mate for you, and there will be heart-burnings, and years hence perhaps
another Tavern Knight, whose name will not be Crispin Galliard.”

She had listened with bent head; indeed, so deeply rapt by her
discovery, that she had but heard the half of what he said. Now, of a
sudden, she looked up, and meeting his glance:

“Is--is it a woman's fault that you are as you are?”

“No, it is not. But how does that concern the case of Kenneth?”

“It does not. I was but curious. I was not thinking of Kenneth.”

He stared at her, dumfounded. Had he been talking of Kenneth to her with
such eloquence and such fervour, that she should calmly tell him as he
paused that it was not of Kenneth she had been thinking?

“You will think of him, Cynthia?” he begged. “You will bethink you too
of what I have said, and by being kinder and more indulgent with this
youth you shall make him grow into a man you may take pride in. Deal
fairly with him, child, and if anon you find you cannot truly love him,
then tell him so. But tell him kindly and frankly, instead of using him
as you are doing.”

She was silent a moment, and in their poignancy her feelings went very
near to anger. Presently:

“I would, Sir Crispin, you could hear him talk of you,” said she.

“He talks ill, not a doubt of it, and like enough he has good cause.”

“Yet you saved his life.”

The words awoke Crispin, the philosopher of love, to realities. He
recalled the circumstances of his saving Kenneth, and the price the boy
was to pay for that service; and it suddenly came to him that it was
wasted breath to plead Kenneth's cause with Cynthia, when by his own
future actions he was, himself, more than likely to destroy the boy's
every hope of wedding her. The irony of his attitude smote him hard,
and he rose abruptly. The sun hung now a round, red globe upon the very
brink of the sea.

“Hereafter he may have little cause to thank me,” muttered he. “Come,
Mistress Cynthia, it grows late.”

She rose in mechanical obedience, and together they retraced their steps
in silence, save for the stray word exchanged at intervals touching
matters of no moment.

But he had not advocated Kenneth's cause in vain, for all that he little
recked what his real argument had been, what influences he had evoked
to urge her to make her peace with the lad. A melancholy listlessness of
mind possessed her now. Crispin did not see, never would see, what was
in her heart, and it might not be hers to show him. The life that might
have signified was not to be lived, and since that was so it seemed to
matter little what befell.

It was thus that when on the morrow her father returned to the subject,
she showed herself tractable and docile out of her indifference, and to
Gregory she appeared not averse to listen to what he had to advance
in the boy's favour. Anon Kenneth's own humble pleading, allied to his
contrite and sorrowful appearance, were received by her with that same
indifference, as also with indifference did she allow him later to kiss
her hand and assume the flattering belief that he was rehabilitated in
her favour.

But pale grew Mistress Cynthia's cheeks, and sad her soul. Wistful she
waxed, sighing at every turn, until it seemed to her--as haply it hath
seemed to many a maid--that all her life must she waste in vain sighs
over a man who gave no single thought to her.




CHAPTER XV. JOSEPH'S RETURN


On his side Kenneth strove hard during the days that followed to right
himself in her eyes. But so headlong was he in the attempt, and
so misguided, that presently he overshot his mark by dropping an
unflattering word concerning Crispin, whereby he attributed to the
Tavern Knight's influence and example the degenerate change that had of
late been wrought in him.

Cynthia's eyes grew hard as he spoke, and had he been wise he had better
served his cause by talking in another vein. But love and jealousy
had so addled what poor brains the Lord had bestowed upon him, that he
floundered on, unmindful of any warning that took not the blunt shape
of words. At length, however, she stemmed the flow of invective that his
lips poured forth.

“Have I not told you already, Kenneth, that it better becomes a
gentleman not to slander the man to whom he owes his life? In fact, that
a gentleman would scorn such an action?”

As he had protested before, so did he protest now, that what he had
uttered was no slander. And in his rage and mortification at the way she
used him, and for which he now bitterly upbraided her, he was very near
the point of tears, like the blubbering schoolboy that at heart he was.

“And as for the debt, madam,” he cried, striking the oaken table of the
hall with his clenched hand, “it is a debt that shall be paid, a debt
which this gentleman whom you defend would not permit me to contract
until I had promised payment--aye, 'fore George!--and with interest, for
in the payment I may risk my very life.”

“I see no interest in that, since you risk nothing more than what you
owe him,” she answered, with a disdain that brought the impending
tears to his eyes. But if he lacked the manliness to restrain them, he
possessed at least the shame to turn his back and hide them from her.
“But tell me, sir,” she added, her curiosity awakened, “if I am to
judge, what was the nature of this bargain?”

He was silent for a moment, and took a turn in the hall--mastering
himself to speak--his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes bent
towards the polished floor which the evening sunlight, filtered through
the gules of the leaded windows, splashed here and there with a crimson
stain. She sat in the great leathern chair at the head of the board,
and, watching him, waited.

He was debating whether he was bound to secrecy in the matter, and in
the end he resolved that he was not. Thereupon, pausing before her,
he succinctly told the story Crispin had related to him that night in
Worcester--the story of a great wrong, that none but a craven could have
left unavenged. He added nothing to it, subtracted nothing from it, but
told the tale as it had been told to him on that dreadful night, the
memory of which had still power to draw a shudder from him.

Cynthia sat with parted lips and eager eyes, drinking in that touching
narrative of suffering that was rather as some romancer's fabrication
than a true account of what a living man had undergone. Now with sorrow
and pity in her heart and countenance, now with anger and loathing, she
listened until he had done, and even when he ceased speaking, and flung
himself into the nearest chair, she sat on in silence for a spell.

Then of a sudden she turned a pair of flashing eyes upon the boy, and in
tones charged with a scorn ineffable:

“You dare,” she cried, “to speak of that man as you do, knowing all
this? Knowing what he has suffered, you dare to rail in his absence
against those sins to which his misfortunes have driven him? How, think
you, would it have fared with you, you fool, had you stood in the shoes
of this unfortunate? Had you fallen on your craven knees, and thanked
the Lord for allowing you to keep your miserable life? Had you succumbed
to the blows of fate with a whine of texts upon your lips? Who are you?”
 she went on, rising, breathless in her wrath, which caused him to recoil
in sheer affright before her. “Who are you, and what are you, that
knowing what you know of this man's life, you dare to sit in judgment
upon his actions and condemn them? Answer me, you fool!”

But never a word had he wherewith to meet that hail of angry,
contemptuous questions. The answer that had been so ready to his lips
that night at Worcester, when, in a milder form the Tavern Knight had
set him the same question, he dared not proffer now. The retort that Sir
Crispin had not cause enough in the evil of others, which had wrecked
his life, to risk the eternal damnation of his soul, he dared no longer
utter. Glibly enough had he said to that stern man that which he dared
not say now to this sterner beauty. Perhaps it was fear of her that
made him dumb, perhaps that at last he knew himself for what he was by
contrast with the man whose vices he had so heartily despised a while
ago.

Shrinking back before her anger, he racked his shallow mind in vain for
a fitting answer. But ere he had found one, a heavy step sounded in the
gallery that overlooked the hall, and a moment later Gregory Ashburn
descended. His face was ghastly white, and a heavy frown furrowed the
space betwixt his brows.

In the fleeting glance she bestowed upon her father, she remarked not
the disorder of his countenance; whilst as for Kenneth, he had enough to
hold his attention for the time.

Gregory's advent set an awkward constraint upon them, nor had he any
word to say as he came heavily up the hall.

At the lower end of the long table he paused, and resting his hand upon
the board, he seemed on the point of speaking when of a sudden a sound
reached him that caused him to draw a sharp breath; it was the rumble of
wheels and the crack of a whip.

“It is Joseph!” he cried, in a voice the relief of which was so marked
that Cynthia noticed it. And with that exclamation he flung past them,
and out through the doorway to meet his brother so opportunely returned.

He reached the terrace steps as the coach pulled up, and the lean figure
of Joseph Ashburn emerged from it.

“So, Gregory,” he grumbled for greeting, “it was on a fool's errand you
sent me, after all. That knave, your messenger, found me in London at
last when I had outworn my welcome at Whitehall. But, 'swounds, man,” he
cried, remarking the pallor, of his brother's face, “what ails thee?”

“I have news for you, Joseph,” answered Gregory, in a voice that shook.

“It is not Cynthia?” he inquired. “Nay, for there she stands-and her
pretty lover by her side. 'Slife, what a coxcomb the lad's grown.”

And with that he hastened forward to kiss his niece, and congratulate
Kenneth upon being restored to her.

“I heard of it, lad, in London,” quoth he, a leer upon his sallow
face--“the story of how a fire-eater named Galliard befriended you,
trussed a parson and a trooper, and dragged you out of jail a short hour
before hanging-time.”

Kenneth flushed. He felt the sneer in Joseph's, words like a stab. The
man's tone implied that another had done for him that which he would
not have dared do for himself, and Kenneth felt that this was so said in
Cynthia's presence with malicious, purpose.

He was right. Partly it was Joseph's way to be spiteful and venomous
whenever chance afforded him the opportunity. Partly he had been
particularly soured at present by his recent discomforts, suffered in a
cause wherewith he had no, sympathy--that of the union Gregory desired
'twixt Cynthia and Kenneth.

There was an evil smile on his thin lips, and his crooked eyes rested
tormentingly upon the young man. A fresh taunt trembled on his viperish
tongue, when Gregory plucked at the skirts of his coat, and drew him
aside. They entered the chamber where they had held their last interview
before Joseph had set out for news of Kenneth. With an air of mystery
Gregory closed the door, then turned to face his brother. He stayed him
in the act of unbuckling his sword-belt.

“Wait, Joseph!” he cried dramatically. “This is no time to disarm. Keep
your sword on your thigh, man; you will need it as you never yet have
needed it.” He paused, took a deep breath, and hurled the new

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