The Project Gutenberg EBook of The TavernKnight, by Rafael Sabatini

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Title: The Tavern Knight

Author: Rafael Sabatini

Release Date: February 28, 2009 [EBook#3030]Last Updated: January 9, 2013

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE TAVERN KNIGHT ***

Produced by Polly Stratton, and DavidWidger

THE TAVERNKNIGHT

By Rafael Sabatini

CONTENTS

THE TAVERN KNIGHT

CHAPTER I. ON THE MARCH

CHAPTER II. ARCADES AMBO

CHAPTER III. THE LETTER

CHAPTER IV. AT THE SIGNOF THE MITRE

CHAPTER V. AFTERWORCESTER FIELD

CHAPTER VI. COMPANIONSIN MISFORTUNE

CHAPTER VII. THE TAVERNKNIGHT'S STORY

CHAPTER VIII. THE TWISTEDBAR

CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN

CHAPTER X. THE ESCAPE

CHAPTER XI. THE ASHBURNS

CHAPTER XII. THE HOUSETHAT WAS ROLANDMARLEIGH'S

CHAPTER XIII. THEMETAMORPHOSIS OFKENNETH

CHAPTER XIV. THE HEARTOF CYNTHIA ASHBURN

CHAPTER XV. JOSEPH'SRETURN

CHAPTER XVI. THERECKONING

CHAPTER XVII. JOSEPHDRIVES A BARGAIN

CHAPTER XVIII. COUNTER-PLOT

CHAPTER XIX. THEINTERRUPTED JOURNEY

CHAPTER XX. THECONVERTED HOGAN

CHAPTER XXI. THE MESSAGEKENNETH BORE

CHAPTER XXII. SIR

CRISPIN'S UNDERTAKING

CHAPTER XXIII. GREGORY'SATTRITION

CHAPTER XXIV. THEWOOING OF CYNTHIA

CHAPTER XXV. CYNTHIA'SFLIGHT

CHAPTER XXVI. TO FRANCE

CHAPTER XXVII. THEAUBERGE DU SOLEIL

THE TAVERNKNIGHT

CHAPTER I. ON THEMARCH

He whom they called the Tavern Knightlaughed an evil laugh—such a laugh asmight fall from the lips of Satan in asardonic moment.

He sat within the halo of yellow lightshed by two tallow candles, whosesconces were two empty bottles, andcontemptuously he eyed the youth in black,standing with white face and quivering lipin a corner of the mean chamber. Then helaughed again, and in a hoarse voice,sorely suggestive of the bottle, he brokeinto song. He lay back in his chair, his

long, spare legs outstretched, his spursjingling to the lilt of his ditty whoseburden ran: On the lip so red of the wenchthat's sped His passionate kiss burns,still-O! For 'tis April time, and of loveand wine Youth's way is to take its fill-O! Down, down, derry-do!

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

The lad started forward with somethingakin to a shiver.

"Have done," he cried, in a voice of

loathing, "or, if croak you must, choose aditty less foul!"

"Eh?" The ruffler shook back the mattedhair from his lean, harsh face, and a pairof eyes that of a sudden seemed ablazeglared at his companion; then the lidsdrooped until those eyes became twonarrow slits—catlike and cunning—andagain he laughed.

"Gad's life, Master Stewart, you have atemerity that should save you from greyhairs! What is't to you what ditty my fancyseizes on? 'Swounds, man, for three wearymonths have I curbed my moods, and wornmy throat dry in praising the Lord; forthree months have I been a livingmonument of Covenanting zeal andgodliness; and now that at last I have

shaken the dust of your beggarly Scotlandfrom my heels, you—the veriest milksopthat ever ran tottering from its mother's lapwould chide me because, yon bottle beingdone, I sing to keep me from waxing sadin the contemplation of its emptiness!"

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

"When I joined Middleton's horse andaccepted service under you, I held you tobe at least a gentleman," was his daringrejoinder.

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

"Gentleman!" he mocked. "On my soul,that's good! And what may you know of

gentlemen, Sir Scot? Think you agentleman is a Jack Presbyter, or adroning 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 youthimpetuously. "Suffer me to leave you, SirCrispin, to your bottle, your croaking, andyour memories."

"Aye, go your ways, sir; you'd be sorrycompany for a dead man—the sorriestever my evil star led me into. The door isyonder, and should you chance to breakyour saintly neck on the stairs, it is like tobe well for both of us."

And with that Sir Crispin Galliard layback in his chair once more, and took up

the thread of his interrupted song But, heigh-o! she cried, at theChristmas-tide, That dead she would rather be-O! Pale and wan she crept out ofsight, and wept

'Tis a sorry—A loud knock that echoed ominously

through the mean chamber, fell in thatinstant upon the door. And with it came apanting cry of—

"Open, Cris! Open, for the love ofGod!"

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

"Well, my master," quoth Galliard, "forwhat do you wait?"

"To learn your wishes, sir," was theanswer sullenly delivered.

"My wishes! Rat me, there's onewithout whose wishes brook less waiting!Open, fool!"

Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted thelatch and set wide the door, which openedimmediately upon the street. Into theapartment stumbled a roughly clad man ofhuge frame. He was breathing hard, andfear was writ large upon his rugged face.An instant he paused to close the doorafter him, then turning to Galliard, whohad risen and who stood eyeing him inastonishment—

"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 Penrithover the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of mybody, 'twill be a short shrift they'll giveme. The King will serve me as poorWrycraft was served two days ago atKendal. Mother of Mercy!" he broke off,as his ear caught the clatter of feet and themurmur of voices from without. "Haveyou a hole I can creep into?"

"Up those stairs and into my room withyou!" said Crispin shortly. "I will try tohead them off. Come, man, stir yourself;they are here."

Then, as with nimble alacrity Hoganobeyed him and slipped from the room, heturned to the lad, who had been a silentspectator of what had passed. From thepocket of his threadbare doublet he drewa pack of greasy playing cards.

"To table," he said laconically.But the boy, comprehending what was

required of him, drew back at sight ofthose cards as one might shrink from athing 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 Presbyterianscruples? To table, and help a me playthis game, or, by the living God, I'll—"Without completing his threat he leanedforward until Kenneth felt his hot, wine-laden breath upon his cheek. Cowed byhis words, his gesture, and above all, hisglance, the lad drew up a chair, mumblingin explanation—intended as an excuse tohimself for his weakness—that hesubmitted since a man's life was at stake.

Opposite him Galliard resumed his seatwith a mocking smile that made himwince. Taking up the cards, he flung aportion of them to the boy, whilst those heretained he spread fanwise in his hand asif about to play. Silently Kenneth copiedhis actions.

Nearer and louder grew the sounds ofthe approach, lights flashed before thewindow, and the two men, feigning toplay, sat on and waited.

"Have a care, Master Stewart,"growled Crispin sourly, then in a loudervoice—for his quick eye had caught aglimpse of a face that watched them fromthe window—"I play the King of Spades!"he cried, with meaning look.

A blow was struck upon the door, andwith it came the command to "Open in theKing's name!" Softly Sir Crispin rappedout an oath. Then he rose, and with a lastlook of warning to Kenneth, he went toopen. And as he had greeted Hogan henow greeted the crowd mainly of soldiers—that surged about the threshold.

"Sirs, why this ado? Hath the SultanOliver descended upon us?"

In one hand he still held his cards, theother he rested upon the edge of the opendoor. It was a young ensign who stoodforward to answer him.

"One of Lord Middleton's officers hathdone a man to death not half an houragone; he is an Irishman Captain Hogan byname."

"Hogan—Hogan?" repeated Crispin,after the manner of one who fumbles in hismemory. "Ah, yes—an Irishman with agrey head and a hot temper. And he isdead, 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 briskertone: "I thank you for bringing me thisnews," said he, "and I regret that in mypoor house there be naught I can offer youwherein to drink His Majesty's health ereyou proceed upon your search. Give yougood night, sir." And by drawing back apace he signified his wish to close thedoor and be quit of them.

"We thought," faltered the youngofficer, "that—that perchance you wouldassist us by—"

"Assist you!" roared Crispin, with afine assumption of anger. "Assist you takea man? Sink me, sir, I would have youknow I am a soldier, not a tipstaff!"

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

"There are some, Sir Crispin, that haveyet another name for you."

"Like enough—when I am not by,"sneered Crispin. "The world is full of foultongues in craven heads. But, sirs, thenight air is chill and you are comeinopportunely, for, as you'll perceive, Iwas at play. Haply you'll suffer me toclose the door."

"A moment, Sir Crispin. We mustsearch this house. He is believed to havecome this way."

Crispin yawned. "I will spare you thetrouble. You may take it from me that hecould not be here without my knowledge. Ihave 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 bettersatisfaction can I afford you than myword? 'Swounds, sir jackanapes," headded, in a roar that sent the lieutenantback a pace as though he had been struck,"am I to take it that your errand is atrumped-up business to affront me? Firstyou invite me to turn tipstaff, then you addyour cursed innuendoes of what peoplesay of me, and now you end by doubtingme! You must satisfy yourself!" hethundered, 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 seemlyfashion you had found my door thrownwide in welcome, and I had received youcourteously. As it is, sir, the cause forcomplaint is on my side, and complain Iwill. We shall see whether the Kingpermits an old soldier who has followedthe fortunes of his family these eighteenyears to be flouted by a malapert bantamof yesterday's brood!"

The subaltern paused in dismay. Somedemur there was in the gathered crowd.

Then the officer fell back a pace, andconsulted an elderly trooper at his elbow.The trooper was of opinion that thefugitive must have gone farther. Moreover,he could not think, from what Sir Crispinhad said, that it would have been possiblefor Hogan to have entered the house. Withthis, and realizing that much trouble andpossible loss of time must result from SirCrispin's obstinacy, did they attempt toforce a way into the house, and bethinkinghimself, also, maybe, how well thisrascally ruffler stood with LordMiddleton, the ensign determined towithdraw, and to seek elsewhere.

And so he took his leave with avenomous glance, and a parting threat tobring the matter to the King's ears, uponwhich Galliard slammed the door before

he had finished.There was a curious smile on Crispin's

face as he walked slowly to the table, andresumed his seat.

"Master Stewart," he whispered, as hespread his cards anew, "the comedy is notyet played out. There is a face glued to thewindow at this moment, and I make littledoubt that for the next hour or so we shallbe spied upon. That pretty fellow wasborn to be a thief-taker."

The boy turned a glance of sour reproofupon his companion. He had not stirredfrom his chair while Crispin had been atthe 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 yourdelicate soul by suggesting a falsehood inyour presence. To-night we have a man'slife to save, and that, I think, is workenough. Come, Master Stewart, we arebeing watched. Let us resume our game."

His eye, fixed in cold command uponthe boy, compelled obedience. And thelad, more out of awe of that glance thanout of any desire to contribute to thesaving of Hogan, mutely consented to keepup this pretence. But in his soul herebelled. He had been reared in anatmosphere of honourable and religiousbigotry. Hogan was to him a coarseruffler; an evil man of the sword; such aman as he abhorred and accounted adisgrace to any army—particularly to an

army launched upon England under theauspices of the Solemn League andCovenant.

Hogan had been guilty of an act ofbrutality; he had killed a man; and Kennethdeemed himself little better, since heassisted in harbouring instead ofdiscovering him, as he held to be his duty.But 'neath the suasion of Galliard'sinexorable eye he sat limp and docile,vowing to himself that on the morrow hewould lay the matter before LordMiddleton, and thus not only endeavour tomake amends for his present guiltysilence, but rid himself also of thecompanionship of this ruffianly SirCrispin, to whom no doubt a hempenjustice would be meted.

Meanwhile, he sat on and left hiscompanion's occasional salliesunanswered. In the street men stirred andlanthorns gleamed fitfully, whilst ever andanon a face surmounted by a morionwould be pressed against the leaded panesof the window.

Thus an hour wore itself out duringwhich poor Hogan sat above, alone withhis anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.

CHAPTER II.ARCADES AMBO

Towards midnight at last Sir Crispinflung down his cards and rose. It wasclose upon an hour and a half sinceHogan's advent. In the streets the soundshad gradually died down, and peaceseemed to reign again in Penrith. Yet wasSir Crispin cautious—for to be cautiousand mistrustful of appearances was thelesson life had taught him.

"Master Stewart," said he, "it growslate, 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, myfriend. Give you good night. Take one ofthose noisome tapers with you, and go."

In sullen silence the boy took up one ofthe candle-bearing bottles and passed outthrough the door leading to the stairs.

For a moment Crispin remainedstanding by the table, and in that momentthe expression of his face was softened. Amomentary regret of his treatment of theboy stirred in him. Master Stewart mightbe a milksop, but Crispin accounted himleastways honest, and had a kindness forhim in spite of all. He crossed to the

window, and throwing it wide he leanedout, as if to breathe the cool night air,what time he hummed the refrain of `Rub-a-dub-dub' for the edification of anychance listeners.

For a half-hour he lingered there, andfor all that he used the occasion to let hismind stray over many a theme, his eyeswere alert for the least movement amongthe shadows of the street. Reassured atlast that the house was no longer beingwatched, he drew back, and closed thelattice.

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

"Soul of my body!" cried Hoganruefully, "I was never nearer being afraidin my life."

Crispin laughed softly for answer, andbesought of him the tale of what hadpassed.

"Tis simple enough, faith," said Hogancoolly. "The landlord of The Angel hath adaughter maybe 'twas after her he namedhis inn—who owns a pair of the mostseductive eyes that ever a man sawperdition in. She hath, moreover, a tastefor dalliance, and my brave looks andmartial trappings did for her what herbold eyes had done for me. We werebecoming the sweetest friends, when, likean incarnate fiend, that loutish clown, herlover, sweeps down upon us, and, withmore jealousy than wit, struck me—struckme, Harry Hogan! Soul of my body, thinkof it, Cris!" And he grew red with anger atthe recollection. "I took him by the collar

of his mean smock and flung him into thekennel—the fittest bed he ever lay in. Hadhe remained there it had been well forhim; but the fool, accounting himselfaffronted, came up to demand satisfaction.I gave it him, and plague on it—he'sdead!"

"An ugly tale," was Crispin's sourcomment.

"Ugly, maybe," returned Hogan,spreading out his palms, "but what choicehad 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 wasbad, and my point went through his chestinstead."

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

"Well, well—since he's dead, there's anend to it."

"Heaven rest his soul!" muttered theIrishman, crossing himself piously. Andwith that he dismissed the subject of thegreat wrong that through folly he hadwrought—the wanton destruction of aman's life, and the poisoning of a woman'swith a remorse that might be everlasting.

"It will tax our wits to get you out ofPenrith," said Crispin. Then, turning andlooking 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 mytaste. Bah! Charles Stuart or OliverCromwell, 'tis all one to me. What care Iwhether King or Commonwealth prevail?Shall Harry Hogan be the better or thericher under one than under the other?Oddslife, Cris, I have trailed a pike orhandled a sword in well-nigh every armyin Europe. I know more of the great art ofwar than all the King's generals rolled intoone. Think you, then, I can rest contentwith a miserable company of horse whenplunder is forbidden, and even ourbeggarly pay doubtful? Whilst, shouldthings go ill—as well they may, faith, withan army ruled by parsons—the wage willbe a swift death on field or gallows, or alingering one in the plantations, as fell tothe lot of those poor wretches Noll drove

into England after Dunbar. Soul of mybody, it is not thus that I had looked to farewhen I took service at Perth. I had lookedfor plunder, rich and plentiful plunder,according to the usages of warfare, as afitting reward for a toilsome march andthe perils gone through.

"Thus I know war, and for this have Ifollowed the trade these twenty years.Instead, we have thirty thousand men,marching to battle as prim and orderly asa parcel of acolytes in a Corpus-Christiprocession. 'Twas not so bad in Scotlandhaply because the country holds naught aman may profitably plunder—but since wehave crossed the Border, 'slife, they'llhang you if you steal so much as a kissfrom a wench in passing."

"Why, true," laughed Crispin, "theSecond Charles hath an over-tenderstomach. He will not allow that we aremarching through an enemy's country; heinsists 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 timesare sorely changed since we followed thefortunes of the Martyr. In those days youmight help yourself to a capon, a horse, awench, or any other trifle of the enemy's,without ever a word of censure or aquestion asked. Why, man, it is but twodays since His Majesty had a poor devilhanged at Kendal for laying violent handsupon a pullet. Pox on it, Cris, my gorgerises at the thought! When I saw that

wretch strung up, I swore to fall behind atthe earliest opportunity, and to-night'saffair makes this imperative."

"And what may your plans be?" askedCrispin.

"War is my trade, not a diversion, as itis with Wilmot and Buckingham and theother pretty gentlemen of our train. Andsince the King's army is like to yield meno profit, faith, I'll turn me to theParliament's. If I get out of Penrith withmy life, I'll shave my beard and cut myhair to a comely and godly length; don acuckoldy steeple hat and a black coat, andcarry my sword to Cromwell with a lineof text."

Sir Crispin fell to pondering. Notingthis, and imagining that he guessed aright

the reason:"I take it, Cris," he put in, keenly

glancing at the other, "that you are much ofmy mind?"

"Maybe I am," replied Crispincarelessly.

"Why, then," cried Hogan, "need wepart company?"

There was a sudden eagerness in histone, born of the admiration in which thisrough soldier of fortune held one whom heaccounted his better in that same harshtrade. 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. Inhis victory alone lies profit for me; not theprofit of pillage, Hogan, but the profit ofthose broad lands that for nigh upontwenty years have been in usurping hands.The profit I look for, Hogan, is myrestoration to Castle Marleigh, and of thismy only hope lies in the restoration ofKing Charles. If the King doth not prevail—which God forfend!—why, then, I canbut die. I shall have naught left to hope forfrom life. So you see, good Hogan," heended with a regretful smile, "my goingwith you is not to be dreamed of."

Still the Irishman urged him, and a goodhalf-hour did he devote to it, but in vain.Realizing at last the futility of hisendeavours, he sighed and moved uneasilyin his chair, whilst the broad, tanned face

was clouded with regret. Crispin saw this,and approaching him, he laid a hand uponhis shoulder.

"I had counted upon your help to clearthe Ashburns from Castle Marleigh and toaid me in my grim work when the time isripe. But if you go—"

"Faith, I may aid you yet. Who shallsay?" Then of a sudden there crept into thevoice of this hardened pike-trader a noteof soft concern. "Think you there bedanger to yourself in remaining?" heinquired.

"Danger? To me?" echoed Crispin."Aye—for having harboured me. That

whelp of Montgomery's Foot suspectsyou."

"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 thereforesilence, lest he set a noose about his ownneck. 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 inCromwell's camp. Heaven prosper andreward you, Cris."

"We must find you clothes more fittingthan these—a coat more staid and betterattuned to the Puritan part you are to play."

"Where have you such a coat?"

"My lieutenant has. He affects the godlyblack, from a habit taken in thatPresbyterian 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 thatKenneth had worn that day, and which hehad abstracted from the sleeping lad'schamber.

"Off with your doublet," hecommanded, and as he spoke he sethimself to empty the pocket of Kenneth'sgarment; a handkerchief and a few papershe found in them, and these he tossedcarelessly on the bed. Next he assisted theIrishman to struggle into the stolen coat.

"May the Lord forgive my sins,"groaned Hogan, as he felt the clothstraining upon his back and cramping hislimbs. "May He forgive me, and see mesafely out of Penrith and into Cromwell'scamp, and never again will I resent theresentment of a clown whose sweetheart Ihave made too free with."

"Pluck that feather from your hat," saidCrispin.

Hogan obeyed him with a sigh."Truly it is written in Scripture that man

in his time plays many parts. Who wouldhave thought to see Harry Hogan playingthe Puritan?"

"Unless you improve your acquaintancewith Scripture you are not like to play itlong," 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 sotight nor so short but that it may bepreferred to a winding-sheet, and that isthe alternative, Harry."

Hogan replied by roundly cursing thecoat and his own lucklessness. That done—and in no measured terms—hepronounced himself ready to set out,whereupon Crispin led the way belowonce more, and out into a hut that didservice as a stable.

By the light of a lanthorn he saddledone of the two nags that stood there, andled it into the yard. Opening the door thatabutted on to a field beyond, he badeHogan mount. He held his stirrup for him,

and cutting short the Irishman's volubleexpressions of gratitude, he gave him"God speed," and urged him to use alldispatch in setting as great a distance aspossible betwixt himself and Penrithbefore the dawn.

CHAPTER III. THELETTER

It was with a countenance sadlydejected that Crispin returned to hischamber and sate himself wearily upon thebed. With elbows on his knees and chin inhis palms he stared straight before him,the usual steely brightness of his grey eyesdulled by the despondency that sat uponhis face and drew deep furrows down hisfine brow.

With a sigh he rose at last and idlyfingered the papers he had taken from thepocket of Kenneth's coat. As he did so hisglance was arrested by the signature at the

foot of one. "Gregory Ashburn" was thename he read.

Ashen grew his cheeks as his eyesfastened upon that name, whilst the hand,to which no peril ever brought a tremor,shook now like an aspen. Feverishly hespread the letter on his knee, and with aglance, from dull that it had been, grownof a sudden fierce and cruel, he read thecontents.

DEAR KENNETH,Again I write in the hope that I may

prevail upon you to quit Scotland and yourattachment to a king, whose fortunesprosper not, nor can prosper. Cynthia ispining, and if you tarry longer from CastleMarleigh she must perforce think you but alaggard lover. Than this I have no more

powerful argument wherewith to draw youfrom Perth to Sheringham, but this I thinkshould prevail where others have failedme. We await you then, and whilst wewait we daily drink your health. Cynthiacommends herself to your memory as dothmy brother, and soon we hope to welcomeyou at Castle Marleigh. Believe, my dearKenneth, that whilst I am, I am yours inaffection. GREGORY ASHBURN

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

Here indeed was a strange chance! Thisboy whom he had met at Perth, andenrolled in his company, was a friend ofAshburn's—the lover of Cynthia. Who

might this Cynthia be?Long and deep were his ponderings

upon the unfathomable ways of Fate—forFate he now believed was here at work tohelp him, revealing herself by means ofthis sign even at the very moment when hedecried his luck. In memory he reviewedhis meeting with the lad in the yard ofPerth Castle a fortnight ago. Something inthe boy's bearing, in his air, had caughtCrispin's eye. He had looked him over,then approached, and bluntly asked hisname and on what business he was comethere. The youth had answered him civillyenough that he was Kenneth Stewart ofBailienochy, and that he was come to offerhis sword to the King. Thereupon he hadinterested himself in the lad's behalf andhad gained him a lieutenancy in his own

company. Why he was attracted to a youthon whom never before had he set eyeswas a matter that puzzled him not a little.Now he held, he thought, the explanationof it. It was the way of Fate.

This boy was sent into his life by aHeaven that at last showed compassionfor the deep wrongs he had suffered; senthim as a key wherewith, should the needoccur, to open him the gates of CastleMarleigh.

In long strides he paced the chamber,turning the matter over in his mind. Aye,he would use the lad should the needarise. Why scruple? Had he ever receivedaught but disdain and scorn at the hands ofKenneth.

Day was breaking ere he sought his

bed, and already the sun was up when atlength he fell into a troubled sleep,vowing that he would mend his wild waysand seek to gain the boy's favour againstthe time when he might have need of him.

When later he restored the papers toKenneth, explaining to what use he had putthe coat, he refrained from questioninghim concerning Gregory Ashburn. Thedocility of his mood on that occasioncame as a surprise to Kenneth, who set itdown to Sir Crispin's desire to conciliatehim into silence touching the harbouring ofHogan. In that same connexion Crispinshowed him calmly and clearly that hecould not now inform without involvinghimself to an equally dangerous extent.And partly through the fear of this, partlywon 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 foundhis roystering companion singularly meekand kindly. Indeed he seemed a differentman. His old swagger and roaring blusterdisappeared; he drank less, diced less,blasphemed less, and stormed less than inthe old days before the halt at Penrith; butrode, a silent, thoughtful figure, so self-contained and of so godly a mien as wouldhave rejoiced the heart of the sourestPuritan. The wild tantivy boy hadvanished, and the sobriquet of "TavernKnight" was fast becoming a misnomer.

Kenneth felt drawn more towards him,deeming him a penitent that had seen atlast the error of his ways. And thus things

prevailed until the almost triumphal entryinto the city of Worcester on the twenty-third of August.

CHAPTER IV. ATTHE SIGN OF THE

MITREFor a week after the coming of the King

to Worcester, Crispin's relations withKenneth steadily improved. By an evilchance, however, there befell on the eveof the battle that which renewed withheightened intensity the enmity which thelad had fostered for him, but which latelyhe had almost overcome.

The scene of this happening—leastwaysof that which led to it—was The MitreInn, in the High Street of Worcester.

In the common-room one day sat asmerry a company of carousers as evergladdened the soul of an old tantivy boy.Youthful ensigns of Lesley's Scottishhorse—caring never a fig for the SolemnLeague and Covenant—rubbed shoulderswith beribboned Cavaliers of LordTalbot's company; gay young lairds ofPitscottie's Highlanders, unmindful of theKirk's harsh commandments of sobriety,sat cheek by jowl with rakehelly officersof Dalzell's Brigade, and pledged the Kingin many a stoup of canary and many a canof stout March ale.

On every hand spirits ran high andlaughter filled the chamber, the mirth ofsome having its source in a neighbour'squip, that of others having no source at allsave in the wine they had taken.

At one table sat a gentleman of the nameof Faversham, who had ridden on theprevious night in that ill-fated camisadothat should have resulted in the capture ofCromwell at Spetchley, but which, owingto a betrayal—when was a Stuart notbetrayed and sold?—miscarried. He wasrelating to the group about him the detailsof that disaster.

"Oddslife, gentlemen," he wasexclaiming, "I tell you that, but for thatroaring dog, Sir Crispin Galliard, thewhole of Middleton's regiment had beencut to pieces. There we stood on Red Hill,trapped as ever fish in a net, with thewhole of Lilburne's men rising out of theground to enclose and destroy us. A livingwall of steel it was, and on every hand thecall to surrender. There was dismay in my

heart, as I'll swear there was dismay in theheart of every man of us, and I make littledoubt, gentlemen, that with but scantpressing we had thrown down our arms,so disheartened were we by that ambush.Then of a sudden there arose above theclatter of steel and Puritan cries, a loud,clear, defiant shout of 'Hey forCavaliers!'"

"I turned, and there in his stirrups stoodthat madman Galliard, waving his swordand holding his company together with thepower of his will, his courage, and hisvoice. The sight of him was like wine toour blood. 'Into them, gentlemen; followme!' he roared. And then, with a hurricaneof oaths, he hurled his company against thepike-men. The blow was irresistible, andabove the din of it came that voice of his

again: 'Up, Cavaliers! Slash the cuckoldsto ribbons, gentlemen!' The cropears gaveway, and like a river that has burst itsdam, we poured through the opening intheir ranks and headed back forWorcester."

There was a roar of voices asFaversham ended, and around that table"The Tavern Knight" was for someminutes the only toast.

Meanwhile half a dozen merry-makersat a table hard by, having drunkthemselves out of all sense of fitness,were occupied in baiting a pale-faced lad,sombrely attired, who seemed sadly out ofplace in that wild company—indeed, hehad been better advised to have avoidedit.

The matter had been set afoot by apleasantry of Ensign Tyler's, of Massey'sdragoons, with a playful allusion to aletter in a feminine hand which Kennethhad let fall, and which Tyler had restoredto him. Quip had followed quip until intheir jests they transcended all bounds.Livid with passion and unable to enduremore, Kenneth had sprung up.

"Damnation!" he blazed, bringing hisclenched hand down upon the table. "Onemore of your foul jests and he that utters itshall answer to me!"

The suddenness of his action and thefierceness of his tone and gesture—afierceness so grotesquely ill-attuned to hisslender frame and clerkly attire left thecompany for a moment speechless with

amazement. Then a mighty burst oflaughter greeted him, above whichsounded the shrill voice of Tyler, whoheld his sides, and down whose crimsoncheeks two tears of mirth were trickling.

"Oh, fie, fie, good Master Stewart!" hegasped. "What think you would thereverend elders say to this bellicoseattitude and this profane tongue of yours?"

"And what think you would the Kingsay to this drunken poltroonery of yours?"was the hot unguarded answer."Poltroonery, I say," he repeated,embracing the whole company in hisglance.

The laughter died down as Kenneth'sinsult 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 thembore down upon him.

It was a vile thing they did, perhaps; butthen they had drunk deep, and KennethStewart counted no friend amongst them.In an instant they had him, kicking andbiting, on the floor; his doublet was tornrudely open, and from his breast Tylerplucked the letter whose existence had ledto this shameless scene.

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

"Hold!"Pausing, they turned to confront a tall,

gaunt man in a leather jerkin and a broadhat decked by goose-quill, who cameslowly forward.

"The Tavern Knight," cried one, and theshout of "A rouse for the hero of RedHill!" was taken up on every hand. Fordespite his sour visage and ungraciousways there was not a roysterer in theRoyal army to whom he was not dear.

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

"Give me that letter," he demandedsternly of Tyler.

Taken aback, Tyler hesitated for asecond, whilst Crispin waited with handoutstretched. Vainly did he look round forsign or word of help or counsel. Nonewas 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 withGalliard, Tyler with an ill gracesurrendered the paper; and, with apleasant bow and a word of thanks,delivered with never so slight a saturninesmile, Crispin turned on his heel and leftthe tavern as abruptly as he had entered it.

The din it was that had attracted him ashe passed by on his way to the EpiscopalPalace where a part of his company wason guard duty. Thither he now pursued hisway, bearing with him the letter which soopportunely he had become possessed of,and which he hoped might throw furtherlight upon Kenneth's relations with theAshburns.

But as he reached the palace there wasa 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'shand took him by the sleeve.

"Sir Crispin," said he, "I came to thankyou."

"I have done nothing to deserve yourthanks. Give you good evening." And hemade shift to mount the steps when againKenneth detained him.

"You are forgetting the letter, SirCrispin," he ventured, and he held out hishand to receive it.

Galliard saw the gesture, and for amoment it crossed his mind in self-reproach that the part he chose to play wasthat of a bully. A second he hesitated.Should he surrender the letter unread, and

fight on without the aid of the informationit might bring him? Then the thought ofAshburn and of his own deep wrongs thatcried out for vengeance, overcame andstifled the generous impulse. His mannergrew yet more frozen as he made answer:

"There has been too much ado aboutthis letter to warrant my so lightly partingwith it. First I will satisfy myself that Ihave been no unconscious abettor oftreason. You shall have your lettertomorrow, Master Stewart."

"Treason!" echoed Kenneth. And beforethat cold rebuff of Crispin's his moodchanged from conciliatory to resentful—resentful towards the fates that made himthis man's debtor.

"I assure you, on my honour," said he,

mastering his feelings, "that this is but aletter from the lady I hope to make mywife. Assuredly, sir, you will not nowinsist 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 voicequavering with passion, "while I live youshall not read that letter!"

"Hoity-toity, sir! What words! Whatheroics! And yet you would have mebelieve 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 abeseeching key, "when again I swear thatit is no more than such a letter any maidmay write her lover. I thought that you hadunderstood all this when you rescued mefrom those bullies at The Mitre. I thoughtthat what you did was a noble andgenerous deed. Instead—" The ladpaused.

"Continue, sir," Galliard requestedcoldly. "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 sadlywarped, alas!—cried out within him

against the lie that he was acting bypretending to suspect treason in thatwoman's pothooks. Instincts of gentilityand generosity long dead took life again,resuscitated by that call of conscience. Hewas conquered.

"There, take your letter, boy, and plagueme no more," he growled, as he held it outto Kenneth. And without waiting for replyor acknowledgment, he turned on his heel,and entered the palace. But he had yieldedoverlate to leave a good impression and,as Kenneth turned away, it was with acurse upon Galliard, for whom hisdetestation seemed to increase at everystep.

CHAPTER V. AFTERWORCESTER FIELD

The morn of the third of September—that date so propitious to Cromwell, sodisastrous to Charles—found Crispin thecentre of a company of gentlemen inbattle-harness, assembled at The MitreInn. For a toast he gave them "Thedamnation of all crop-ears."

"Sirs," quoth he, "a fair beginning to afair day. God send the evening find us asmerry."

It was not to be his good fortune,however, to be in the earlier work of the

day. Until afternoon he was kept withinthe walls of Worcester, chafing to bewhere hard knocks were being dealt—with Montgomery at Powick Bridge, orwith Pittscottie on Bunn's Hill. But he wasforced to hold his mood in curb, and waituntil Charles and his advisers should electto make the general attack.

It came at last, and with it came thedisastrous news that Montgomery wasrouted, and Pittscottie in full retreat,whilst Dalzell had surrendered, and Keithwas taken. Then was it that the main bodyof the Royal army formed up at theSidbury Gate, and Crispin found himselfin the centre, which was commanded bythe King in person. In the brilliant chargethat followed there was no moreconspicuous figure, no voice rang louder

in encouragement to the men. For the firsttime that day Cromwell's Ironsides gaveback before the Royalists, who in thatfierce, irresistible charge, swept allbefore them until they had reached thebattery on Perry Wood, and driven theRoundheads from it hell-to-leather.

It was a glorious moment, a moment inwhich the fortunes of the day hung in thebalance; the turn of the tide it seemed tothem at last.

Crispin was among the first to reach theguns, and with a great shout of "Hurrah forCavaliers!" he had cut down two gunnersthat yet lingered. His cry lacked not anecho, and a deafening cheer broke uponthe clamorous air as the Royalists foundthemselves masters of the position. Up the

hill on either side pressed the Duke ofHamilton and the Earl of Derby to supportthe King. It but remained for Lesley'sScottish horse to follow and complete therout of the Parliamentarian forces. Hadthey moved at that supreme moment whoshall say what had been the issue ofWorcester field? But they never stirred,and the Royalists waiting on Perry Woodcursed Lesley for a foul traitor who hadsold his King.

With bitterness did they then realize thattheir great effort was to be barren, theirgallant charge in vain. Unsupported, theirposition grew fast untenable.

And presently, when Cromwell hadgathered his scattered Ironsides, thatgallant host was driven fighting, down the

hill and back to the shelter of Worcester.With the Roundheads pressing hotly uponthem they gained at last the Sidbury Gate,but only to find that an overset ammunitionwagon blocked the entrance. In this plight,and without attempting to move it, theyfaced about to make a last stand againstthe Puritan onslaught.

Charles had flung himself from hischarger and climbed the obstruction, andin this he was presently followed byothers, amongst whom was Crispin.

In the High Street Galliard came uponthe King, mounted on a fresh horse,addressing a Scottish regiment of foot.The soldiers had thrown down their armsand stood sullenly before him, refusing toobey his command to take them up again

and help him attempt, even at that latehour, to retrieve the fortunes of the day.Crispin looked on in scorn and loathing.His passions awakened at the sight ofLesley's inaction needed but this lastbreath to fan it into a very blaze of wrath.And what he said to them touchingthemselves, their country, and the KirkCommittee that had made sheep of them,was so bitter and contemptuous that nonebut men in the most parlous and pitiable ofconditions could have suffered it.

He was still hurling vituperations atthem when Colonel Pride with a troop ofParliamentarian horse—havingcompletely overcome the resistance at theSidbury Gate—rode into the town. At thenews of this, Crispin made a last appeal tothe infantry.

"Afoot, you Scottish curs!" hethundered. "Would you rather be cut topieces as you stand? Up, you dogs, andsince you know not how to live, die atleast without shame!"

But in vain did he rail. In sullen quietthey remained, their weapons on theground before them. And then, as Crispinwas turning away to see to his own safety,the King rode up again, and again hesought to revive the courage that was deadin those Scottish hearts. If they would notstand by him, he cried at last, let them slayhim there, sooner than that he should betaken captive to perish on the scaffold.

While he was still urging them, Crispinunceremoniously seized his bridle.

"Will you stand here until you are taken,

sire?" he cried. "Leave them, and look toyour safety."

Charles turned a wondering eye uponthe resolute, battle-grimed face of the manthat thus addressed him. A faint, sad smileparted his lips.

"You are right, sir," he made answer."Attend me." And turning about he rodedown a side street with Galliardfollowing closely in his wake.

With the intention of doffing his armourand changing his apparel, he made for thehouse in New Street where he had beenresiding. As they drew up before the door,Crispin, chancing to look over hisshoulder, rapped out an oath.

"Hasten, sire," he exclaimed, "here is aportion of Colonel's Pride's troop."

The King looked round, and at sight ofthe Parliamentarians, "It is ended," hemuttered despairingly. But already Crispinhad sprung from his horse.

"Dismount, sire," he roared, and heassisted him so vigorously as to appear todrag him out of the saddle.

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

But Crispin's quick mind had alreadyshaped a plan. Seizing the royal arm—forwho in such straits would dealceremoniously?—he thrust the Kingacross the threshold, and, following,closed the door and shot its only bolt. Butthe shout set up by the Puritans announcedto them that their movement had been

detected.The King turned upon Sir Crispin, and

in the half-light of the passage whereinthey stood Galliard made out the frownthat bent the royal brows.

"And now?" demanded Charles, a notealmost of reproach in his voice.

"And now begone, sire," returned theknight. "Begone ere they come."

"Begone?" echoed Charles, inamazement. "But whither, sir? Whitherand how?"

His last words were almost drowned inthe din without, as the Roundheads pulledup before the house.

"By the back, sire," was the impatientanswer. "Through door or window—asbest you can. The back must overlook the

Corn-Market; that is your way. But hasten—in God's name hasten!—ere they bethinkthem of it and cut off your retreat."

As he spoke a violent blow shook thedoor.

"Quick, Your Majesty," he implored, ina frenzy.

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

Crispin stamped his foot, and turned aface livid with impatience upon his King.In that moment all distinction of rank layforgotten.

"I must remain," he answered, speakingquickly. "That crazy door will not hold fora second once a stout man sets hisshoulder to it. After the door they will findme, and for your sake I trust I may prove

of stouter stuff. Fare you well, sire," heended in a softer tone. "God guard YourMajesty and send you happier days."

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

A shower of blows clattered upon thetimbers of the door, and one of its panelswas splintered by a musket-shot. Charlessaw it, and with a muttered word that wasnot caught by Crispin, he obeyed theknight, and fled.

Scarce had he disappeared down thatnarrow passage, when the door gave waycompletely and with a mighty crash fell in.Over the ruins of it sprang a youngPuritan-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 himpause.

"Halt! You cannot pass this way.""Back, son of Moab!" was the

Roundhead's retort. "Hinder me not, atyour peril."

Behind him, in the doorway, pressedothers, who cried out to him to cut downthe Amalekite that stood between them andthe young man Charles Stuart. But Crispinlaughed grimly for answer, and kept theofficer in check with his point.

"Back, or I cut you down," threatenedthe Roundhead. "I am seeking themalignant Stuart."

"If by those blasphemous words youmean his sacred Majesty, learn that he iswhere 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; thenCrispin's blade darted out, swift as alightning flash, and took his opponent inthe throat.

"You would have it so, rash fool," hedeprecated.

The boy hurtled back into the arms ofthose behind, and as he fell he dropped hisrapier, which rolled almost to Crispin'sfeet. The knight stooped, and when againhe stood erect, confronting the rebels inthat narrow passage, he held a sword ineither hand.

There was a momentary pause in the

onslaught, then to his dismay Crispin sawthe barrel of a musket pointed at him overthe shoulder of one of his foremostassailants. He set his teeth for what was tocome, and braced himself with the hopethat the King might already have madegood his escape.

The end was at hand, he thought, and afitting end, since his last hope of redresswas gone-destroyed by that fatal day'sdefeat.

But of a sudden a cry rang out in avoice wherein rage and anguish wereblended fearfully, and simultaneously themusket barrel was dashed aside.

"Take him alive!" was the cry of thatvoice. "Take him alive!" It was ColonelPride himself, who having pushed his way

forward, now beheld the bleeding body ofthe youth Crispin had slain. "Take himalive!" roared the old man. Then his voicechanging to one of exquisite agony—"Myson, my boy," he moaned.

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

"You must have me alive?" he laughedgrimly. "Gadslife, but the honour is like tocost you dear. Well, sirs? Who will benext to court the distinction of dying by thesword of a gentleman?" he mocked them."Come on, you sons of dogs!"

His answer was an angry growl, andstraightway two men sprang forward.More than two could not attack him atonce 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 ofhis.

A disengage and a double he foiledwith ease, then by a turn of the wrist heheld for a second one opponent's blade;and before the fellow could disengageagain, he had brought his right-hand swordacross, and stabbed him in the neck.Simultaneously his other opponent hadrushed in and thrust. It was a risk Crispinwas forced to take, trusting to his armourto protect him. It did him the service hehoped from it; the trooper's sword glancedharmlessly aside, whilst the fellowhimself, overbalanced by the fury of hisonslaught, staggered helplessly forward.Ere he could recover, Crispin had spitted

him from side to side betwixt the strapsthat held his back and breast together.

As the two men went down, one afterthe other, the watching troopers set up ashout of rage, and pressed forward in abody. But the Tavern Knight stood hisground, and his points danced dangerouslybefore the eyes of the two foremost.Alarmed, they shouted to those behind togive them room to handle their swords;but too late. Crispin had seen theadvantage, and taken it. Twice he hadthrust, and another two sank bleeding tothe ground.

At that there came a pause, andsomewhere in the street a knot of themexpostulated with Colonel Pride, andbegged 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 hemight cause him to die a hundred deaths inone.

And so two more were sent in to tryconclusions with the indomitableGalliard. They went to work more warily.He on the left parried Crispin's stroke,then knocking up the knight's blade, herushed in and seized his wrist, shouting tothose behind to follow up. But even as hedid so, Crispin sent back his otherantagonist, howling and writhing with thepain of a transfixed sword-arm, and turnedhis full attention upon the foe that clung tohim. 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 acrushing blow full in the face with thepommel of his disengaged sword.

Fulminated by that terrific stroke, theman reeled back into the arms of anotherwho advanced.

Again there fell a pause. Then silently aRoundhead charged Sir Crispin with apike. He leapt nimbly aside, and themurderous lunge shot past him; as he didso he dropped his left-hand sword andcaught at the halberd. Exerting his wholestrength in a mighty pull, he brought thefellow that wielded it toppling forward,and received him on his outstretchedblade.

Covered with blood—the blood of

others—Crispin stood before them now.He was breathing hard and sweating atevery pore, but still grim and defiant. Hisstrength, he realized, was ebbing fast. Yethe shook himself, and asked them with agibing laugh did they not think that theyhad better shoot him.

The Roundheads paused again. Thefight had lasted but a few moments, andalready five of them were stretched uponthe ground, and a sixth disabled. Therewas something in the Tavern Knight'sattitude and terrific, blood-bespatteredappearance that deterred them. From outof his powder-blackened face his eyesflashed fiercely, and a mocking diabolicalsmile played round the corners of hismouth. What manner of man, they askedthemselves, was this who could laugh in

such an extremity? Superstition quickenedtheir alarm as they gazed upon hisundaunted front, and told themselves thiswas no man they fought against, but thefoul fiend himself.

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

They snarled for answer, yet hung backuntil Colonel Pride's voice shook theminto action. In a body they charged himnow, so suddenly and violently that hewas forced to give way. Cunningly did heply his sword before them, butineffectually. They had adopted freshtactics, and engaging his blade they actedcautiously and defensively, advancingsteadily, 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 wasstill a retreat, and their defensive actiongave him no opening. Vainly, yet by everytrick of fence he was master of, did heseek to lure the two foremost intoattacking him; stolidly they pursued theadopted plan, and steadily they impelledhim backward.

At last he reached the staircase, and herealized that did he allow himself to gofarther he was lost irretrievably. Yetfarther was he driven; despite thestrenuous efforts he put forth, until on hisright there was room for a man to slip onto the stairs and take him in the flank.Twice one of his opponents essayed it,and twice did Galliard's deadly pointrepel him. But at the third attempt the man

got through, another stepped into his placein front, and thus from two, Crispin'simmediate assailants became increased tothree.

He realized that the end was at hand,and wildly did he lay about him, but to nopurpose. And presently, he who hadgained the stairs leaped suddenly uponhim sideways, and clung to his swordarm.Before he could make a move to shakehimself free, the two that faced him hadcaught at his other arm.

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

Thrice they bore him struggling to theground, and thrice he rose again andsought to shake them from him as a bull

shakes off a pack of dogs. But they heldfast, and again they forced him down;others sprang to their aid, and the TavernKnight could rise no more.

"Disarm the dog!" cried Pride. "Disarmand truss him hand and foot."

"Sirs, you need not," he answered,gasping. "I yield me. Take my sword. I'lldo your bidding."

The fight was fought and lost, but it hadbeen a great Homeric struggle, and herejoiced almost that upon so worthy ascene of his life was the curtain to fall,and again to hope that, thanks to the standhe had made, the King should havesucceeded in effecting his escape.

CHAPTER VI.COMPANIONS IN

MISFORTUNEThrough the streets of Worcester the

Roundheads dragged Sir Crispin, and forall that he was as hard and callous a manas any that ever buckled on a cuirass, thehorrors that in going he beheld caused himmore than once to shudder.

The place was become a shambles, andthe very kennels ran with blood. TheRoyalist defeat was by now complete, andCromwell's fanatic butchers overran thetown, vying to outdo one another in savage

cruelty and murder. Houses were beingbroken into and plundered, and theirinmates—resisting or unresisting; armedor unarmed; men, women and childrenalike were pitilessly being put to thesword. Charged was the air of Worcesterwith the din of that fierce massacre. Thecrashing of shivered timbers, as doorswere beaten in, mingled with the clatterand grind of sword on sword, the crack ofmusket and pistol, the clank of armour,and the stamping of men and horses in thattroubled hour.

And above all rang out the fierce,raucous blasphemy of the slayers, and theshrieks 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 whileforgot his own sorry condition, and leftunheeded the pike-butt wherewith thePuritan at his heels was urging him along.

They paused at length in a quarterunknown to him before a tolerably largehouse. Its doors hung wide, and across thethreshold, in and out, moved twocontinuous streams of officers and men.

A while Crispin and his captors stoodin the spacious hall; then they ushered himroughly into one of the abutting rooms.Here he was brought face to face with aman of middle height, red and coarse ofcountenance and large of nose, who stoodfully armed in the centre of the chamber.His head was uncovered, and on the tableat his side stood the morion he had doffed.

He looked up as they entered, and for afew seconds rested his glance sourly uponthe lank, bold-eyed prisoner, who coldlyreturned his stare.

"Whom have we here?" he inquired atlength, his scrutiny having told himnothing.

"One whose offence is too heinous tohave earned him a soldier's death, mylord," answered Pride.

"Therein you lie, you damned rebel!"cried Crispin. "If accuse you must,announce the truth. Tell MasterCromwell"—for he had guessed the man'sidentity—"that single-handed I held myown against you and a score of you curs,and that not until I had cut down seven ofthem was I taken. Tell him that, master

psalm-singer, and let him judge whetheryou lied or not. Tell him, too, that you,who—"

"Have done!" cried Cromwell at length,stamping his foot. "Peace, or I'll have yougagged. Now, Colonel, let us hear youraccusation."

At great length, and with endlessinterlarding of proverbs did Pride relatehow this impious malignant had been themeans of the young man, Charles Stuart,making good his escape when otherwisehe must have fallen into their hands. Heaccused him also of the murder of his sonand of four other stout, God-fearingtroopers, and urged Cromwell to let himdeal with the malignant as he deserved.

The Lord General's answer took

expression in a form that was littlepuritanical. Then, checking himself:

"He is the second they have brought mewithin ten minutes charged with the sameoffence," said he. "The other one is ayoung fool who gave Charles Stuart hishorse at Saint Martin's Gate. But for himagain the young man had been taken."

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

Cromwell stared at him blankly for amoment, then:

"You will do well, sir," he mutteredsourly, "to address the Lord on your ownbehalf. As for that young man of Baal,your master, rejoice not yet in his escape.By the same crowning mercy in which theLord hath vouchsafed us victory to-day

shall He also deliver the malignant youthinto my hands. For your share in retardinghis capture your life, sir, shall pay forfeit.You shall hang at daybreak together withthat other malignant who assisted Charlesat the Saint Martin's Gate."

"I shall at least hang in good company,"said Crispin pleasantly, "and for that, sir, Igive you thanks."

"You will pass the night with that otherfool," Cromwell continued, withoutheeding the interruption, "and I pray thatyou may spend it in such meditation asshall fit you for your end. Take himaway."

"But, my lord," exclaimed Pride,advancing.

"What now?"

Crispin caught not his answer, but hishalf-whispered words were earnest andpleading. Cromwell shook his head.

"I cannot sanction it. Let it satisfy youthat he dies. I condole with you in yourbereavement, but it is the fortune of war.Let the thought that your son died in agodly cause be of comfort to you. Bear inmind, Colonel Pride, that Abrahamhesitated not to offer up his child to theLord. And so, fare you well."

Colonel Pride's face worked oddly, andhis eyes rested for a second upon thestern, unmoved figure of the TavernKnight in malice and vindictiveness. Then,shrugging his shoulders in token ofunwilling resignation, he withdrew, whilstCrispin was led out.

In the hall again they kept him waitingfor some moments, until at length anofficer came up, and bidding him follow,led the way to the guardroom. Here theystripped him of his back-and-breast, andwhen that was done the officer again ledthe way, and Crispin followed betweentwo troopers. They made him mount threeflights of stairs, and hurried him along apassage to a door by which a soldierstood mounting guard. At a word from theofficer the sentry turned, and unfasteningthe heavy bolts, he opened the door.Roughly the officer bade Sir Crispin enter,and stood aside that he might pass.

Crispin obeyed him silently, andcrossed the threshold to find himselfwithin a mean, gloomy chamber, and tohear the heavy door closed and made fast

again behind him. His stout heart sank alittle as he realized that that closed doorshut out to him the world for ever; butonce again would he cross that threshold,and that would be the preface to thecrossing of the greater threshold ofeternity.

Then something stirred in one of thatroom's dark corners, and he started, to seethat he was not alone, remembering thatCromwell had said he was to have acompanion in his last hours.

"Who are you?" came a dull voice—avoice that was eloquent of misery.

"Master Stewart!" he exclaimed,recognizing his companion. "So it was yougave the King your horse at the SaintMartin's Gate! May Heaven reward you.

Gadswounds," he added, "I had littlethought to meet you again this side thegrave."

"Would to Heaven you had not!" wasthe doleful answer. "What make youhere?"

"By your good leave and with your helpI'll make as merry as a man may whosesands are all but run. The Lord General—whom the devil roast in his time willmake a pendulum of me at daybreak, andgives me the night in which to prepare."

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

"We are companions in misfortune,then."

"Were we ever companions in aughtelse? 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 inChristian hands they'd not deny us a blackjack over which to relish our last jest, andto warm us against the night air, whichmust be chill in this garret. But these crop-ears..." He paused to peer into the pitcheron the table. "Water! Pah! A scurvy lot,these psalm-mongers!"

"Merciful Heaven! Have you no thoughtfor your end?"

"Every thought, good youth, everythought, and I would fain prepare me forthe morning's dance in a more jovial andhearty fashion than Old Noll will afford

me—damn him!"Kenneth drew back in horror. His old

dislike for Crispin was all aroused by thisindecent flippancy at such a time. Just thenthe thought of spending the night in hiscompany almost effaced the horror of thegallows whereof he had been a prey.

Noting the movement, Crispin laugheddisdainfully, and walked towards thewindow. It was a small opening, by whichtwo iron bars, set crosswise, defiedescape. Moreover, as Crispin looked out,he realized that a more effective barrierlay in the height of the window itself. Thehouse overlooked the river on that side; itwas built upon an embankment some thirtyfeet high; around this, at the base of theedifice, and some forty feet below the

window, ran a narrow pathway protectedby an iron railing. But so narrow was it,that had a man sprung from the casementof Crispin's prison, it was odds he wouldhave fallen into the river some seventyfeet below. Crispin turned away with asigh. He had approached the windowalmost in hope; he quitted it in absolutedespair.

"Ah, well," said he, "we will hang, andthere's the end of it."

Kenneth had resumed his seat in thecorner, and, wrapped in his cloak, he satsteeped in meditation, his comely youngface seared with lines of pain. As Crispinlooked upon him then, his heart softenedand went out to the lad—went out as it haddone 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 haddrawn him to the boy, and how Kennethhad at first appeared to reciprocate thatfeeling, until he came to know him for therakehelly, godless ruffler that he was. Hethought of the gulf that gradually hadopened up between them. The lad wasrighteous and God-fearing, truthful andsober, filled with stern ideals by which hesought to shape his life. He had taxedCrispin with his dissoluteness, andCrispin, despising him for a milksop, hadreturned to his disgust with mockery, andhad found a fiendish pleasure in arousingthat disgust at every turn.

To-night, as Crispin eyed the youth, and

remembered that at dawn he was to die inhis company, he realized that he had usedhim ill, that his behaviour towards himhad been that of the dissolute ruffler hewas become, rather than of the gentlemanhe had once accounted himself.

"Kenneth," he said at length, and hisvoice bore so unusually mild a ring thatthe lad looked up in surprise. "I haveheard tell that it is no uncommon thing formen upon the threshold of eternity to seekto repair some of the evil they may havedone in life."

Kenneth shuddered. Crispin's wordsreminded him again of his approachingend. The ruffler paused a moment, as ifawaiting a reply or a word ofencouragement. Then, as none came, he

continued:"I am not one of your repentant sinners,

Kenneth. I have lived my life—God, whata life!—and as I have lived I shall die,unflinching and unchanged. Dare one topresume that a few hours spent in whiningprayers shall atone for years of recklessdissoluteness? 'Tis a doctrine of cravens,who, having lacked in life the strength tolive as conscience bade them, lack indeath the courage to stand by that life'sdeeds. I am no such traitor to myself. If mylife has been vile my temptations havebeen sore, and the rest is in God's hands.But in my course I have sinned againstmany men; many a tall fellow's life have Iwantonly wrecked; some, indeed, I haveeven taken in wantonness or anger. Theyare not by, nor, were they, could I now

make amends. But you at least are here,and what little reparation may lie inasking pardon I can make. When I firstsaw you at Perth it was my wish to makeyou my friend—a feeling I have not hadthese twenty years towards any man. Ifailed. How else could it have been? Thedove may not nest with the carrion bird."

"Say no more, sir," cried Kenneth,genuinely moved, and still more amazedby this curious humility in one whom hehad never known other than arrogant andmocking. "I beseech you, say no more. Forwhat trifling wrongs you may have doneme I forgive you as freely as I would beforgiven. Is it not written that it shall beso?" And he held out his hand.

"A little more I must say, Kenneth,"

answered the other, leaving theoutstretched hand unheeded. "The feelingthat was born in me towards you at PerthCastle is on me again. I seek not toaccount for it. Perchance it springs frommy recognition of the difference betwixtus; perchance I see in you a reflection ofwhat once I was myself—honourable andtrue. But let that be. The sun is setting overyonder, and you and I will behold it nomore. That to me is a small thing. I amweary. Hope is dead; and when that isdead what does it signify that the body diealso? Yet in these last hours that we shallspend together I would at least have youresteem. I would have you forget my pastharshness and the wrongs that I may havedone you down to that miserable affair ofyour sweetheart's letter, yesterday. I

would have you realize that if I am vile, Iam 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 manin whose company you are not ashamed todie."

Again the lad shuddered."Shall I tell you my story, Kenneth? I

have a strong desire to go over this poorlife of mine again in memory, and bygiving my thoughts utterance it may be thatthey will take more vivid shape. For therest my tale may wile away a little of thetime that's left, and when you have heardme you shall judge me, Kenneth. What sayyou?"

Despite the parlous conditionwhereunto the fear of the morrow had

reduced him, this new tone of Galliard'sso wrought upon him then that he wasalmost eager in his request that Sir Crispinshould unfold his story. And this theTavern Knight then set himself to do.

CHAPTER VII. THETAVERN KNIGHT'S

STORYSir Crispin walked from the window by

which he had been standing, to the roughbed, and flung himself full length upon it.The only chair that dismal room containedwas occupied by Kenneth. Galliardheaved a sigh of physical satisfaction.

"Fore George, I knew not I was sotired," he murmured. And with that helapsed for some moments into silence, hisbrows contracted in the frown of one whocollects his thoughts. At length he began,

speaking in calm, unemotional tones thatheld perchance deeper pathos than a morepassionate utterance could have endowedthem with:

"Long ago—twenty years ago—I was,as I have said, an honourable lad, towhom the world was a fair garden, aplace of rosebuds, fragrant with hope.Those, Kenneth, were my illusions. Theyare the illusions of youth; they are youthitself, for when our illusions are gone weare no longer young no matter what yearswe count. Keep your illusions, Kenneth;treasure them, hoard them jealously for aslong as you may."

"I dare swear, sir," answered the lad,with bitter humour, "that such illusions asI 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, andto-morrow was none so near." He laughedsoftly, as though his lapse of memoryamused him. Then he resumed:

"I was the only son, Kenneth, of thenoblest gentleman that ever lived—theheir to an ancient, honoured name, and to acastle as proud and lands as fair andbroad as any in England.

"They lie who say that from the dawnwe may foretell the day. Never was therea brighter dawn than that of my life; nevera day so wasted; never an evening sodark. But let that be.

"Our lands were touched upon thenorthern side by those of a house with

which we had been at feud for twohundred years and more. Puritans theywere, stern and haughty in their ungodlyrighteousness. They held us dissolutebecause we enjoyed the life that God hadgiven us, and there I am told the hatredfirst began.

"When I was a lad of your years,Kenneth, the hall—ours was the castle,theirs the hall—was occupied by twoyoung sparks who made little shift to keepup the pious reputation of their house.They dwelt there with their mother—awoman too weak to check their ways, andholding, mayhap, herself, views notaltogether puritanical. They discarded thesober black their forbears had worn forgenerations, and donned gay Cavaliergarments. They let their love-locks grow;

set plumes in their castors and jewels intheir ears; they drank deep, ruffled it withthe boldest and decked their utterancewith great oaths—for to none dothblasphemy come more readily than to lipsthat in youth have been overmuch shapedin unwilling prayer.

"Me they avoided as they would aplague, and when at times we met, oursalutations were grave as those of, men onthe point of crossing swords. I despisedthem for their coarse, ruffling apostasymore than ever my father had despisedtheir father for a bigot, and they guessingor knowing by instinct what was in mymind held me in deeper rancour even thantheir ancestors had done mine. And moregalling still and yet a sharper spur to theirhatred did those whelps find in the

realization that all the countryside held, asit had held for ages, us to be their betters.A hard blow to their pride was that, buttheir revenge was not long in coming.

"It chanced they had a cousin—a maidas sweet and fair and pure as they werehideous and foul. We met in the meads—she and I. Spring was the time—God! Itseems but yesterday!—and each in ourbearing towards the other forgot thetraditions of the names we bore. And as atfirst we had met by chance, so did wemeet later by contrivance, not once ortwice, but many times. God, how sweetshe 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 thehatred that for centuries had held our

families asunder? In us it lay to set asideall that.

"And so I sought my father. He cursedme at first for an unnatural son who leftunheeded the dictates of our blood. Butanon, when on my knees I had urged mycause with all the eloquent fervour that isbut of youth—youth that loves—my fathercursed no more. His thoughts went backmaybe to the days of his own youth, and hebade me rise and go a-wooing as I listed.Nay, more than that he did. The first of ourname was he out of ten generations to setfoot across the threshold of the hall; hewent on my behalf to sue for their cousin'shand.

"Then was their hour. To them that hadbeen taught the humiliating lesson that we

were their betters, one of us came suing.They from whom the countryside lookedfor silence when one of us spoke, had it intheir hands at length to say us nay. Andthey said it. What answer my father madethem, Kenneth, I know not, but very whitewas his face when I met him on the castlesteps on his return. In burning words hetold me of the insult they had put uponhim, then silently he pointed to the Toledothat two years before he had brought meout of Spain, and left me. But I hadunderstood. Softly I unsheathed that virginblade and read the Spanish inscription,that through my tears of rage and shameseemed blurred; a proud inscription wasit, instinct with the punctilio of proudSpain—'Draw me not without motive,sheathe me not without honour.' Motive

there was and to spare; honour I sworethere should be; and with that oath, andthat brave sword girt to me, I set out to myfirst combat."

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

"I lost that sword years ago," said hemusingly. "The sword and I have beenclose friends in life, but my companionhas been a blade of coarser make,carrying no inscriptions to prick at a man'sconscience 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 facetowards the youth, he was unable to make

out his features; but his tone had beeneager, and Crispin noted that he sat withhead bent forward and that his eyes shonefeverishly.

"It interests you, eh? Ah, well—hot footI went to the hall, and with burning wordsI called upon those dogs to rendersatisfaction for the dishonour they had putupon my house. Will you believe,Kenneth, that they denied me? Theysheltered their craven lives behind ashield of mock valour. They would notfight a boy, they said, and bade me get mybeard grown when haply they would giveear to my grievance.

"And so, a shame and rage ahundredfold more bitter than that which Ihad borne thither did I carry thence. My

father bade me treasure up the memory ofit against the time when my riper yearsshould compel them to attend me, and this,by my every hope of heaven, I swore todo. He bade me further efface for everfrom my mind all thought or hope of unionwith their cousin, and though I made himno answer at the time, yet in my heart Ipromised to obey him in that, too. But Iwas young—scarce twenty. A weekwithout sight of my mistress and I grewsick with despair. Then at length I cameupon her, pale and tearful, one evening,and in an agony of passion andhopelessness I flung myself at her feet, andimplored her to keep true to me and wait,and she, poor maid, to her undoing sworethat she would. You are yourself a lover,Kenneth, and you may guess something of

the impatience that anon beset me. Howcould I wait? I asked her this.

"Some fifty miles from the castle therewas a little farm, in the very heart of thecountry, which had been left me by a sisterof my mother's. Thither I now imploredher to repair with me. I would find apriest to wed us, and there we should livea while in happiness, in solitude, and inlove. An alluring picture did I draw withall a lover's cunning, and to the charms ofit she fell a victim. We fled three dayslater.

"We were wed in the village that paysallegiance to the castle, and thereafter wetravelled swiftly and undisturbed to thatlittle homestead. There in solitude, withbut two servants—a man and a maid

whom I could trust—we lived and loved,and for a season, brief as all happiness isdoomed to be, we were happy. Hercousins had no knowledge of that farm ofmine, and though they searched the countryfor many a mile around, they searched invain. My father knew—as I learnedafterwards—but deeming that what wasdone might not be undone, he held hispeace. In the following spring a babe wasborn to us, and our bliss made heaven ofthat cottage.

"Twas a month or so after the birth ofour child that the blow descended. I wasaway, enjoying alone the pleasures of thechase; my man was gone a journey to thenearest town, whence he would not returnuntil the morrow. Oft have I cursed thefolly that led me to take my gun and go

forth into the woods, leaving no protectorfor my wife but one weak woman.

"I returned earlier than I had thought todo, led mayhap by some angel that soughtto have me back in time. But I came toolate. At my gate I found two freshly riddenhorses tethered, and it was with a dullforeboding in my heart that I sprangthrough the open door. Within—O God,the anguish of it!—stretched on the floor Ibeheld my love, a gaping sword-wound inher side, and the ground all bloody abouther. For a moment I stood dumb in thespell of that horror, then a movementbeyond, against the wall, aroused me, andI 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 everbeen gentle was transformed into theviolent, passionate man that you haveknown. As my eye encountered then hercousins, my blood seemed on the instantcurdled in my veins; my teeth were sethard; my nerves and sinews knotted; myhands instinctively shifted to the barrel ofmy fowling-piece and clutched it with thefierceness that was in me—the fiercenessof the beast about to spring upon those thathave brought it to bay.

"For a moment I stood swaying there,my eyes upon them, and holding theircraven glances fascinated. Then with aroar I leapt forward, the stock of myfowling-piece swung high above my head.And, as God lives, Kenneth, I had sentthem 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 theblood of my beloved, and in my fall Icame close to her where she lay. Thefowling-piece had escaped my grasp andcrashed against the wall.

"I scarce knew what I did, but as I laybeside her it came to me that I did notwish to rise again—that already I hadlived overlong. It came to me that, seeingme fallen, haply those cowards wouldseize the chance to make an end of me as Ilay. I wished it so in that moment's frenzy,for I made no attempt to rise or to defendmyself; instead I set my arms about mypoor murdered love, and against her coldcheek I set my face that was well-nigh ascold.

"And thus I lay, nor did they keep melong. A sword was passed through mefrom back to breast, whilst he who did itcursed me with a foul oath. The roomgrew dim; methought it swayed and thatthe walls were tottering; there was a buzzof sound in my ears, then a piercing cry ina baby voice. At the sound of it I vaguelywished for the strength to rise. As in thedistance, I heard one of those butchers cry,"Haste, man; slit me that squallingbastard's throat!" And then I must haveswooned."

Kenneth shuddered."My God, how horrible!" he cried. "But

you were avenged, Sir Crispin," he addedeagerly; "you were avenged?"

"When I regained consciousness,"

Crispin continued, as if he had not heardKenneth's exclamation, "the cottage was inflames, set alight by them to burn theevidence of their foul deed. What I did Iknow not. I have tried to urge my memoryalong from the point of my awakening, butin vain. By what miracle I crawled forth, Icannot tell; but in the morning I was foundby my man lying prone in the garden, halfa dozen paces from the blackened ruins ofthe cottage, as near death as man may goand live.

"God willed that I should not die, but itwas close upon a year before I wasrestored to any semblance of my formerself, and then I was so changed that I washardly to be recognized as that samejoyous, vigorous lad, who had set out,fowling-piece on shoulder, one fine

morning a year agone. There was grey inmy hair, as much as there is now, though Iwas but twenty-one; my face was searedand marked as that of a man who had livedtwice my years. It was to my faithfulservant that I owed my life, though I askmyself to-night whether I have cause forgratitude towards him on that score.

"So soon as I had regained sufficientstrength, I went secretly home, wishingthat men might continue to believe medead. My father I found much aged bygrief, but he was kind and tender with mebeyond all words. From him I had it thatour enemies were gone to France; itwould seem they had thought it better toremain absent for a while. He had learntthat they were in Paris, and hither Idetermined forthwith to follow them.

Vainly did my father remonstrate with me;vainly did he urge me rather: to bear mystory to the King at Whitehall and seek forjustice. I had been well advised had Iobeyed this counsel, but I burned to takemy vengeance with my own hands, andwith this purpose I repaired to France.

"Two nights after my arrival in Paris itwas my ill-fortune to be embroiled in arough-and-tumble in the streets, and by anill-chance I killed a man—the first was heof several that I have sent whither I amgoing to-morrow. The affair was like tohave cost me my life, but by another ofthose miracles which have prolonged it, Iwas sent instead to the galleys on theMediterranean. It was only wanting that,after all that already I had endured, Ishould become a galley-slave!

"For twelve long years I toiled at anoar, and waited. If I lived I would returnto England; and if I returned, woe untothose that had wrecked my life—my bodyand my soul. I did live, and I did return.The Civil War had broken out, and I cameto throw my sword into the balance on theKing's side: I came, too, to be avenged,but that would wait.

"Meanwhile, the score had grownheavier. I went home to find the castle inusurping hands—in the hands of myenemies. My father was dead; he died afew months after I had gone to France; andthose murderers had advanced a claim thatthrough my marriage with their cousin,since dead, and through my own death,there being no next of kin, they were theheirs-at-law. The Parliament allowed

their claim, and they were installed. Butwhen I came they were away, followingthe fortunes of the Parliament that hadserved them so well. And so I determinedto let my vengeance wait until the warwere ended and the Parliament destroyed.In a hundred engagements did I distinguishmyself by my recklessness even as at otherseasons I distinguished myself by mydebaucheries.

"Ah, Kenneth, you have been hard uponme for my vices, for my abuses of the cup,and all the rest. But can you be hard uponme still, knowing what I had suffered, andwhat a weight of misery I bore with me? I,whose life was wrecked beyondsalvation; who only lived that I might slitthe throats of those that had so irreparablywronged me. Think you still that it was so

vicious a thing, so unpardonable anoffence to seek the blessed nepenthe of thewine-cup, the heavenly forgetfulness thatits abuses brought me? Is it strange that Ibecame known as the wildest tantivy boythat rode with the King? What else had I?"

"In all truth your trials were sore," saidthe lad in a voice that contained a note ofsympathy. And yet there was a certainrestraint that caught the Tavern Knight'sear. He turned his head and bent his eyesin the lad's direction, but it was quite darkby now, and he failed to make out hiscompanion's face.

"My tale is told, Kenneth. The rest youcan guess. The King did not prevail and Iwas forced to fly from England with thoseothers who escaped from the butchers that

had made a martyr of Charles. I tookservice in France under the great Conde,and I saw some mighty battles. At lengthcame the council of Breda and theinvitation to Charles the Second to receivethe crown of Scotland. I set out again tofollow his fortunes as I had followed hisfather's, realizing that by so doing Ifollowed my own, and that did he prevailI should have the redress and vengeanceso long awaited. To-day has dashed mylast hope; to-morrow at this hour it willnot signify. And yet much would I give tohave my fingers on the throats of those twohounds before the hangman's close aroundmy own."

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

"You have heard my story, Kenneth,"said Crispin.

"I have heard, Sir Crispin, and Godknows I pity you."

That was all, and Galliard felt that itwas not enough. He had lacerated his soulwith those grim memories to earn a yetkinder word. He had looked even to hearthe lad suing for pardon for the harshopinions wherein he had held him. Strangewas this yearning of his for the boy'ssympathy. He who for twenty years hadgone unloving and unloved, sought now inhis extremity affection from a fellow-man.

And so in the gloom he waited for akinder word that came not; then—sourgent was his need—he set himself to begit.

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

"It is not mine to judge, Sir Crispin. Ipity you with all my heart," the ladreplied, not ungently.

Still the knight was dissatisfied. "Yoursit is to judge as every man may judge hisfellowman. You mean it is not yours tosentence. But if yours it were, Kenneth,what then?"

The lad paused a moment ere heanswered. His bigoted Presbyteriantraining was strong within him, andalthough, as he said, he pitied Galliard,yet to him whose mind was stuffed withlife's precepts, and who knew naught ofthe trials it brings to some and thetemptations to which they were not humandid they not succumb—it seemed that vicewas not to be excused by misfortune. Outof mercy then he paused, and for a momenthe had it even in his mind to cheer hisfellow-captive with a lie. Then,remembering that he was to die upon themorrow, and that at such a time it was notwell to risk the perdition of his soul by anuntruth, however merciful, he answeredslowly:

"Were I to judge you, since you ask me,

sir, I should be merciful because of yourmisfortunes. And yet, Sir Crispin, yourprofligacy and the evil you have wroughtin life must weigh heavily against you."Had this immaculate bigot, this churlishmilksop been as candid with himself as hewas with Crispin, he must haverecognized that it was mainly Crispin'soffences towards himself that his mindnow dwelt on in deeper rancour thanbecame one so well acquainted with theLord's Prayer.

"You had not cause enough," he addedimpressively, "to defile your soul and riskits eternal damnation because the evil ofothers had wrecked your life."

Crispin drew breath with the sharp hissof one in pain, and for a moment after all

was still. Then a bitter laugh broke fromhim.

"Bravely answered, reverend sir," hecried with biting scorn. "I marvel only thatyou left your pulpit to gird on a sword;that you doffed your cassock to don acuirass. Here is a text for you who deal intexts, my brave Jack Presbyter—'Judgeyou your neighbour as you would yourselfbe judged; be merciful as you would hopefor mercy.' Chew you the cud of that untilthe hangman's coming in the morning.Good night to you."

And throwing himself back upon thebed, Crispin sought comfort in sleep. Hislimbs 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 intosome fear that hereafter he should findlittle mercy for his own lack of it towardsa poor fellow-sinner. "I spoke not as Iwould judge, but as the Church teaches."

"If the Church teaches no better Irejoice that I was no churchman," gruntedCrispin.

"For myself," the lad pursued, heedingnot the irreverent interruption, "as I havesaid, I pity you with all my heart. Morethan that, so deeply do I feel, so great aloathing and indignation has your storysown in my heart, that were our libertynow restored us I would willingly joinhands with you in wreaking vengeance onthese 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 yourdoctrines? 'Vengeance is mine, saith theLord!' Pah!"

And with that final ejaculation, pregnantwith contempt and bitterness, hecomposed himself to sleep.

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

CHAPTER VIII. THETWISTED BAR

Nature asserted herself, and, despite hiscondition, Crispin slept. Kenneth sathuddled on his chair, and in awe andamazement he listened to his companion'sregular breathing. He had not Galliard'snerves nor Galliard's indifference todeath, so that neither could he follow hisexample, nor yet so much as realize howone should slumber upon the very brink ofeternity.

For a moment his wonder stoodperilously near to admiration; then hisreligious training swayed him, and his

righteousness almost drew from him acontempt of this man's apathy. There wasmuch of the Pharisee's attitude towards thepublican in his mood.

Anon that regular breathing grewirritating to him; it drew so marked acontrast 'twixt Crispin's frame of mind andhis own. Whilst Crispin had related hisstory, the interest it awakened had servedto banish the spectre of fear which thethought of the morrow conjured up. Nowthat Crispin was silent and asleep, thatspectre returned, and the lad grew numband sick with the horror of his position.

Thought followed thought as he sathuddled there with sunken head and handsclasped tight between his knees, and theywere 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 itmattered! And every train of thought thathe embarked upon brought him to the sameissue—to-morrow! Shuddering he wouldclench his hands still tighter, and theperspiration would stand' out in beadsupon his callow brow.

At length he flung himself upon hisknees to address not so much a prayer as amaudlin grievance to his Creator. He felthimself a craven—doubly so by virtue ofthe peaceful breathing of that sinner hedespised—and he told himself that it wasnot in fear a gentleman should meet hisend.

"But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall

be brave," he muttered, and knew not thatit was vanity begat the thought, and vanitythat might uphold him on the morrow whenthere were others by, however brokenmight be his spirit now.

Meanwhile Crispin slept. When heawakened the light of a lanthorn was onhis face, and holding it stood beside him atall black figure in a cloak and a slouchedhat whose broad brim left the featuresunrevealed.

Still half asleep, and blinking like anowl, he sat up.

"I have always held burnt sack to bewell enough, but—"

He stopped short, fully awake at last,and, suddenly remembering his conditionand thinking they were come for him, he

drew a sharp breath and in a voice asindifferent as he could make it:

"What's o'clock?" he asked."Past midnight, miserable wretch," was

the answer delivered in a deep droningvoice. "Hast entered upon thy last day oflife—a day whose sun thou'lt never see.But five hours more are left thee."

"And it is to tell me this that you haveawakened me?" demanded Galliard insuch a voice that he of the cloak recoiled astep, as if he thought a blow must follow."Out on you for an unmannerly cur tobreak upon a gentleman's repose."

"I come," returned the other in hisdroning voice, "to call upon thee torepent."

"Plague me not," answered Crispin,

with a yawn. "I would sleep.""Soundly enough shalt thou sleep in a

few hours' time. Bethink thee, miserablesinner, of thy soul."

"Sir," cried the Tavern Knight, "I am aman of marvellous short endurance. Butmark you this your ways to heaven are notmy ways. Indeed, if heaven be peopled bysuch croaking things as you, I shall bethankful to escape it. So go, my friend, ereI become discourteous."

The minister stood in silence for amoment; then setting his lanthorn upon thetable, he raised his hands and eyestowards the low ceiling of the chamber.

"Vouchsafe, O Lord," he prayed, "totouch yet the callous heart of thisobdurate, incorrigible sinner, this wicked,

perjured and blasphemous malignant,whose—"

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

"Out!" he thundered, pointing to thedoor. "Out! Begone! I would not be guiltyat the end of my life of striking a man inpetticoats. But go whilst I can bethink meof it! Go—take your prayers to hell."

The minister fell back before that blazeof passion. For a second he appeared tohesitate, then he turned towards Kenneth,who stood behind in silence. But the lad'sPresbyterian rearing had taught him to hatea sectarian as he would a papist or as hewould the devil, and he did no more thanecho Galliard's words—though in a

gentler key."I pray you go," he said. "But if you

would perform an act of charity, leaveyour lanthorn. It will be dark enoughhereafter."

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

"I go since you oppose with violencemy ministrations. But I shall pray for you,and I will return anon, when perchanceyour heart shall be softened by the nearimminence of your end."

"Sir," quoth Crispin wearily, "youwould outtalk a woman."

"I've done, I've done," he cried in

trepidation, making shift to depart. On thethreshold he paused again. "I leave you thelanthorn," he said. "May it light you to agodlier frame of mind. I shall return atdaybreak." And with that he went.

Crispin yawned noisily when he wasgone, and stretched himself. Then pointingto 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 ofthe bed.

"For cold comforters commend me tothese cropeared cuckolds," he grumbled."They are all thought for a man's soul, butfor his body they care nothing. Here am I

who for the last ten hours have had neithermeat nor drink. Not that I mind the meat somuch, but, 'slife, my throat is dry as one oftheir sermons, and I would cheerfully givefour of my five hours of life for a posset ofsack. A paltry lot are they, Kenneth,holding that because a man must die atdawn he need not sup to-night. Heigho!Some liar hath said that he who sleepsdines, and if I sleep perchance I shallforget my thirst."

He stretched himself upon the bed, andpresently he slept again.

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

"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. Ifyou would rather have cold steel, 'tisdone. It is the last service I may renderyou, and I'll be as gentle as a mistress.Just there, over the heart, and you'll knowno more until you are in Paradise."

Turning down the leather of his rightboot, he thrust his hand down the side ofhis leg. But Kenneth sprang back with acry.

"No, no," he cried, covering his facewith his hands. "Not that! You don'tunderstand. It is death itself I would cheat.What odds to exchange one form foranother? Is there no way out of this? Isthere no way, Sir Crispin?" he demandedwith clenched hands.

"The approach of death makes youmaudlin, sir," quoth the other, in whomthis pitiful show of fear produced aprofound disgust. "Is there no way; sayyou? There is the window, but 'tis seventyfeet above the river; and there is the door,but it is locked, and there is a sentry on theother side."

"I might have known it. I might haveknown that you would mock me. What isdeath to you, to whom life offers nothing?

For you the prospect of it has no terrors.But for me—bethink you, sir, I am scarceeighteen years of age," he added brokenly,"and life was full of promise for me. OGod, pity me!"

"True, lad, true," the knight returned insoftened tones. "I had forgotten that deathis not to you the blessed release that it isto me. And yet, and yet," he mused, "do Inot die leaving a task unfulfilled—a taskof vengeance? And by my soul, I know nogreater spur to make a man cling to life.Ah," he sighed wistfully, "if indeed Icould find a way."

"Think, Sir Crispin, think," cried theboy feverishly.

"To what purpose? There is thewindow. But even if the bars were moved,

which I see no manner of accomplishing,the drop to the river is seventy feet atleast. I measured it with my eyes whenfirst we entered here. We have no rope.Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tiedtogether would scarce yield us ten feet.Would you care to jump the remainingsixty?"

At the very thought of it the ladtrembled, noting which Sir Crispinlaughed softly.

"There. And yet, boy, it would be takinga risk which if successful would mean life—if otherwise, a speedier end than eventhe rope will afford you. Oddslife," hecried, suddenly springing to his feet, andseizing the lanthorn. "Let us look at thesebars."

He stepped across to the window, andheld the light so that its rays fell full uponthe base of the vertical iron that barred thesquare.

"It is much worn by rust, Kenneth," hemuttered. "The removal of this singlepiece of iron," and he touched the lowerarm of the cross, "should afford uspassage. Who knows? Hum!"

He walked back to the table and set thelanthorn down. In a tremble, Kennethwatched his every movement, but spokeno word.

"He who throws a main," said Galliard,"must set a stake upon the board. I set mylife—a stake that is already forfeit—and Ithrow for liberty. If I win, I win all; if Ilose, I lose naught. 'Slife, I have thrown

many a main with Fate, but never onewherein the odds were more generous.Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and wewill attempt it if we can but move thebar."

"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 maylead elsewhere."

The boy's mouth was parched. His eyesburned in their sockets, and yet his limbsshook with cold—but not the cold of thatSeptember 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 astreak of grey.

"Quick, Sir Crispin; there is no time tolose. The minister said he would return atdaybreak."

"Let him come," answered Galliardgrimly, as he moved towards thecasement.

He gripped the lower bar with his lean,sinewy hands, and setting his knee againstthe masonry beneath it, he exerted thewhole of his huge strength—that awfulstrength acquired during those years of toil

as a galley-slave, which even hisdebaucheries had not undermined. He felthis sinews straining until it seemed thatthey must crack; the sweat stood out uponhis 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. 'ForeGeorge," he laughed, "it is the first timewater has stood my friend, for the rainshave sadly rusted that iron."

Without, their sentry was pacing beforethe door; his steps came nearer, passed,and receded; turned, came nigh again, andagain passed on. As once more they grewfaint, Crispin seized the bar and renewed

his attempt. This time it was easier.Gradually it ceded to the strain Galliardset upon it.

Nearer came the sentry's footsteps, butthey went unheeded by him who toiled,and by him who watched with batedbreath and beating heart. He felt it giving—giving—giving. Crack!

With a report that rang through the roomlike a pistol shot, it broke off in its socket.Both men caught their breath, and stoodfor a second crouching, with strainingears. The sentry had stopped at their door.

Galliard was a man of quick action,swift to think, and as swift to execute thethought. To thrust Kenneth into a corner, toextinguish the light, and to fling himselfupon the bed was all the work of an

instant.The key grated in the lock, and Crispin

answered it with a resounding snore. Thedoor opened, and on the threshold stoodthe Roundhead trooper, holding aloft alanthorn whose rays were flashed back byhis polished cuirass. He beheld Crispin onthe bed with closed eyes and open mouth,and he heard his reassuring and melodioussnore. He saw Kenneth seated peacefullyupon the floor, with his back against thewall, and for a moment he was puzzled.

"Heard you aught?" he asked."Aye," answered Kenneth, in a

strangled voice, "I heard something like ashot out there."

The gesture with which he accompaniedthe words was fatal. Instinctively he had

jerked his thumb towards the window,thereby drawing the soldier's eyes in thatdirection. The fellow's glance fell uponthe twisted bar, and a sharp exclamationof surprise escaped him.

Had he been aught but a fool he musthave guessed at once how it came so, andhaving guessed it, he must have thoughttwice ere he ventured within reach of aman who could so handle iron. But he wasa slow-reasoning clod, and so far, thoughthad not yet taken the place of surprise. Hestepped into, the chamber and across tothe window, that he might more closelyview that broken bar.

With eyes that were full of terror anddespair, Kenneth watched him; their lasthope had failed them. Then, as he looked,

it seemed to him that in one great leapfrom his recumbent position on the bed,Crispin had fallen upon the soldier.

The lanthorn was dashed from thefellow's hand, and rolled to Kenneth'sfeet. The fellow had begun' a cry, whichbroke off suddenly into a gurgle asGalliard's fingers closed about hiswindpipe. He was a big fellow, and in hismad struggles he carried: Crispin hitherand thither about the room. Together: theyhurtled against the table, which wouldhave: gone crashing over had not Kennethcaught it and drawn it softly to the wall.

Both men were now upon the bed.Crispin had guessed the soldier's intent tofling himself upon the ground so that thering of his armour might be heard, and

perchance bring others to his aid. Toavoid this, Galliard had swung himtowards the bed, and hurled him on to it.There he pinned him with his knee, andwith his fingers he gripped theRoundhead's throat, pressing the appleinwards with his thumb.

"The door, Kenneth!" he commanded, ina whisper. "Close the door!"

Vain were the trooper's struggles to freehimself from that throttling grip. Alreadyhis efforts grew his face was purple; hisveins stood out in ropes upon his brow tillthey seemed upon the point of bursting; hiseyes protruded like a lobster's and therewas a horrible grin upon his mouth; stillhis heels beat the bed, and still hestruggled. With his fingers he plucked

madly at the throttling hands on his neck,and tore at them with his nails until theblood streamed from them. Still Galliardheld him firmly, and with a smile—adiabolical smile it seemed to the poor,half-strangled wretch—he gazed upon hischoking victim.

"Someone comes!" gasped Kennethsuddenly. "Someone comes, Sir Crispin!"he repeated, shaking his hands in a frenzy.

Galliard listened. Steps wereapproaching. The soldier heard them also,and renewed his efforts. Then Crispinspoke.

"Why stand you there like a fool?" hegrowled. "Quench the light—stay, we maywant it! Cast your cloak over it! Quick,man, quick!"

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

"Stand by the door," whispered Crispin."Fall upon him as he enters, and see thatno cry escapes him. Take him by thethroat, and as you love your life, do not lethim get away."

The footsteps halted. Kenneth crawledsoftly to his post. The soldier's strugglesgrew of a sudden still, and Crispinreleased his throat at last. Then calmlydrawing the fellow's dagger, he felt for thestraps of his cuirass, and these heproceeded to cut. As he did so the doorwas opened.

By the light of the lamp burning in thepassage they beheld silhouetted upon thethreshold a black figure crowned by a

steeple hat. Then the droning voice of thePuritan 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 softlythrust aside the trooper's breastplate, andset his hand to the fellow's heart. It stillbeat faintly.

"In another hour they will come foryou," answered the minister. And Crispinmarvelled anxiously what Kenneth wasabout. "Repent then, miserable sinners,whilst yet—"

He broke off abruptly, awaking out ofhis religious zeal to a sense of strangenessat the darkness and the absence of thesentry, which hitherto he had notremarked.

"What hath—" he began. Then Galliardheard a gasp, followed by the noise of afall, and two struggling men came rollingacross the chamber floor.

"Bravely done, boy!" he cried, almostmirthfully. "Cling to him, Kenneth; cling tohim a second yet!"

He leapt from the bed, and guided bythe faint light coming through the door, hesprang across the intervening space andsoftly closed it. Then he groped his wayalong the wall to the spot where he hadseen the lanthorn stand when Kenneth hadflung his cloak over it. As he went, thetwo striving men came up against him.

"Hold fast, lad," he cried, encouragingKenneth, "hold him yet a moment, and Iwill relieve you!"

He reached the lanthorn at last, andpulling aside the cloak, he lifted the lightand set it upon the table.

CHAPTER IX. THEBARGAIN

By the lanthorn's yellow glare Crispinbeheld the two men-a mass of writhingbodies and a bunch of waving legs—uponthe ground. Kenneth, who was uppermost,clung purposefully to the parson's throat.The faces of both were alike distorted, butwhilst the lad's breath came in gaspinghisses, the other's came not at all.

Going over to the bed, Crispin drew theunconscious trooper's tuck-sword. Hepaused for a moment to bend over theman's face; his breath came faintly, andCrispin knew that ere many moments were

sped he would regain consciousness. Hesmiled grimly to see how well he hadperformed his work of suffocation withoutyet utterly destroying life.

Sword in hand, he returned to Kennethand the parson. The Puritan's struggleswere already becoming mere spasmodictwitchings; his face was as ghastly as thetrooper's had been a while ago.

"Release him, Kenneth," said Crispinshortly.

"He struggles still.""Release him, I say," Galliard repeated,

and stooping he caught the lad's wrist andcompelled 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 fromthe water. Even now that his throat wasfree he appeared to struggle for a momentbefore he could draw breath. Then he tookit in panting gulps until it seemed that hemust choke in his gluttony of air.

"Fore George," quoth Crispin, "I wasno more than in time. Another second, andwe should have had him, too, unconscious.There, he is recovering."

The blood was receding from theswollen veins of the parson's head, andhis cheeks were paling to their normalhue. Anon they went yet paler than theirwont, as Galliard rested the point of hissword against the fellow's neck.

"Make sound or movement," saidCrispin coldly, "and I'll pin you to thefloor like a beetle. Obey me, and no harmshall 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 beseechyou remove your sword. Your hand mightslip, sir," he whined, a wild terror in hiseyes.

Where now was the deep bass of hiswhilom accents? Where now thegrotesque majesty of his bearing, and theimpressive gestures that erstwhile hadaccompanied his words of denunciation?

"Your hand might slip, sir," he whinedagain.

"It might—and, by Gad, it shall if I hear

more from you. So that you are discreetand obedient, have no fear of my hand."Then, still keeping his eye upon thefellow: "Kenneth," he said, "attend to thecrop-ear yonder, he will be recovering.Truss him with the bedclothes, and gaghim with his scarf. See to it, Kenneth, anddo it well, but leave his nostrils free thathe may breathe."

Kenneth carried out Galliard's ordersswiftly and effectively, what time Crispinremained standing over the recumbentminister. At length, when Kennethannounced that it was done, he bade thePuritan rise.

"But have a care," he added, "or youshall taste the joys of the Paradise youpreach of. Come, sir parson; afoot!"

A prey to a fear that compelledunquestioning obedience, the fellow rosewith alacrity.

"Stand there, sir. So," commandedCrispin, his point within an inch of theman's Geneva bands. "Take your kerchief,Kenneth, and pinion his wrists behindhim."

That done, Crispin bade the ladunbuckle and remove the parson's belt.Next he ordered that man of texts to beseated upon their only chair, and with thatsame belt he commanded Kenneth to straphim to it. When at length the Puritan wassafely bound, Crispin lowered his rapier,and seated himself upon the table edgebeside him.

"Now, sir parson," quoth he, "let us talk

a while. At your first outcry I shall hurryyou into that future world whither it isyour mission to guide the souls of others.Maybe you'll find it a better world topreach of than to inhabit, and so, for yourown sake, I make no doubt you will obeyme. To your honour, to your good senseand a parson's natural horror of a lie, Ilook for truth in answer to what questionsI may set you. Should I find you deceivingme, sir, I shall see that your falsehoodovertakes you." And eloquently raising hisblade, he intimated the exact course hewould adopt. "Now, sir, attend to me.How soon are our friends likely todiscover this topsy-turvydom?"

"When they come for you," answeredthe parson meekly.

"And how soon, O prophet, will theycome?"

"In an hour's time, or thereabout,"replied the Puritan, glancing towards thewindow as he spoke. Galliard followedhis glance, and observed that the light wasgrowing perceptibly stronger.

"Aye," he commented, "in an hour'stime there should be light enough to hangus by. Is there no chance of anyone comingsooner?"

"None that I can imagine. The onlyother occupants of the house are a party ofhalf a dozen troopers in the guardroombelow."

"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 andhanging-time?"

"I cannot say for sure, but I think not.The guard was relieved just before Icame."

"And the men in the guardroom—answer me truthfully, O Elijah—whatmanner of watch are they keeping?"

"Alas, sir, they have drunk enough thisnight to put a rakehelly Cavalier to shame.I was but exhorting them."

When Kenneth had removed thePuritan's girdle, a small Bible—such asmen of his calling were wont to carry—had dropped out. This Kenneth had placedupon 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 ofhis belief, he had answered accurately.

"That is well, sir. And now, though itgrieve me to cause you some slightdiscomfort, I must ensure your silence, myfriend."

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

"Now, Kenneth," said he, turning to thelad. Then he stopped abruptly as if smittenby a sudden thought. Presently—"Kenneth," he continued in a different

tone, "a while ago I mind me you said thatwere your liberty restored you, you wouldjoin hands with me in punishing theevildoers 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, hetold himself, and as he realized how vile,his impulse was to say no more; toabandon the suddenly formed project andto trust to his own unaided wits and hands.But as again he thought of the vast use thislad would be to him—this lad who wasthe betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn—he sawthat the matter was not one hastily to bejudged and dismissed. Carefully heweighed it in the balance of his mind. Onthe one hand was the knowledge that did

they succeed in making good their escape,Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter tohis friends the Ashburns—the usurpers ofCastle Marleigh. What then more naturalthan his taking with him the man who hadhelped him to escape, and who shared hisown danger of recapture? And with soplausible a motive for admission to CastleMarleigh, how easy would not hisvengeance become? He might at first weanhimself into their good graces, andafterwards—

Before his mental eyes there unfoldeditself the vista of a great revenge; one thatshould be worthy of him, andcommensurate with the foul deed thatcalled 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 wouldwithhold—a promise the lad wouldreadily give, and yet, one that he mustsooner die than enter into, did he but knowwhat manner of fulfilment would beexacted. It amounted to betraying the ladinto a betrayal of his friends—the peopleof his future wife. Whatever the issue forCrispin, 'twas odds Kenneth's prospect ofwedding this Cynthia would be blightedfor all time by the action into whichGalliard proposed to thrust him allunconscious.

So stood the case in Galliard's mind,and the scales fell now on one side, nowon the other. But against his scruples rosethe memory of the treatment which the lad

had meted out to him that night; theharshness of the boy's judgment; theirrevocable contempt wherein he hadclearly seen that he was held by thisfatuous milksop. All this aroused hisrancour now, and steeled his heart againstthe voice of honour. What was this boy tohim, he asked himself, that he shouldforego for him the accomplishing of hisdesigns? How had this lad earned anyconsideration from him? What did he owehim? Naught! Still, he would not decide inhaste.

It was characteristic of the man whomKenneth held to be destitute of allhonourable principles, to stand thus in themidst of perils, when every second thatsped lessened their chances of escape,turning over in his mind calmly and

collectedly a point of conduct. It was inhis passions only that Crispin wasungovernable, in violence only that he wasswift—in all things else was hedeliberate.

Of this Kenneth had now a proof that sethim quaking with impatient fear.Anxiously, his hands clenched and hisface pale, he watched his companion, whostood with brows knit in thought, and hisgrey eyes staring at the ground. At lengthhe could brook that, to him,incomprehensible and mad delay nolonger.

"Sir Crispin," he whispered, plucking athis sleeve; "Sir Crispin."

The knight flashed him a glance thatwas almost of anger. Then the fire died

out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. Inthat second's glance he had seen the lad'sface; the fear and impatience written on ithad disgusted him, and caused the scalesto fall suddenly and definitely against theboy.

"I was thinking how it might beaccomplished," 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 Kennethimpatiently.

Noting the lad's growing fears, andresolved now upon his course, Galliardset himself to play upon them until terrorshould render the boy as wax in his hands.

"There speaks your callowinexperience," said he, with a pityingsmile. "When you shall have lived as longas I have done, and endured as much;when you shall have set your wits to thesaving of your life as often as have I—youwill have learnt that haste is fatal to allenterprises. Failure means the forfeiture ofsomething; tonight it would mean theforfeiture of our lives, and it were a pityto let such good efforts as these"—andwith a wave of the hand he indicated theirtwo captors—"go wasted."

"Sir," exclaimed Kenneth, well-nighbeside 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 tochoose between the door and thewindow."

And with that Crispin turned his backupon his companion and crossed to thebed, where the trooper lay glaring in muteanger. He stooped, and unbuckling thesoldier's swordbelt—to which thescabbard was attached—he girt himselfwith it. Without raising his eyes, andkeeping his back to Kenneth, who stoodbetween him and the door, he went next tothe table, and, taking up the sword that hehad left there, he restored it to the sheath.As the hilt clicked against the mouth of thescabbard:

"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 thatwere we to regain our liberty you wouldaid me in the task of vengeance that liesbefore me."

"Once already have I answered you thatit 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 lightlygiven. If we escape I may fairly claim tohave saved your life, 'twixt what I havedone 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 whichI must accomplish, that which the hope ofaccomplishing is the only spur to my ownescape."

"You have my promise!" cried the lad."Do not give it lightly, Kenneth," said

Crispin gravely. "It may cause you muchdiscomfort, 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 everyhope of salvation, swear that if I bear youalive out of this house you will devoteyourself to me and to my task ofvengeance until it shall be accomplishedor until I perish; swear that you will setaside all personal matters and inclinationsof your own, to serve me when I shall callupon you. Swear that, and, in return, I willgive my life if need be to save yours to-night, in which case you will be releasedfrom your oath without more ado."

The lad paused a moment. Crispin was

so impressive, the oath he imposed sosolemn, that for an instant the boyhesitated. His cautious, timid naturewhispered to him that perchance he shouldknow more of this matter ere he boundhimself so irrevocably. But Crispin,noting the hesitation, stifled it byappealing to the lad's fears.

"Resolve yourself," he exclaimedabruptly. "It grows light, and the time forhaste is come."

"I swear!" answered Kenneth,overcome by his impatience. "I swear, bymy honour, my faith, and my every hope ofheaven to lend you my aid, when and howyou may demand it, until your task beaccomplished."

Crispin took the Bible from the boy's

hands, and replaced it on the table. Hislips were pressed tight, and he avoidedthe lad's eyes.

"You shall not find me wanting in mypart of the bargain," he muttered, as hetook up the soldier's cloak and hat."Come, take that parson's steeple hat andhis cloak, and let us be going."

He crossed to the door, and opening ithe peered down the passage. A moment hestood listening. All was still. Then heturned again. In the chamber the steelylight of the breaking day was renderingmore yellow still the lanthorn's yellowflame.

"Fare you well, sir parson," he said."Forgive me the discomfort I have beenforced to put upon you, and pray for the

success of our escape. Commend me toOliver 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 passagehe closed it softly after them, and turnedthe key in the lock.

"Come," he said again, and led the wayto the stairs, Kenneth tiptoeing after himwith wildly beating heart.

CHAPTER X. THEESCAPE

Treading softly, and with ears strainingfor the slightest sound, the two mendescended to the first floor of the house.They heard nothing to alarm them as theycrept down, and not until they paused onthe first landing to reconnoitre did theyeven catch the murmur of voices issuingfrom the guardroom below. So muffledwas the sound that Crispin guessed howmatters stood even before he had lookedover the balusters into the hall beneath.The faint grey of the dawn was the onlylight that penetrated the gloom of that pit.

"The Fates are kind, Kenneth," hewhispered. "Those fools sit with closeddoors. Come."

But Kenneth laid his hand uponGalliard's sleeve. "What if the doorshould open as we pass?"

"Someone will die," muttered Crispinback. "But pray God that it may not. Wemust run the risk."

"Is there no other way?""Why, yes," returned Galliard

sardonically, "we can linger here until weare taken. But, oddslife, I'm not sominded. 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 ofthe house was broken by a loud knock

upon the street door. Instantly—as thoughthey had been awaiting it there was a stirof feet below and the bang of anoverturned chair; then a shaft of yellowlight fell athwart the darkness of the hallas the guardroom door was opened.

"Back!" growled Galliard. "Back,man!"

They were but in time. Peering over thebalusters they saw two troopers pass outof the guardroom, and cross the hall to thedoor. A bolt was drawn and a chainrattled, then followed the creak of hinges,and on the stone flags rang the footstepsand the jingling of spurs of those thatentered.

"Is all well?" came a voice, whichCrispin recognized as Colonel Pride's,

followed by an affirmative reply from oneof the soldiers.

"Hath a minister visited themalignants?"

"Master Toneleigh is with them evennow."

In the hall Crispin could now make outthe figures of Colonel Pride and of threemen who came with him. But he had scantleisure to survey them, for the colonel wasin haste.

"Come, sirs," he heard him say, "lightme to their garret. I would see them—leastways, one of them, before he dies.They are to hang where the Moabiteshanged Gives yesterday. Had I my way...But, there lead on, fellow."

"Oh, God!" gasped Kenneth, as the

soldier set foot upon the stairs. Under hisbreath Crispin swore a terrific oath. Foran instant it seemed to him there wasnaught left but to stand there and awaitrecapture. Through his mind it flashed thatthey were five, and he but one; for hiscompanion was unarmed.

With that swiftness which thought alonecan compass did he weigh the odds, andjudge his chances. He realized howdesperate they were did he remain, andeven as he thought he glanced sharplyround.

Dim indeed was the light, but his sightwas keen, and quickened by theimminence of danger. Partly his eyes andpartly his instinct told him that not sixpaces behind him there must be a door,

and if Heaven pleased it should beunlocked, behind it they must look forshelter. It even crossed his mind in thatsecond of crowding, galloping thought,that perchance the room might beoccupied. That was a risk he must take—the lesser risk of the two, the choice ofone of which was forced upon him. Hehad determined all this ere the soldier'sfoot was upon the third step of thestaircase, and before the colonel hadcommenced the ascent. Kenneth stoodpalsied with fear, gazing like onefascinated at the approaching peril.

Then upon his ear fell the fiercewhisper: "Come with me, and tread lightlyas you love your life."

In three long strides, and by steps that

were softer than a cat's, Crispin crossed tothe door which he had rather guessed thanseen. He ran his hand along until he caughtthe latch. Softly he tried it; it gave, and thedoor opened. Kenneth was by then besidehim. He paused to look back.

On the opposite wall the light of thetrooper's lanthorn fell brightly. Anothermoment and the fellow would havereached and turned the corner of the stairs,and his light must reveal them to him. Butere that instant was passed Crispin haddrawn his companion through, and closedthe door as softly as he had opened it. Thechamber was untenanted and almost bareof furniture, at which discovery Crispinbreathed more freely.

They stood there, and heard the

ascending footsteps, and the clank-clankof a sword against the stair-rail. A bar ofyellow light came under the door thatsheltered them. Stronger it grew andfarther it crept along the floor; thenstopped and receded again, as he whobore the lanthorn turned and began toclimb to the second floor. An instant laterand the light had vanished, eclipsed bythose who followed in the fellow's wake.

"The window, Sir Crispin," criedKenneth, in an excited whisper—"thewindow!"

"No," answered Crispin calmly. "Thedrop is a long one, and we should but lightin the streets, and be little better than weare here. Wait."

He listened. The footsteps had turned

the corner leading to the floor above. Heopened 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, andthen 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. Inpassing he glanced over the rails. Theguardroom door stood ajar, and he caughtthe murmurs of subdued conversation. Buthe did not pause. Had the door stood widehe would not have paused then. There wasnot a second to be lost; to wait was toincrease the already overwhelmingdanger. Cautiously, and leaning well uponthe stout baluster, he began the descent.Kenneth followed him mechanically, with

white face and a feeling of suffocation inhis throat.

They gained the corner, and turning,they began what was truly the perilouspart of their journey. Not more than adozen steps were there; but at the bottomstood the guardroom door, and through thechink of its opening a shaft of light fellupon the nethermost step. Once a staircreaked, and to their quickened senses itsounded like a pistol-shot. As loud toCrispin sounded the indrawn breath ofapprehension from Kenneth that followedit. He had almost paused to curse the ladwhen, thinking him of how time pressed,he went on.

Within three steps of the bottom werethey, and they could almost distinguish

what was being said in the room, whenCrispin stopped, and turning his head toattract Kenneth's attention, he pointedstraight across the hall to a dimly visibledoor. It was that of the chamber whereinhe had been brought before Cromwell. Itsposition had occurred to him somemoments before, and he had determinedthen upon going that way.

The lad followed the indication of hisfinger, and signified by a nod that heunderstood. Another step Galliarddescended; then from the guardroom camea loud yawn, to send the boy coweringagainst the wall. It was followed by thesound of someone rising; a chair gratedupon the floor, and there was a movementof feet within the chamber. Had Kennethbeen alone, of a certainty terror would

have frozen him to the wall.But the calm, unmovable Crispin

proceeded as if naught had chanced; heargued that even if he who had risen werecoming towards the door, there wasnothing to be gained by standing still.Their only chance lay now in passingbefore it might be opened.

They that walk through perils in a braveman's company cannot but gain confidencefrom the calm of his demeanour. So was itnow with Kenneth. The steady onwardmarch of that tall, lank figure before himdrew him irresistibly after it despite histremors. And well it was for him that thiswas so. They gained the bottom of thestaircase at length; they stood beside thedoor of the guardroom, they passed it in

safety. Then slowly—painfully slowly—to avoid their steps from ringing upon thestone floor, they crept across towards thedoor that meant safety to Sir Crispin.Slowly, step by step, they moved, andwith every stride Crispin looked behindhim, prepared to rush the moment he hadsign they were discovered. But it was notneeded. In silence and in safety they werepermitted to reach the door. To Crispin'sjoy it was unfastened. Quietly he openedit, then with calm gallantry he motioned tohis companion to go first, holding it forhim as he passed in, and keeping watchwith eye and ear the while.

Scarce had Kenneth entered thechamber when from above came the soundof loud and excited voices, announcing tothem that their flight was at last

discovered. It was responded to by a rushof feet in the guardroom, and Crispin hadbut time to dart in after his companion andclose the door ere the troopers poured outinto the hall and up the stairs, withconfused shouts that something must beamiss.

Within the room that sheltered himCrispin chuckled, as he ran his hand alongthe edge of the door until he found thebolt, and softly shot it home.

"'Slife," he muttered, "'twas a closething! Aye, shout, you cuckolds," he wenton. "Yell yourselves hoarse as the crowsyou are! You'll hang us where Gives arehanged, will you?"

Kenneth tugged at the skirts of hisdoublet. "What now?" he inquired.

"Now," said Crispin, "we'll leave bythe window, if it please you."

They crossed the room, and a momentor two later they had dropped on to thenarrow railed pathway overlooking theriver, which Crispin had observed fromtheir prison window the evening before.He had observed, too, that a small boatwas moored at some steps about ahundred yards farther down the stream,and towards that spot he now sped alongthe footpath, followed closely by Kenneth.The path sloped in that direction, so thatby the time the spot was reached the waterflowed not more than six feet or sobeneath them. Half a dozen steps tookthem down this to the moorings of thatboat, which fortunately had not beenremoved.

"Get in, Kenneth," Crispin commanded."There, I'll take the oars, and I'll keepunder shelter of the bank lest thoseblunderers should bethink them of lookingout of our prison window. Oddswounds,Kenneth, I am hungry as a wolf, and as dry—ough, as dry as Dives when he beggedfor a sup of water. Heaven send we comeupon some good malignant homestead erewe go far, where a Christian may find ameal and a stoup of ale. 'Tis a miracle Ihad strength enough to crawl downstairs.Swounds, but an empty stomach is acraven comrade in a desperate enterprise.Hey! Have a care, boy. Now, sink me ifthis milksop hasn't fainted!"

CHAPTER XI. THEASHBURNS

Gregory Ashburn pushed back his chairand made shift to rise from the table atwhich he and his brother had but dined.

He was a tall, heavily built man, with acoarse, florid countenance set in a frameof reddish hair that hung straight and limp.In the colour of their hair lay the onlypoint of resemblance between thebrothers. For the rest Joseph was spareand of middle weight, pale of face, thin-lipped, and owning a cunning expressionthat was rendered very evil by virtue ofthe slight cast in his colourless eyes.

In earlier life Gregory had not beenunhandsome; debauchery and sloth hadpuffed and coarsened him. Joseph, on theother hand, had never been aught but ill-favoured.

"Tis a week since Worcester field wasfought," grumbled Gregory, looking lazilysideways at the mullioned windows as hespoke, "and never a word from the lad."

Joseph shrugged his narrow shouldersand sneered. It was Joseph's habit to sneerwhen he spoke, and his words were wontto fit the sneer.

"Doth the lack of news trouble you?" heasked, glancing across the table at hisbrother.

Gregory rose without meeting thatglance.

"Truth to tell it does trouble me," hemuttered.

"And yet," quoth Joseph, "tis a naturalthing enough. When battles are fought it isnot uncommon for men to die."

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

"If he were among the fallen—if hewere dead then indeed the matter wouldbe 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 thewainscot.

To the two men in that rich chamber ofCastle Marleigh was borne the sound—softened by distance of a girlish voicemerrily 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 havingfallen."

"Gadswounds, sir, did your daughtergive the fellow a thought she must beanxious. A week yesterday since thebattle, and no word from him. I dareswear, Gregory, there's little in that towarrant his mistress singing."

"Cynthia is young—a child. She reasonsnot 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 withthe other the rich colour of the wine. Notthat Joseph was curious touching thatcolour, but he was a juggler in gestures,and at that moment he could think of noother whereby he might so naturallyconvey the utter indifference of hisfeelings in the matter.

"Joseph, you are wrong," said Gregory,turning his back upon the window andfacing his brother. "It is not all one. Whatif he return some day?"

"Oh, what if—what if—what if!" criedJoseph testily. "Gregory, what a casuistyou might have been had not nature madeyou a villain! You are as full of "what ifs" as an egg of meat. Well what if someday 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 Kennethwere slain or not. If he is a prisoner, thenwe must exert ourselves to win hisfreedom."

"Plague take it," Joseph burst out. "Whyall this ado? Why did you ever loose thatgraceless whelp from his Scottish moor?"

Gregory sighed with an air of resignedpatience.

"I have more reasons than one," heanswered slowly. "If you need that I recitethem 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 canserve me in this."

"I wait but to learn how.""Then go to Cromwell, at Windsor or

wherever he may be, and seek to learnfrom him if Kenneth is a prisoner. If he isnot, 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 suddenvigour.

"Pish! you are womanish.""Nay, Joseph, I am old. I am in the

autumn of my days, and I would see thesetwo 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, duringwhich the brothers eyed each other,Gregory with a sternness before whichJoseph's mocking eye was forced at lengthto fall.

"Joseph, you shall go to the LordGeneral."

"Well," said Joseph weakly, "we willsay that I go. But if Kenneth be a prisoner,what then?"

"You must beg his liberty fromCromwell. 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 achange, and the wind carries an edge thatwill arouse every devil of rheumatism inmy bones. I am not a lad, Gregory, andtravelling at this season is no small matterfor a man of fifty."

Gregory approached the table, andleaning his hand upon it:

"Will you go?" he asked, squarelyeyeing his brother.

Joseph fell a-pondering. He knewGregory to be a man of fixed ideas, and hebethought him that were he now to refusehe would be hourly plagued by Gregory'sspeculations touching the boy's fate and

recriminations touching his ownselfishness. On the other hand, however,the journey daunted him. He was not aman to sacrifice his creature comforts, andto be asked to sacrifice them to a merewhim, a shadow, added weight to hisinclination to refuse the undertaking.

"Since you have the matter so much atheart," said he at length, "does it not occurto you that you could plead with greaterfervour, and be the likelier to succeed?"

"You know that Cromwell will lend amore willing ear to you than to me—perchance because you know so well uponoccasion how to weave your stock of textsinto your discourse," he added with asneer. "Will you go, Joseph?"

"Bethink you that we know not where

he is. I may have to wander for weeks o'erthe face of England."

"Will you go?" Gregory repeated."Oh, a pox on it," broke out Joseph,

rising suddenly. "I'll go since naught elsewill quiet you. I'll start to-morrow."

"Joseph, I am grateful. I shall be moregrateful 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. "Whatsignifies a day?" he whined.

But Gregory stood his ground untilalmost out of self-protection the otherconsented 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 forthe amount of discomfort which he wasabout to endure on his behoof, he went toprepare for the journey.

Gregory lingered still in the chamberwhere they had dined, and sat staringmoodily before him at the table-linen.Anon, with a half-laugh of contempt, hefilled a glass of muscadine, and drained it.As he set down the glass the door opened,and on the threshold stood a very daintygirl, whose age could not be more thantwenty. Gregory looked on the fresh, ovalface, with its wealth of brown haircrowning the low, broad forehead, andtold himself that in his daughter he had just

cause for pride. He looked again, and toldhimself that his brother was right; she hadnot the air of a maid whose lover returnsnot from the wars. Her lips were smiling,and the eyes—low-lidded and blue as theheavens—were bright with mirth.

"Why sit you there so glum," she cried,"whilst my uncle, they tell me, is going ona journey?"

Gregory was minded to put her feelingsto the test.

"Kenneth," he replied with significantemphasis, watching her closely.

The mirth faded from her eyes, and theytook on a grave expression that added totheir charm. But Gregory had looked forfear, leastways deep concern, and in thishe was disappointed.

"What of him, father?" she asked,approaching.

"Naught, and that's the rub. It is time wehad news, and as none comes, your unclegoes to seek it."

"Think you that ill can have befallenhim?"

Gregory was silent a moment, weighinghis answer. Then

"We hope not, sweetheart," said he."He may be a prisoner. We last had newsof him from Worcester, and 'tis a weekand more since the battle was fought there.Should he be a captive, your uncle hassufficient influence to obtain hisenlargement."

Cynthia sighed, and moved towards thewindow.

"Poor Kenneth," she murmured gently."He may be wounded."

"We shall soon learn," he answered.His disappointment grew keener; wherehe had looked for grief he found no morethan an expression of pitying concern. Norwas his disappointment lessened when,after a spell of thoughtful silence, shebegan to comment upon the condition ofthe trees in the park below. Gregory had itin his mind to chide her for this lack ofinterest in the fate of her intendedhusband, but he let the impulse passunheeded. After all, if Kenneth lived sheshould marry him. Hitherto she had beendocile and willing enough to be guided byhim; she had even displayed a kindnessfor Kenneth; no doubt she would do soagain when Joseph returned with him—

unless he were among the Worcester slain,in which case, perhaps, it would provebest that his fate was not to cause her anyprostration of grief.

"The sky is heavy, father," said Cynthiafrom the window. "Poor uncle! He willhave rough weather for his journey."

"I rejoice that someone wastes pity onpoor uncle," growled Joseph, who re-entered, "this uncle whom your fatherdrives out of doors in all weathers to lookfor 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 thosepretty eyes should weep away theirbeauty."

Gregory's glance reproved this sneer ofJoseph's, whereupon Joseph drew close tohim:

"Broken-hearted, is she not?" hemuttered, to which Gregory returned noanswer.

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

"Come, now," said he, "you see thatmatters are as I said."

"And yet," replied Gregory sternly, "Ihope to see you return with the boy. It willbe better so."

Joseph shrugged his shoulderscontemptuously. Then, taking leave of hisbrother and his niece, he rode out with

two grooms at his heels, and took the roadSouth.

CHAPTER XII. THEHOUSE THAT WAS

ROLANDMARLEIGH'S

It was high noon next day, and GregoryAshburn was taking the air upon the nobleterrace of Castle Marleigh, when the beatof hoofs, rapidly approaching up theavenue, arrested his attention. He stoppedin his walk, and, turning, sought todiscover who came. His first thought wasof his brother; his second, of Kenneth.Through the half-denuded trees he madeout two mounted figures, riding side by

side; and from the fact of there being two,he adduced that this could not be Josephreturning.

Even as he waited he was joined byCynthia, who took her stand beside him,and voiced the inquiry that was in hismind. But her father could no more thananswer that he hoped it might be Kenneth.

Then the horsemen passed from behindthe screen of trees and came into theclearing before the terrace, and unto thewaiting glances of Ashburn and hisdaughter was revealed a curiouslybedraggled and ill-assorted pair. The oneriding slightly in advance looked like aPuritan of the meaner sort, in his batteredsteeple-hat and cloak of rusty black. Theother was closely wrapped in a red

mantle, uptilted behind by a sword ofprodigious length, and for all that hisbroad, grey hat was unadorned by anyfeather, it was set at a rakish, ruffling,damn-me angle that pronounced him nolikely comrade for the piously clad youthbeside him.

But beneath that brave red cloak—alack!—as was presently seen when theydismounted, that gentleman was in a sorryplight. He wore a leather jerkin, so cutand soiled that any groom might havedisdained it; a pair of green breeches,frayed to their utmost; and coarse boots ofuntanned leather, adorned by rusty spurs.

On the terrace Gregory paused amoment to call his groom to attend thenew-comers, then he passed down the

steps to greet Kenneth with boisterouseffusion. Behind him, slow and stately asa woman of twice her years, cameCynthia. Calm was her greeting of herlover, contained in courteous expressionsof pleasure at beholding him safe, andsuffering him to kiss her hand.

In the background, his sable locksuncovered out of deference to the lady,stood Sir Crispin, his face pale andhaggard, his lips parted, and his grey eyesburning as they fell again, after the lapseof 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 handsresting upon Kenneth's shoulder.

"We have been much exercised

concerning you, lad," he was saying. "Wealmost feared the worst, and yesterdayJoseph left us to seek news of you atCromwell's hands. Where have youtarried?"

"Anon, sir; you shall learn anon. Thestory is a long one."

"True; you will be tired, and perchanceyou would first rest a while. Cynthia willsee to it. But what scarecrow have youthere? What tatterdemalion is this?" hecried, pointing to Galliard. He hadimagined him a servant, but the dull flushthat overspread Sir Crispin's face told himof his error.

"I would have you know, sir," Crispinbegan, with some heat, when Kennethinterrupted him.

"Tis to this gentleman, sir, that I owemy presence here. He was my fellow-prisoner, and but for his quick wit andstout arm I should be stiff by now. Anon,sir, you shall hear the story of it, and Idare swear it will divert you. Thisgentleman is Sir Crispin Galliard, lately acaptain of horse with whom I served inMiddleton's Brigade."

Crispin bowed low, conscious of thekeen scrutiny in which Gregory's eyeswere bent upon him. In his heart therearose a fear that, haply after all, the yearsthat were sped had not wrought sufficientchange in him.

"Sir Crispin Galliard," Ashburn wassaying, after the manner of one who issearching his memory. "Galliard, Galliard

—not he whom they called 'RakehellyGalliard,' and who gave us such trouble inthe late King's time?"

Crispin breathed once more. Ashburn'sscrutiny was explained.

"The same, sir," he answered, with asmile and a fresh bow. "Your servant, sir;and yours, madam."

Cynthia looked with interest at the lank,soldierly figure. She, too, had heard—aswho had not?—wild stories of this man'sachievements. But of no feat of his had shebeen told that could rival that of hisescape from Worcester; and when, thatsame evening, Kenneth related it, as theysupped, her low-lidded eyes grew verywide, 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. Sheloved the poets and their songs of greatdeeds; and here was one who, in the lightof that which they related of him, was likean incarnation of some hero out of aromancer's ballad.

Kenneth she never yet had held in overhigh esteem; but of a sudden, in thepresence of this harsh-featured dog ofwar, this grim, fierce-eyed ruffler, heseemed to fade, despite his comeliness offace and form, into a poor and punyinsignificance. And when, presently, heunwisely related how, when in the boat hehad fainted, the maiden laughed outrightfor very scorn.

At this plain expression of contempt,her father shot her a quick, uneasy glance.Kenneth stopped short, bringing hisnarrative abruptly to a close.Reproachfully he looked at her, turningfirst red, then white, as anger chasedannoyance through his soul. Galliardlooked on with quiet relish; her laugh hadcontained that which for days he hadcarried in his heart. He drained hisbumper slowly, and made no attempt torelieve the awkward silence that sat uponthe company.

Truth to tell, there was emotion enoughin the soul of him who was wont to be thelife of every board he sat at to hold himsilent and even moody.

Here, after eighteen years, was he again

in his ancestral home of Marleigh. Buthow was he returned? As one who cameunder a feigned name, to seek fromusurping hands a shelter 'neath his ownroof; a beggar of that from others which itshould have been his to grant or to denythose others. As an avenger he came. Forjustice he came, and armed withretribution; the flame of a hateunspeakable burning in his heart, anddemanding the lives—no less—of thosethat had destroyed him and his. Yet was heforced to sit a mendicant almost at thatboard whose head was his by every right;forced to sit and curb his mood, giving nooutward sign of the volcano that boiledand raged within his soul as his eye fellupon the florid, smiling face and portly,well-fed frame of Gregory Ashburn. For

the time was not yet. He must wait; waituntil Joseph's return, so that he mightspend his vengeance upon both together.

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

He drank deep that night, and throughdeep drinking his manner thawed—for inhis cups it was not his to be churlish tofriend or foe. Anon Cynthia withdrew;next Kenneth, who went in quest of her.Still Crispin sat on, and drank his host'shealth above his breath, and his perditionunder it, till in the end Gregory, who

never yet had found his master at thebottle, grew numb and drowsy, and satblinking at the tapers.

Until midnight they remained at table,talking of this and that, and eachunderstanding little of what the other said.As the last hour of night boomed outthrough the great hall, Gregory spoke ofbed.

"Where do I lie to-night?" askedCrispin.

"In the northern wing," answeredGregory with a hiccough.

"Nay, sir, I protest," cried Galliard,struggling to his feet, and swayingsomewhat as he stood. "I'll sleep in theKing's chamber, none other."

"The King's chamber?" echoed

Gregory, and his face showed theconfused struggles of his brain. "Whatknow you of the King's chamber?"

"That it faces the east and the sea, andthat it is the chamber I love best."

"What can you know of it since, I takeit, you have never seen it!"

"Have I not?" he began, in a voice thatwas awful in its threatening calm. Then,recollecting himself, and shaking some ofthe drunkenness from him: "In the olddays, when the Marleighs were mastershere," he mumbled, "I was often withinthese walls. Roland Marleigh was myfriend. The King's chamber was everaccorded me, and there, for old time'ssake, 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 hisface. The sound of that name had well-nigh sobered him. It was almost as if theghost of Roland Marleigh stood beforehim. His knees were loosened, and hesank back into the chair from which he hadbut risen.

"Aye, I was his friend!" assentedCrispin. "Poor Roland! He married yoursister, did he not, and it was thus that,having no issue and the family beingextinct, Castle Marleigh passed to you?"

"He married our cousin," Gregoryamended. "They were an ill-fated family."

"Ill-fated, indeed, an all accounts betrue," returned Crispin in a maudlin voice.

"Poor Roland! Well, for old time's sake,I'll sleep in the King's chamber, MasterAshburn."

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

"Do you look to honour us long atCastle Marleigh, Sir Crispin?" wasGregory's last question before separatingfrom his guest.

"Nay, sir, 'tis likely I shall go hence to-morrow," answered Crispin, unmindful ofwhat he said.

"I trust not," said Gregory, in accents ofrelief that belied him. "A friend of RolandMarleigh's must ever be welcome in thehouse that was Roland Marleigh's."

"The house that was RolandMarleigh's," Crispin muttered. "Heigho!

Life is precarious as the fall of a die atbest an ephemeral business. To-night yousay the house that was Roland Marleigh's;presently men will be saying the housethat the Ashburns lived—aye, and died—in. Give you good night, Master Ashburn."

He staggered off, and stumbled up thebroad staircase at the head of which aservant now awaited, taper in hand, toconduct him to the chamber he demanded.

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

CHAPTER XIII. THEMETAMORPHOSIS

OF KENNETHWhen the morrow came, however, Sir

Crispin showed no signs of carrying outhis proposal of the night before, anddeparting from Castle Marleigh. Nor,indeed, did he so much as touch upon thesubject, bearing himself rather as onewhose sojourn there was to be indefinite.

Gregory offered no comment upon this;through what he had done for Kenneth theywere under a debt to Galliard, and whilsthe was a fugitive from the Parliament's

justice it would ill become Gregory tohasten his departure. Moreover, Gregoryrecalled little or nothing of the words thathad passed between them in their cups,save a vague memory that Crispin hadsaid that he had once known RolandMarleigh.

Kenneth was content that Galliardshould lie idle, and not call upon him togo forth again to lend him the aid he hadpledged himself to render when Crispinshould demand it. He marvelled, as thedays wore on, that Galliard should appearto have forgotten that task of his, and thathe should make no shift to set about it. Forthe rest, however, it troubled him butlittle; enough preoccupation did he find inCynthia's daily increasing coldness. Uponall the fine speeches that he made her she

turned an idle ear, or if she replied at all itwas but petulantly to interrupt them, tocall him a man of great words and smalldeeds. All that he did she found ill done,and told him of it. His sober, godlygarments of sombre hue afforded her thefirst weapon of scorn wherewith to woundhim. A crow, she dubbed him; a canting,psalm-chanting hypocrite; a Scripture-monger, and every other contumeliousepithet of like import that she should callto mind. He heard her in amazement.

"Is it for you, Cynthia," he cried out inhis surprise, "the child of a God-fearinghouse, to mock the outward symbols of myfaith?"

"A faith," she laughed, "that is alloutward 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 atrue faith of outward symbols? It is amatter that lies between your God andyourself, and it is your heart He will lookat, not your coat. Why, then, withoutbecoming more acceptable in His eyes,shall you but render yourself unsightly inthe eyes of man?"

Kenneth's cheeks were flushed withanger. From the terrace where theywalked he let his glance roam towards theavenue that split the park in twain. Up thisat that moment, with the least suspicion ofa swagger in his gait, Sir Crispin Galliardwas approaching leisurely; he wore a

claret-coloured doublet edged with silverlace, and a grey hat decked with adrooping red feather—which garments,together with the rest of his apparel, hehad drawn from the wardrobe of GregoryAshburn. His advent afforded Kenneth theretort he needed. Pointing him out toCynthia:

"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, aprofligate, a brawler be your conceptionof a man, I would in faith you did notaccount me one."

"And what, sir, would you sooner electto be accounted?"

"A gentleman, madam," he answeredpompously.

"I think," said she quietly, "that you arein as little danger of becoming the one asthe other. A gentleman does not slander aman behind his back, particularly when heowes that man his life. Kenneth, I amashamed of you."

"I do not slander," he insisted hotly."You yourself know of the drunken excesswherewith three nights ago he celebratedhis coming to Castle Marleigh. Nor do Iforget what I owe him, and payment is tobe made in a manner you little know of. IfI said of him what I did, it was but inanswer to your taunts. Think you I couldendure comparison with such a man asthat? Know you what name the Royalists

give him? They call him the TavernKnight."

She looked him over with an eye ofquiet scorn.

"And how, sir, do they call you? Thepulpit knight? Or is it the knight of thewhite feather? Mr. Stewart, you wearyme. I would have a man who with a man'sfailings hath also a man's redeemingvirtues of honesty, chivalry, and courage,and a record of brave deeds, rather thanone who has nothing of the man save thecoat—that outward symbol you lay suchstore by."

His handsome, weak face was red withfury.

"Since that is so, madam," he choked, "Ileave you to your swaggering, ruffling

Cavalier."And, without so much as a bow, he

swung round on his heel and left her. Itwas her turn to grow angry now, and wellit was for him that he had not tarried. Shedwelt with scorn upon his parting taunt,bethinking herself that in truth she hadexaggerated her opinions of Galliard'smerits. Her feelings towards that ungodlygentleman were rather of pity than aughtelse. A brave, ready-witted man she knewhim for, as much from the story of hisescape from Worcester as for the air thatclung to him despite his swagger, and shedeplored that one possessing theseennobling virtues should have fallennotwithstanding upon such evil ways asthose which Crispin trod. Some day,perchance, when she should come to be

better acquainted with him, she wouldseek to induce him to mend his course.

Such root did this thought take in hermind that soon thereafter—and withouthaving waited for that riper acquaintancewhich at first she had held necessary—shesought to lead their talk into the channelsof this delicate subject. But he assedulously confined it to trivial matterwhenever she approached him in thismood, fencing himself about with a wallof cold reserve that was not lightly to beoverthrown. In this his conscience was atwork. Cynthia was the flaw in thesatisfaction he might have drawn from thecontemplation of the vengeance he wasthere to wreak. He beheld her so pure, sosweet and fresh, that he marvelled howshe came to be the daughter of Gregory

Ashburn. His heart smote him at thethought of how she—the innocent—mustsuffer with the guilty, and at thecontemplation of the sorrow which hemust visit upon her. Out of this sprang aconstraint when in her company, for otherthan stiff and formal he dared not be lesthe should deem himself no better than theIscariot.

During the first days he had spent atMarleigh, he had been impatient forJoseph Ashburn's return. Now he foundhimself hoping each morning that Josephmight not come that day.

A courier reached Gregory fromWindsor with a letter wherein his brothertold him that the Lord General, not beingat the castle, he was gone on to London in

quest of him. And Gregory, lacking themeans to inform him that the missingKenneth was already returned, was forcedto possess his soul in patience until hisbrother, having learnt what was to belearnt of Cromwell, should journey home.

And so the days sped on, and a weekwore itself out in peace at CastleMarleigh, none dreaming of the volcanoon which they stood. Each night Crispinand Gregory sat together at the board afterKenneth and Cynthia had withdrawn, andboth drank deep—the one for the vice ofit, the other (as he had always done) toseek forgetfulness.

He needed it now more than ever, forhe feared that the consideration of Cynthiamight yet unman him. Had she scorned and

avoided him and having such evidences ofhis ways of life he marvelled that she didnot—he might have allowed hisconsiderations of her to weigh lessheavily. As it was, she sought him out, norseemed rebuffed at his efforts to evadeher, and in every way she manifested akindliness that drove him almost to thepoint of despair, and well-nigh to hatingher.

Kenneth, knowing naught of thewomanly purpose that actuated her, andseeing but the outward signs, which, withready jealousy, he misconstrued andmagnified, 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 bemended. Did Cynthia but speak to Crispin,he scowled; did Crispin answer her, hegrit his teeth at the covert meaningwherewith his fancy invested Crispin'stones; whilst did they chance to laughtogether—a contingency that fortunatelyfor his sanity was rare—he writhed infury. He was a man transformed, and attimes there was murder in his heart. Hadhe been a swordsman of more thanmoderate skill and dared to pit himselfagainst the Tavern Knight, blood wouldhave been shed in Marleigh Park betwixtthem.

It seemed at last as if with his insensatejealousy all the evil humours that had laindormant in the boy were brought to thesurface, to overwhelm his erstwhile

virtues—if qualities that have bigotry fora parent may truly be accounted virtues.

He cast off, not abruptly, but piecemeal,those outward symbols—his sombreclothes. First 'twas his hat he exchangedfor a feather-trimmed beaver of moresightly hue; then those stiff white bandsthat reeked of sanctity and cant for a collarof fine point; next it was his coat that tookon a worldly edge of silver lace. And so,little by little, step by step, was themetamorphosis effected, until by the endof the week he came forth a very butterflyof fashion—a gallant, dazzling Cavalier.Out of a stern, forbidding Covenanter hewas transformed in a few days into a mostoutrageous fop. He walked in anatmosphere of musk that he himselfexhaled; his fair hair—that a while ago

had hung so straight and limp—was nowtwisted into monstrous curls, a bunch ofwhich were gathered by his right ear in aribbon of pale blue silk.

Galliard noted the change inamazement, yet, knowing to what folliesyouth is driven when it woos, heaccounted Cynthia responsible for it, andlaughed in his sardonic way, whereat theboy would blush and scowl in one.Gregory, too, looked on and laughed,setting it down to the same cause. EvenCynthia smiled, whereat the TavernKnight was driven to ponder.

With a courtier's raiment Kenneth puton, too, a courtier's ways; he grewmincing and affected in his speech, and he—whose utterance a while ago had been

marked by a scriptural flavour—now set itoff with some of Galliard's less unseemlyoaths.

Since it was a ruffling gallant Cynthiarequired, he swore that a ruffling gallantshould she find him; nor had he wit enoughto see that his ribbons, his fopperies, andhis capers served but to make himridiculous in her eyes. He did indeedperceive, however, that in spite of thiswondrous transformation, he made noprogress in her favour.

"What signify these fripperies?" sheasked him, one day, "any more than didyour coat of decent black? Are these alsooutward 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. "Thesescented clothes are but a masquerade,even as your coat of black and your cantwere a masquerade. Then you simulatedgodliness; now you simulate Heavenknows what. But now, as then, it is nomore than a simulation, a pretence ofsomething that you are not."

He left her in a pet, and went in searchof Gregory, into whose ear he poured thestory of his woes that had their source inCynthia's unkindness. From this resulted a

stormy interview 'twixt Cynthia and herfather, in which Cynthia at last declaredthat she would not be wedded to a fop.

Gregory shrugged his shoulders andlaughed cynically, replying that it was theway of young men to be fools, and thatthrough folly lay the road to wisdom.

"Be that as it may," she answered himwith spirit, "this folly transcends allbounds. Master Stewart may return to hisScottish heather; at Castle Marleigh he iswasting time."

"Cynthia!" he cried."Father," she pleaded, "why be angry?

You would not have me marry against theinclinations of my heart? You would nothave me wedded to a man whom Idespise?"

"By what right do you despise him?" hedemanded, his brow dark.

"By the right of the freedom of mythoughts—the only freedom that a womanknows. For the rest it seems she is but achattel; of no more consideration to a manthan his ox or his ass with which theScriptures rank her—a thing to be given ortaken, bought or sold, as others shalldecree."

"Child, child, what know you of thesethings?" he cried. "You are overwrought,sweetheart." And with the promise to waituntil a calmer frame of mind in her shouldbe more propitious to what he wished tosay further on this score, he left her.

She went out of doors in quest ofsolitude among the naked trees of the park;

instead she found Sir Crispin, seated deepin thought upon a fallen trunk.

Through the trees she espied him as sheapproached, whilst the rustle of her gownannounced to him her coming. He rose asshe drew nigh, and, doffing his hat, madeshift 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 ananswer."

"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 pleasurethat he sought not to account for—at thethought that she should have marked hisabsence from her side.

"Because perhaps if I did not," heanswered slowly, "you might come toavoid me. I am a proud man, MistressCynthia."

"Satan, sir, was proud, but his pride ledhim 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 hechecked his tongue, and asked himselfwhat he was saying. With a half-laugh anda courtier manner, he continued, "Of twoevils, madam, we must choose the lesserone."

"Madam," she echoed, disregarding allelse that he had said. "It is an ugly word,and but a moment back you called meCynthia."

"Twas a liberty that methought my greyhairs warranted, and for which you shouldhave reproved me."

"You have not grey hairs enough to

warrant it, Sir Crispin," she answeredarchly. "But what if even so I account it noliberty?"

The heavy lids were lifted from hereyes, and as their glance, frank and kindly,met his, he trembled. Then, with a politesmile, he bowed.

"I thank you for the honour."For a moment she looked at him in a

puzzled way, then moved past him, and ashe stood, stiffly erect, watching hergraceful figure, he thought that she wasabout to leave him, and was glad of it. Butere she had taken half a dozen steps:

"Sir Crispin," said she, looking back athim over her shoulder, "I am walking tothe cliffs."

Never was a man more plainly invited

to become an escort; but he ignored it. Asad smile crept into his harsh face.

"I shall tell Kenneth if I see him," saidhe.

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 togo her way without him; but, then, shedesired his company, and Cynthia was

unused to having her desires frustrated. Sofinding him impervious to suggestion:

"Will you not come with me?" sheasked at last, point-blank.

"Why, yes, if you wish it," he answeredwithout 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 willgo with you. I am a dull fellow, and to-dayI know not what mood is on me. So sorrya one that I feared I should be poorcompany. Still, if you'll endure me, I'll domy best to prove entertaining."

"By no means," she answered coldly. "Iseek 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 laughthat was woeful with bitterness.

"Fore George!" he muttered, "it is allthat was wanting!"

He reseated himself upon the fallentree, and there he set himself to reflect,and to realize that he, war-worn andcallous, come to Castle Marleigh on suchan errand as was his, should wax sick atthe very thought of it for the sake of a chitof a maid, with a mind to make a mockand a toy of him. Into his mind thereentered even the possibility of flight,forgetful of the wrongs he had suffered,abandoning the vengeance he had sworn.

Then with an oath he stemmed histhoughts.

"God in heaven, am I a boy, beardlessand green?" he asked himself. "Am Iturned seventeen again, that to look into apair of eyes should make me forget allthings but their existence?" Then in a burstof passion: "Would to Heaven," hemuttered, "they had left me stark onWorcester Field!"

He rose abruptly, and set out to walkaimlessly along, until suddenly a turn inthe path brought him face to face withCynthia. She hailed him with a laugh.

"Sir laggard, I knew that willy-nilly youwould follow me," she cried. And he,taken aback, could not but smile inanswer, and profess that she had

conjectured rightly.

CHAPTER XIV. THEHEART OF CYNTHIA

ASHBURNSide by side stepped that oddly

assorted pair along—the maiden whosesoul was as pure and fresh as the breezethat blew upon them from the sea, and theman whose life years ago had been marredby a sorrow, the quest of whoseforgetfulness had led him through the mireof untold sin; the girl upon the threshold ofwomanhood, her life all before her andseeming to her untainted mind a joyous,wholesome business; the man midway on

his ill-starred career, his every hopeblighted save the one odious hope ofvengeance, which made him cling to a lifehe had proved worthless and ugly, and thatotherwise he had likely enough cast fromhim. And as they walked:

"Sir Crispin," she ventured timidly,"you are unhappy, are you not?"

Startled by her words and the tone ofthem, Galliard turned his head that hemight observe her.

"I, unhappy?" he laughed; and it was alaugh calculated to acknowledge thefitness of her question, rather than to refuteit as he intended. "Am I a clown, Cynthia,to own myself unhappy at such a seasonand while you honour me with yourcompany?"

She made a wry face in protest that hefenced with her.

"You are happy, then?" she challengedhim.

"What is happiness?" quoth he, much asPilate may have questioned what wastruth. Then before she could reply hehastened to add: "I have not been quite sohappy these many years."

"It is not of the present moment that Ispeak," she answered reprovingly, for shescented no more than a compliment in hiswords, "but of your life."

Now either was he imbued with a senseof modesty touching the deeds of that lifeof his, or else did he wisely realize that notheme could there be less suited todiscourse upon with an innocent maid.

"Mistress Cynthia," said he as though hehad not heard her question, "I would say aword 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 todisobey a lady. Besides, I have littleinterest in Master Stewart."

"To have little interest in a futurehusband augurs ill for the time when heshall come to be your husband."

"I thought that you, at least, understoodme. Kenneth will never be husband ofmine, Sir Crispin."

"Cynthia!" he exclaimed."Oh, lackaday! Am I to wed a doll?"

she demanded. "Is he—is he a man a maidmay love, Sir Crispin?"

"Indeed, had you but seen the half oflife that I have seen," said he unthinkingly,"it might amaze you what manner of man amaid may love—or at least may marry.Come, Cynthia, what fault do you findwith him?"

"Why, every fault."He laughed in unbelief."And whom are we to blame for all

these faults that have turned you so againsthim?"

"Whom?""Yourself, Cynthia. You use him ill,

child. If his behaviour has beenextravagant, you are to blame. You aresevere with him, and he, in his rashendeavours to present himself in a guisethat 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 youbecause—I know not because of what."

"It is ill to plead without knowing why.Let us forget the valiant Kenneth. They tellme, Sir Crispin"—and she turned herglorious eyes upon him in a manner thatmust have witched a statue into answeringher—"that in the Royal army you wereknown 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 rocksof Sheringham Hithe below.

"Oh, Cynthia! You'll kill me!" hegasped. "Picture to yourself this CrispinGalliard blushing and giggling like aschoolgirl beset by her first lover. Pictureit, I say! As well and as easily might youpicture old Lucifer warbling a litany forthe edification of a Nonconformistparson."

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 fromthe 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 alwaysthus. Time was—" He paused. "Bah! 'Tisthe coward cries "time was"! Leave methe past, Cynthia. It is dead, and of thedead we should speak no ill," he jested.

"What is there in your past?" sheinsisted, despite his words. "What is therein it so to have warped a character that Iam assured was once—is, indeed, still—of lofty and noble purpose? What is it hasbrought you to the level you occupy—youwho were born to lead; you who—"

"Have done, child. Have done," hebegged.

"Nay, tell me. Let us sit here." Andtaking hold of his sleeve, she sat herselfupon a mound, and made room for himbeside her on the grass. With a half-laughand a sigh he obeyed her, and there, on thecliff, in the glow of the September sun, hetook his seat at her side.

A silence prevailed about them,emphasized rather than broken by thedroning chant of a fisherman mending hisnets on the beach below, the intermittentplash of the waves on the shingle, and thescream of the gulls that circled overhead.Before the eyes of his flesh was stretcheda wide desert of sky and water, and beforethe eyes of his mind the hopeless desert ofhis 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 onewho perishes of thirst. A passionate,indefinable longing impelled him to pourout the story that in Worcester he hadrelated unto Kenneth, and thus to sethimself better in her eyes; to have herrealize indeed that if he was come so lowit was more the fault of others than hisown. The temptation drew him at aheadlong pace, to be checked at last by thememory that those others who had broughthim to so sorry a condition were her ownpeople. The humour passed. He laughedsoftly, 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 mustyou. Think you it is only a war-worn,hard-drinking, swashbuckling ruffler thatcan sin? Does it not also occur to you thateven a frail and tender little maid may dowrong as well?"

"What wrong have I done?" she cried inconsternation.

"A grievous wrong to this poor lad. Canyou not realize how the only desire thatgoverns him is the laudable one ofappearing favourably in your eyes?"

"That desire gives rise, then, to curiousmanifestations."

"He is mistaken in the means he adopts,that is all. In his heart his one aim is towin your esteem, and, after all, it is thesentiment that matters, not its

manifestation. Why, then, are you unkindto him?"

"But I am not unkind. Or is itunkindness to let him see that I mislike hiscapers? Would it not be vastly moreunkind to ignore them and encourage himto pursue their indulgence? I have nopatience with him."

"As for those capers, I am endeavouringto show you that you yourself have drivenhim to them."

"Sir Crispin," she cried out, "you growtiresome."

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

"How duty? Of what do you talk?" Anda flush of incipient anger spread now on

her fair cheek."I will be clearer," said he

imperturbably. "This lad is yourbetrothed. He is at heart a good lad, anhonourable and honest lad—at times haplyover-honest and over-honourable; but letthat be. To please a whim, a caprice, youset yourself to flout him, as is the way ofyour sex when you behold a man your utterslave. From this—being all unversed inthe obliquity of woman—he conceives,poor boy, that he no longer finds favour inyour eyes, and to win back this, the onlything that in the world he values, hebehaves foolishly. You flout him anew,and because of it. He is as jealous withyou as a hen with her brood."

"Jealous?" echoed Cynthia.

"Why, yes, jealous; and so far does hego as to be jealous even of me," he cried,with infinitely derisive relish. "Think of it—he is jealous of me! Jealous of him theycall the Tavern Knight!"

She did think of it as he bade her. Andby thinking she stumbled upon a discoverythat left her breathless.

Strange how we may bear a sentimentin our hearts without so much assuspecting its existence, until suddenly achance word shall so urge it into life thatit reveals itself with unmistakabledistinctness. With her the revelation beganin a vague wonder at the scorn with whichCrispin invested the notion that Kennethshould have cause for jealousy on hisscore. Was it, she asked herself, so

monstrously unnatural? Then in a flash theanswer came—and it was, that far frombeing a matter for derision, such anattitude in Kenneth lacked not forfoundation.

In that moment she knew that it wasbecause of Crispin; because of this manwho spoke with such very scorn of self,that Kenneth had become in her eyes somean and unworthy a creature. Loved himshe haply never had, but leastways shehad tolerated—been even flattered by—his wooing. By contrasting him now withCrispin she had grown to despise him. Hisweakness, his pusillanimity, hismeannesses of soul, stood out in sharprelief by contrast with the masterfulstrength and the high spirit of Sir Crispin.

So easily may our ideals change that thevery graces of face and form that a whileago had pleased her in Kenneth, seemednow effeminate attributes, well-attuned toa vacillating, purposeless mind. Fargreater beauty did her eyes behold in thisgrimfaced soldier of fortune; the man asfirm of purpose as he was upright ofcarriage; gloomy, proud, and reckless;still young, yet past the callow age ofadolescence. Since the day of his comingto Castle Marleigh she had brought herselfto look upon him as a hero stepped fromthe romancers' tales that in secret she hadread. The mystery that seemed to envelophim; those hints at a past that was not good—but the measure of whose evil in herpure innocence she could not guess; hisvery melancholy, his misfortunes, and the

deeds she had heard assigned to him, allhad served to fire her fancy and morebesides, although, until that moment, sheknew it not.

Subconsciously all this had long dweltin her mind. And now of a sudden thatself-deriding speech of Crispin's hadmade her aware of its presence and itsmeaning.

She loved him. That men said his lifehad not been nice, that he was a soldier offortune, little better than an adventurer, aman of no worldly weight, were matters ofno moment then to her. She loved him. Sheknew it now because he had mockinglybidden her to think whether Kenneth hadcause to be jealous of him, and becauseupon thinking of it, she found that did

Kenneth know what was in her heart, hemust have more than cause.

She loved him with that rare love thatwill urge a woman to the last sacrifice aman may ask; a love that gives and gives,and seeks nothing in return; that impels awoman to follow the man at his bidding,be his way through the world cast inplaces never so rugged; cleaving to himwhere all besides shall have abandonedhim; and, however dire his lot, asking ofGod no greater blessing than that ofsharing it.

And to such a love as this Crispin wasblind—blind to the very possibility of itsexistence; so blind that he laughed toscorn the idea of a puny milksop beingjealous of him. And so, while she sat, her

soul all mastered by her discovery, herface white and still for very awe of it, heto whom this wealth was given, pursuedthe odious task of wooing her for another.

"You have observed—you must haveobserved this insensate jealousy," he wassaying, "and how do you allay it? You donot. On the contrary, you excite it at everyturn. You are exciting it now by having—and I dare swear for no other purpose—lured me to walk with you, to sit here withyou and preach your duty to you. Andwhen, through jealousy, he shall haveflown to fresh absurdities, shall you regretyour conduct and the fruits it has borne?Shall you pity the lad, and by kindnessinduce him to be wiser? No. You willmock and taunt him into yet worsedisplays. And through these displays,

which are—though you may not havebethought you of it—of your owncontriving, you will conclude that he is nofit mate for you, and there will be heart-burnings, and years hence perhaps anotherTavern Knight, whose name will not beCrispin Galliard."

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

"Is—is it a woman's fault that you areas you are?"

"No, it is not. But how does thatconcern the case of Kenneth?"

"It does not. I was but curious. I wasnot thinking of Kenneth."

He stared at her, dumfounded. Had hebeen talking of Kenneth to her with sucheloquence and such fervour, that sheshould calmly tell him as he paused that itwas not of Kenneth she had been thinking?

"You will think of him, Cynthia?" hebegged. "You will bethink you too of whatI have said, and by being kinder and moreindulgent with this youth you shall makehim grow into a man you may take pridein. Deal fairly with him, child, and if anonyou find you cannot truly love him, thentell him so. But tell him kindly andfrankly, instead of using him as you aredoing."

She was silent a moment, and in theirpoignancy her feelings went very near toanger. Presently:

"I would, Sir Crispin, you could hearhim talk of you," said she.

"He talks ill, not a doubt of it, and likeenough he has good cause."

"Yet you saved his life."The words awoke Crispin, the

philosopher of love, to realities. Herecalled the circumstances of his savingKenneth, and the price the boy was to payfor that service; and it suddenly came tohim that it was wasted breath to pleadKenneth's cause with Cynthia, when by hisown future actions he was, himself, morethan likely to destroy the boy's every hopeof wedding her. The irony of his attitudesmote him hard, and he rose abruptly. Thesun hung now a round, red globe upon thevery brink of the sea.

"Hereafter he may have little cause tothank me," muttered he. "Come, MistressCynthia, it grows late."

She rose in mechanical obedience, andtogether they retraced their steps insilence, save for the stray word exchangedat intervals touching matters of nomoment.

But he had not advocated Kenneth'scause in vain, for all that he little reckedwhat his real argument had been, whatinfluences he had evoked to urge her tomake her peace with the lad. Amelancholy listlessness of mind possessedher now. Crispin did not see, never wouldsee, what was in her heart, and it might notbe hers to show him. The life that mighthave signified was not to be lived, and

since that was so it seemed to matter littlewhat befell.

It was thus that when on the morrow herfather returned to the subject, she showedherself tractable and docile out of herindifference, and to Gregory she appearednot averse to listen to what he had toadvance in the boy's favour. AnonKenneth's own humble pleading, allied tohis contrite and sorrowful appearance,were received by her with that sameindifference, as also with indifference didshe allow him later to kiss her hand andassume the flattering belief that he wasrehabilitated in her favour.

But pale grew Mistress Cynthia'scheeks, and sad her soul. Wistful shewaxed, sighing at every turn, until it

seemed to her—as haply it hath seemed tomany a maid—that all her life must shewaste in vain sighs over a man who gaveno single thought to her.

CHAPTER XV.JOSEPH'S RETURNOn his side Kenneth strove hard during

the days that followed to right himself inher eyes. But so headlong was he in theattempt, and so misguided, that presentlyhe overshot his mark by dropping anunflattering word concerning Crispin,whereby he attributed to the TavernKnight's influence and example thedegenerate change that had of late beenwrought in him.

Cynthia's eyes grew hard as he spoke,and had he been wise he had better servedhis cause by talking in another vein. But

love and jealousy had so addled whatpoor brains the Lord had bestowed uponhim, that he floundered on, unmindful ofany warning that took not the blunt shapeof words. At length, however, shestemmed the flow of invective that his lipspoured forth.

"Have I not told you already, Kenneth,that it better becomes a gentleman not toslander the man to whom he owes his life?In fact, that a gentleman would scorn suchan action?"

As he had protested before, so did heprotest now, that what he had uttered wasno slander. And in his rage andmortification at the way she used him, andfor which he now bitterly upbraided her,he was very near the point of tears, like

the blubbering schoolboy that at heart hewas.

"And as for the debt, madam," he cried,striking the oaken table of the hall with hisclenched hand, "it is a debt that shall bepaid, a debt which this gentleman whomyou defend would not permit me tocontract until I had promised payment—aye, 'fore George!—and with interest, forin the payment I may risk my very life."

"I see no interest in that, since you risknothing more than what you owe him," sheanswered, with a disdain that brought theimpending tears to his eyes. But if helacked the manliness to restrain them, hepossessed at least the shame to turn hisback and hide them from her. "But tell me,sir," she added, her curiosity awakened,

"if I am to judge, what was the nature ofthis bargain?"

He was silent for a moment, and took aturn in the hall—mastering himself tospeak—his hands clasped behind hisback, and his eyes bent towards thepolished floor which the evening sunlight,filtered through the gules of the leadedwindows, splashed here and there with acrimson stain. She sat in the great leathernchair at the head of the board, and,watching him, waited.

He was debating whether he was boundto secrecy in the matter, and in the end heresolved that he was not. Thereupon,pausing before her, he succinctly told thestory Crispin had related to him that nightin Worcester—the story of a great wrong,

that none but a craven could have leftunavenged. He added nothing to it,subtracted nothing from it, but told the taleas it had been told to him on that dreadfulnight, the memory of which had stillpower to draw a shudder from him.

Cynthia sat with parted lips and eagereyes, drinking in that touching narrative ofsuffering that was rather as someromancer's fabrication than a true accountof what a living man had undergone. Nowwith sorrow and pity in her heart andcountenance, now with anger and loathing,she listened until he had done, and evenwhen he ceased speaking, and flunghimself into the nearest chair, she sat on insilence for a spell.

Then of a sudden she turned a pair of

flashing eyes upon the boy, and in tonescharged with a scorn ineffable:

"You dare," she cried, "to speak of thatman as you do, knowing all this? Knowingwhat he has suffered, you dare to rail inhis absence against those sins to which hismisfortunes have driven him? How, thinkyou, would it have fared with you, youfool, had you stood in the shoes of thisunfortunate? Had you fallen on yourcraven knees, and thanked the Lord forallowing you to keep your miserable life?Had you succumbed to the blows of fatewith a whine of texts upon your lips? Whoare you?" she went on, rising, breathlessin her wrath, which caused him to recoilin sheer affright before her. "Who are you,and what are you, that knowing what youknow of this man's life, you dare to sit in

judgment upon his actions and condemnthem? Answer me, you fool!"

But never a word had he wherewith tomeet that hail of angry, contemptuousquestions. The answer that had been soready to his lips that night at Worcester,when, in a milder form the Tavern Knighthad set him the same question, he darednot proffer now. The retort that SirCrispin had not cause enough in the evil ofothers, which had wrecked his life, to riskthe eternal damnation of his soul, he daredno longer utter. Glibly enough had he saidto that stern man that which he dared notsay now to this sterner beauty. Perhaps itwas fear of her that made him dumb,perhaps that at last he knew himself forwhat he was by contrast with the manwhose vices he had so heartily despised a

while ago.Shrinking back before her anger, he

racked his shallow mind in vain for afitting answer. But ere he had found one, aheavy step sounded in the gallery thatoverlooked the hall, and a moment laterGregory Ashburn descended. His facewas ghastly white, and a heavy frownfurrowed the space betwixt his brows.

In the fleeting glance she bestowedupon her father, she remarked not thedisorder of his countenance; whilst as forKenneth, he had enough to hold hisattention for the time.

Gregory's advent set an awkwardconstraint upon them, nor had he any wordto say as he came heavily up the hall.

At the lower end of the long table he

paused, and resting his hand upon theboard, he seemed on the point of speakingwhen of a sudden a sound reached him thatcaused him to draw a sharp breath; it wasthe rumble of wheels and the crack of awhip.

"It is Joseph!" he cried, in a voice therelief of which was so marked thatCynthia noticed it. And with thatexclamation he flung past them, and outthrough the doorway to meet his brother soopportunely returned.

He reached the terrace steps as thecoach pulled up, and the lean figure ofJoseph Ashburn emerged from it.

"So, Gregory," he grumbled forgreeting, "it was on a fool's errand yousent me, after all. That knave, your

messenger, found me in London at lastwhen I had outworn my welcome atWhitehall. 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 loverby her side. 'Slife, what a coxcomb thelad's grown."

And with that he hastened forward tokiss his niece, and congratulate Kennethupon being restored to her.

"I heard of it, lad, in London," quoth he,a leer upon his sallow face—"the story ofhow a fire-eater named Galliardbefriended you, trussed a parson and a

trooper, and dragged you out of jail ashort hour before hanging-time."

Kenneth flushed. He felt the sneer inJoseph's, words like a stab. The man'stone implied that another had done for himthat which he would not have dared do forhimself, and Kenneth felt that this was sosaid in Cynthia's presence with malicious,purpose.

He was right. Partly it was Joseph'sway to be spiteful and venomouswhenever chance afforded him theopportunity. Partly he had beenparticularly soured at present by his recentdiscomforts, suffered in a causewherewith he had no, sympathy—that ofthe union Gregory desired 'twixt Cynthiaand Kenneth.

There was an evil smile on his thin lips,and his crooked eyes rested tormentinglyupon the young man. A fresh taunttrembled on his viperish tongue, whenGregory plucked at the skirts of his coat,and drew him aside. They entered thechamber where they had held their lastinterview before Joseph had set out fornews of Kenneth. With an air of mysteryGregory closed the door, then turned toface his brother. He stayed him in the actof unbuckling his sword-belt.

"Wait, Joseph!" he cried dramatically."This is no time to disarm. Keep yoursword on your thigh, man; you will need itas you never yet have needed it." Hepaused, took a deep breath, and hurled thenews at his brother. "Roland Marleigh ishere." And he sat down like a man

exhausted.Joseph did not start; he did not cry out;

he did not so much as change countenance.A slight quiver of the eyelids was the onlyoutward sign he gave of the shock that hisbrother's announcement had occasioned.The hand that had rested on the buckle ofhis sword-belt slipped quietly to his side,and he deliberately stepped up to Gregory,his eyes set searchingly upon the pale,flabby face before him. A suddensuspicion darting through his mind, hetook his brother by the shoulders andshook him vigorously.

"Gregory, you fool, you have drunkoverdeep in my absence."

"I have, I have," wailed Gregory, "and,my God, 'twas he was my table-fellow,

and set me the example.""Like enough, like enough," returned

Joseph, with a contemptuous laugh. "Mypoor Gregory, the wine has so fouled yourworthless wits at last, that they conjure upphantoms to sit at the table with you.Come, man, what petticoat business isthis? Bestir yourself, fool."

At that Gregory caught the drift ofJoseph's suspicions.

"Tis you are the fool," he retortedangrily, springing to his feet, and toweringabove his brother.

"It was no ghost sat with me, butRoland Marleigh, himself, in the flesh, andstrangely changed by time. So changed thatI knew him not, nor should I know himnow but for that which, not ten minutes

ago, I overheard."His earnestness was too impressive, his

sanity too obvious, and Joseph'ssuspicions were all scattered before it.

He caught Gregory's wrist in a grip thatmade him wince, and forced him back intohis seat.

"Gadslife, man, what is it you mean?"he demanded through set teeth. "Tell me."

And forthwith Gregory told him of themanner of Kenneth's coming toSheringham and to Castle Marleigh,accompanied by one Crispin Galliard, thesame that had been known for his madexploits in the late wars as "rakehellyGalliard," and that was now known to themalignants as "The Tavern Knight" for hisdebauched habits. Crispin's mention of

Roland Marleigh on the night of hisarrival now returned vividly to Gregory'smind, and he repeated it, ending with thestory that that very evening he hadoverheard Kenneth telling Cynthia.

"And this Galliard, then, is none otherthan that pup of insolence, RolandMarleigh, grown into a dog of war?"quoth Joseph.

He was calm—singularly calm for onewho had heard such news.

"There remains no doubt of it.""And you saw this man day by day, sat

with him night by night over your damnedsack, and knew him not? Oddswounds,man, where were your eyes?"

"I may have been blind. But he isgreatly changed. I would defy you, Joseph,

to have recognized him."Joseph sneered, and the flash of his

eyes told of the contempt wherein he heldhis brother's judgment and opinions.

"Think not that, Gregory. I have causeenough to remember him," said Joseph,with an unpleasant laugh. Then assuddenly changing his tone for one ofeager anxiety:

"But the lad, Gregory, does he suspect,think you?"

"Not a whit. In that lies this fellow'sdiabolical cunning. Learning of Kenneth'srelations with us, he seized theopportunity Fate offered him that night atWorcester, and bound the lad on oath tohelp him when he should demand it,without disclosing the names of those

against whom he should require hisservices. The boy expects at any momentto be bidden to go forth with him upon hismission of revenge, little dreaming that itis here that that tragedy is to be playedout."

"This comes of your fine matrimonialprojects for Cynthia," muttered Josephacridly. He laughed his unpleasant laughagain, and for a spell there was silence.

"To think, Gregory," he broke out atlast, "that for a fortnight he should havebeen beneath this roof, and you shouldhave found no means of doing moreeffectively that which was done toocarelessly eighteen years ago."

He spoke as coldly as though the matterwere a trivial one. Gregory shuddered and

looked at his brother in alarm."What now, fool?" cried Joseph,

scowling. "Are you as cowardly as youare blind? Damn me, sir, it seems wellthat I am returned. I'll have no Marleighplague my old age for me." He paused amoment, then continued in a quieter voice,but one whose ring was sinister beyondwords: "Tomorrow I shall find a way todraw this your dog of war to somesecluded ground. I have some skill," hepursued, tapping his hilt as he spoke,"besides, you shall be there, Gregory."And he smiled darkly. "Is there no otherway?" asked Gregory, in distress.

"There was," answered Joseph. "Therewas in Parliament. At Whitehall I met aman—one Colonel Pride—a bloodthirsty

old Puritan soldier, who would give hisright hand to see this Galliard hanged.Galliard, it seems, slew the fellow's sonat Worcester. Had I but known," he addedregretfully—"had your wits been keener,and you had discovered it and sent meword, I had found means to help ColonelPride to his revenge. As it is"—heshrugged his shoulders—"there is nottime."

"It may be—" began Gregory, thenstopped abruptly with an exclamation thatcaused Joseph to wheel sharply round.The door had opened, and on the thresholdSir Crispin Galliard stood, deferentially,hat in hand.

Joseph's astonished glance playedrapidly over him for a second. Then:

"Who the devil may you be?" he blurtedout.

Despite his anxiety, Gregory chuckledat the question. The Tavern Knight cameforward. "I am Sir Crispin Galliard, atyour service," said he, bowing. "I wastold that the master of Marleigh wasreturned, and that I should find you here,and I hasten, sir, to proffer you my thanksfor the generous shelter this house hasgiven me this fortnight past."

Whilst he spoke he measured Josephwith his eyes, and his glance was ashateful as his words were civil. Josephwas lost in amazement. Little trace wasthere in this fellow of the RolandMarleigh he had known. Moreover, he hadlooked to find an older man, forgetting that

Roland's age could not exceed thirty-eight.Then, again, the fading light, whilstrevealing the straight, supple lines of hislank figure, softened the haggardness ofthe face and made him appear yet youngerthan the light of day would have shownhim.

In an instant Joseph had recovered fromhis surprise, and for all that his mindmisgave him tortured by a desire to learnwhether Crispin was aware of theirknowledge concerning him—his smilewas serene, and his tones level andpleasant, as he made answer:

"Sir, you are very welcome. You havevaliantly served one dear to us, and theentertainment of our poor house for aslong as you may deign to honour it is but

the paltriest of returns."

CHAPTER XVI. THERECKONING

Sir Crispin had heard naught of whatwas being said as he entered the roomwherein the brothers plotted against him,and he little dreamt that his identity wasdiscovered. He had but hastened toperform that which, under ordinarycircumstances, would have been a naturalenough duty towards the master of thehouse. He had been actuated also by animpatience again to behold this JosephAshburn—the man who had dealt him thatmurderous sword-thrust eighteen yearsago. He watched him attentively, and

gathering from his scrutiny that here was adangerous, subtle man, different, indeed,to his dull-witted brother, he haddetermined to act at once.

And so when he appeared in the hall atsuppertime, he came armed and booted,and equipped as for a journey.

Joseph was standing alone by the hugefire-place, his face to the burning logs,and his foot resting upon one of theandirons. Gregory and his daughter weretalking together in the embrasure of awindow. By the other window, across thehall, stood Kenneth, alone anddisconsolate, gazing out at the drizzlingrain that had begun to fall.

As Galliard descended, Joseph turnedhis head, and his eyebrows shot up and

wrinkled his forehead at beholding theknight's equipment.

"How is this, Sir Crispin?" said he."You are going a journey?"

"Too long already have I imposedmyself upon the hospitality of CastleMarleigh," Crispin answered politely ashe came and stood before the blazing logs."To-night, Mr. Ashburn, I go hence."

A curious expression flitted acrossJoseph's face. The next moment, his browsstill knit as he sought to fathom his suddenaction, he was muttering the formal regretsthat courtesy dictated. But Crispin hadremarked that singular expression onJoseph's face—fleeting though it had been—and it flashed across his mind thatJoseph knew him. And as he moved away

towards Cynthia and her father, he thankedHeaven that he had taken such measures ashe had thought wise and prudent for thecarrying out of his resolve.

Following him with a glance, Josephasked himself whether Crispin haddiscovered that he was recognized, andhad determined to withdraw, leaving hisvengeance for another and morepropitious season. In answer—littleknowing the measure of the man he dealtwith—he told himself it must be so, andhaving arrived at that conclusion, he thereand then determined that Crispin shouldnot depart free to return and plague themwhen he listed. Since Galliard shrankfrom forcing matters to an issue, hehimself would do it that very night, andthereby settle for all time his business.

And so ere he sat down to sup Josephlooked to it that his sword lay at handbehind his chair at the table-head.

The meal was a quiet one enough.Kenneth was sulking 'neath the fresh ill-usage—as he deemed it—that he hadsuffered at Cynthia's hands. Cynthia, in herturn, was grave and silent. That story ofSir Crispin's sufferings gave her much tothink of, as did also his departure, andmore than once did Galliard find her eyesfixed upon him with a look half of pity,half of some other feeling that he was at aloss to interpret. Gregory's big voice waslittle heard. The sinister glitter in hisbrother's eye made him apprehensive andill at ease. For him the hour was indeed intravail and like to bring forth strangedoings—but not half so much as it was for

Crispin and Joseph, each bent uponforcing matters to a head ere they quittedthat board. And yet but for these two themeal would have passed off in dismalsilence. Joseph was at pains to keepsuspicion from his guest, and with thatintent he talked gaily of this and that, toldof slight matters that had befallen him onhis recent journey and of the doings that inLondon he had witnessed, investing eachtrifling incident with a garb of wit thatrendered it entertaining.

And Galliard—actuated by the samemotives grew reminiscent wheneverJoseph paused and let his nimble tongue—even nimblest at a table amuse thosepresent, or seem to amuse them, by a scoreof drolleries.

He drank deeply too, and this Josephobserved with satisfaction. But here againhe misjudged his man. Kenneth, who atebut little, seemed also to have developedan enormous thirst, and Crispin grew atlength alarmed at that ever empty gobletso often filled. He would have need ofKenneth ere the hour was out, and herightly feared that did matters thuscontinue, the lad's aid was not to bereckoned with. Had Kenneth sat besidehim he might have whispered a word ofrestraint in his eat, but the lad was on theother side of the board.

At one moment Crispin fancied that alook of intelligence passed from Joseph toGregory, and when presently Gregory sethimself to ply both him and the boy withwine, his suspicions became certainties,

and he grew watchful and wary.Anon Cynthia rose. Upon the instant

Galliard was also on his feet. He escortedher to the foot of the staircase, and there:

"Permit me, Mistress Cynthia," said he,"to take my leave of you. In an hour or so Ishall be riding away from CastleMarleigh."

Her eyes sought the ground, and had hebeen observant of her he might havenoticed that she paled slightly.

"Fare you well, sir," said she in a lowvoice. "May happiness attend you."

"Madam, I thank you. Fare you well."He bowed low. She dropped him a

slight curtsey, and ascended the stairs.Once as she reached the gallery above sheturned. He had resumed his seat at table,

and was in the act of filling his glass. Theservants had withdrawn, and for half anhour thereafter they sat on, sipping theirwine, and making conversation—whileCrispin drained bumper after bumper andgrew every instant more boisterous, untilat length his boisterousness passed intoincoherence. His eyelids drooped heavily,and his chin kept ever and anon sinkingforward on to his breast.

Kenneth, flushed with wine, yet masterof his wits, watched him with contempt.This was the man Cynthia preferred tohim! Contempt was there also in JosephAshburn's eye, mingled with satisfaction.He had not looked to find the task so easy.At length he deemed the season ripe.

"My brother tells me that you were once

acquainted with Roland Marleigh," saidhe.

"Aye," he answered thickly. "I knew thedog—a merry, reckless soul, d—n me.'Twas his recklessness killed him, poordevil—that and your hand, Mr. Ashburn,so the story goes."

"What story?""What story?" echoed Crispin. "The

story that I heard. Do you say I lie?" And,swaying in his chair, he sought to assumean air of defiance.

Joseph laughed in a fashion that madeKenneth's blood run cold.

"Why, no, I don't deny it. It was in fairfight he fell. Moreover, he brought theduel upon himself."

Crispin spoke no word in answer, but

rose unsteadily to his feet, so unsteadilythat his chair was overset and fell with acrash behind him. For a moment hesurveyed it with a drunken leer, then wentlurching across the hall towards the doorthat led to the servants' quarters. The threemen sat on, watching his antics incontempt, curiosity, and amusement. Theysaw him gain the heavy oaken door andclose it. They heard the bolts rasp as heshot them home, and the lock click; andthey saw him withdraw the key and slip itinto his pocket.

The cold smile still played roundJoseph's lips as Crispin turned to facethem again, and on Joseph's lips did thatsame smile freeze as he saw him standingthere, erect and firm, his drunkenness allvanished, and his eyes keen and fierce; as

he heard the ring of his metallic voice:"You lie, Joseph Ashburn. It was no

fair fight. It was no duel. It was a foul,murderous stroke you dealt him in theback, thinking to butcher him as youbutchered his wife and his babe. But thereis a God, Master Ashburn," he went on inan ever-swelling voice, "and I lived. Likea salamander I came through the flames inwhich you sought to destroy all trace ofyour vile deed. I lived, and I, CrispinGalliard, the debauched Tavern Knightthat was once Roland Marleigh, am hereto demand a reckoning."

The very incarnation was he then of anavenger, as he stood towering beforethem, his grim face livid with the passioninto which he had lashed himself as he

spoke, his blazing eyes watching them inthat cunning, half-closed way that was hiswhen his mood was dangerous. And yetthe only one that quailed was Kenneth, hisally, upon whom comprehension burstwith stunning swiftness.

Joseph recovered quickly from thesurprise of Crispin's suddenly reassumedsobriety. He understood the trick thatGalliard had played upon them so that hemight cut off their retreat in the onlydirection in which they might have soughtassistance, and he cursed himself for nothaving foreseen it. Still, anxiety he feltnone; his sword was to his hand, andGregory was armed; at the very worst theywere two calm and able men opposed to ahalf-intoxicated boy, and a man whomfury, he thought, must strip of half his

power. Probably, indeed, the lad wouldside with them, despite his plighted word.Again, he had but to raise his voice, and,though the door that Crispin had fastenedwas a stout one, he never doubted but thathis call would penetrate it and bring hisservants to his rescue.

And so, a smile of cynical unconcernreturned to his lips and his answer wasdelivered in a cold, incisive voice.

"The reckoning you have come todemand shall be paid you, sir. RakehellyGalliard is the hero of many a recklessdeed, but my judgment is much at fault ifthis prove not his crowning recklessnessand his last one. Gadswounds, sir, are youmad to come hither single-handed to beardthe lion in his den?"

"Rather the cur in his kennel," sneeredCrispin back. "Blood and wounds, MasterJoseph, think you to affright me withwords?"

Still Joseph smiled, deeming himselfmaster of the situation.

"Were help needed, the raising of myvoice would bring it me. But it is not. Weare three to one."

"You reckon wrongly. Mr. Stewartbelongs to me to-night—bound by an oaththat 'twould damn his soul to break, tohelp me when and where I may call uponhim; and I call upon him now. Kenneth,draw your sword."

Kenneth groaned as he stood by,clasping and unclasping his hands.

"God's curse on you," he burst out.

"You have tricked me, you have cheatedme."

"Bear your oath in mind," was the coldanswer. "If you deem yourself wronged byme, hereafter you shall have whatsatisfaction you demand. But first fulfil mewhat you have sworn. Out with yourblade, man."

Still Kenneth hesitated, and but forGregory's rash action at that criticaljuncture, it is possible that he would haveelected to break his plighted word. ButGregory fearing that he might determineotherwise, resolved there and then toremove the chance of it. Whipping out hissword, he made a vicious pass at the lad'sbreast. Kenneth avoided it by leapingbackwards, but in an instant Gregory had

sprung after him, and seeing himself thusbeset, Kenneth was forced to draw that hemight protect himself.

They stood in the space between thetable and that part of the hall that abuttedon to the terrace; opposite to them, by thedoor which he had closed, stood Crispin.At the table-head Joseph still sat cool,self-contained, even amused.

He realized the rashness of Gregory'sattack upon one that might yet have beenwon over to their side; but he neverdoubted that a few passes would disposeof the lad's opposition, and he sought notto interfere. Then he saw Crispinadvancing towards him slowly, his rapiernaked in his hand, and he was forced tolook to himself. He caught at the sword

that stood behind him, and leaping to hisfeet he sprang forward to meet his grimantagonist. Galliard's eyes flashed out alook of joy, he raised his rapier, and theirblades met.

To the clash of their meeting came anechoing clash from beyond the table.

"Hold, sir!" Kenneth had cried, asGregory bore down upon him. ButGregory's answer had been a lunge whichthe boy had been forced to parry. Takingthat crossing of blades for a sign ofopposition, Gregory thrust again moreviciously. Kenneth parried narrowly, hisblade pointing straight at his aggressor.He saw the opening, and both instinct andthe desire to repel Gregory's onslaughtdrew him into attempting a riposte, which

drove Gregory back until his shoulderstouched the panels of the wall.Simultaneously the boy's foot struck theback of the chair which in rising Crispinhad overset, and he stumbled. How ithappened he scarcely knew, but as hehurtled forward his blade slid along hisopponent's, and entering Gregory's rightshoulder pinned him to the wainscot.

Joseph heard the tinkle of a fallingblade, and assumed it to be Kenneth's. Forthe rest he was just then too busy to darewithdraw for a second his eyes fromCrispin's. Until that hour Joseph Ashburnhad accounted himself something of aswordsman, and more than a match formost masters of the weapon. But inCrispin he found a fencer of a quality suchas he had never yet encountered. Every

feint, every botte in his catalogue had heparaded in quick succession, yet ever withthe same result—his point was foiled andput aside with ease.

Desperately he fought now, darting thatpoint of his hither and thither in and outwhenever the slightest opening offered;yet ever did it meet the gentle avertingpressure of Crispin's blade. He fought onand marvelled as the seconds went by thatGregory came not to his aid. Then thesickening thought that perhaps Gregorywas overcome occurred to him. In such acase he must reckon upon himself alone.He cursed the over-confidence that hadled him into that ever-fatal error ofunderestimating his adversary. He mighthave known that one who had acquired SirCrispin's fame was no ordinary man, but

one accustomed to face great odds andmaster them. He might call for help.

He marvelled as the thought occurred tohim that the clatter of their blades had notdrawn his servants from their quarters.Fencing still, he raised his voice:

"Ho, there! John, Stephen!""Spare your breath," growled the

knight. "I dare swear you'll have need ofit. None will hear you, call as you will. Igave your four henchmen a flagon of winewherein to drink to my safe journey hence.They have emptied it ere this, I make nodoubt, and a single glass of it would setthe hardest toper asleep for the round ofthe clock."

An oath was Joseph's only answer—acurse it was upon his own folly and

assurance. A little while ago he hadthought to have drawn so tight a net aboutthis ruler, and here was he now taken inits very toils, well-nigh exhausted and inhis enemy's power.

It occurred to him then that Crispinstayed his hand. That he fenced only on thedefensive, and he wondered what mighthis motive be. He realized that he wasmastered, and that at any moment Galliardmight send home his blade. He was bathedfrom head to foot in a sweat that was atonce of exertion and despair. A frenzyseized him. Might he not yet turn toadvantage this hesitancy of Crispin's tostrike the final blow?

He braced himself for a supreme effort,and turning his wrist from a simulated

thrust in the first position, he doubled, andstretching out, lunged vigorously in quarte.As he lengthened his arm in the strokethere came a sudden twitch at his wrist;the weapon was twisted from his grasp,and he stood disarmed at Crispin's mercy.

A gurgling cry broke despite him fromhis lips, and his eyes grew wide in asickly terror as they encountered theknight's sinister glance. Not three pacesbehind him was the wall, and on it, withinthe hand's easy reach, hung many atrophied weapon that might have servedhim then. But the fascination of fear wasupon him, benumbing his wits andparalysing his limbs, with the thought thatthe next pulsation of his tumultuous heartwould prove its last. The calm,unflinching courage that had been Joseph's

only virtue was shattered, and his ironwill that had unscrupulously held hithertohis very conscience in bondage wasturned to water now that he stood face toface with death.

Eons of time it seemed to him weresped since the sword was wrenched fromhis hand, and still the stroke he awaitedcame not; still Crispin stood, sinister andsilent before him, watching him withmagnetic, fascinating eyes—as the snakewatches the bird—eyes from whichJoseph could not withdraw his own, andyet before which it seemed to him that hequaked and shrivelled.

The candles were burning low in theirsconces, and the corners of that ample,gloomy hall were filled with mysterious

shadows that formed a setting well attunedto the grim picture made by those twofigures—the one towering stern andvengeful, the other crouching palsied andlivid.

Beyond the table, and with the woundedGregory—lying unconscious and bleeding—at his feet, stood Kenneth looking on insilence, in wonder and in some horror too.

To him also, as he watched, the secondsseemed minutes from the time whenCrispin had disarmed his opponent untilwith a laugh—short and sudden as a stab—he dropped his sword and caught hisvictim by the throat.

However fierce the passion that hadactuated Crispin, it had been held hithertoin strong subjection. But now at last it

suddenly welled up and mastered him,causing him to cast all restraint to thewinds, to abandon reason, and to give wayto the lust of rage that renderedungovernable his mood.

Like a burst of flame from embers thathave been smouldering was the upleapingof his madness, transfiguring his face andtransforming his whole being. A new,unconquerable strength possessed him; hispulses throbbed swiftly and madly withthe quickened coursing of his blood, andhis soul was filled with the cruel elationthat attends a lust about to be indulged theelation of the beast about to rend its prey.

He was pervaded by the desire towreak slowly and with his hands thedestruction of his broken enemy. To have

passed his sword through him would havebeen too swiftly done; the man wouldhave died, and Crispin would have knownnothing of his sufferings. But to take himthus by the throat; slowly to choke thelife's breath out of him; to feel hisdesperate, writhing struggles; to beconscious of every agonized twitch of hissinews, to watch the purpling face, theswelling veins, the protruding eyes filledwith the dumb horror of his agony; to holdhim thus—each second becoming adistinct, appreciable division of time—and thus to take what payment he could forall the blighted years that lay behind him—this he felt would be something likerevenge.

Meanwhile the shock of surprise at theunlooked-for movement had awakened

again the man in Joseph. For a secondeven Hope knocked at his heart. He wassinewy and active, and perchance he mightyet make Galliard repent that he haddiscarded his rapier. The knight's reasonfor doing so he thought he had in Crispin'scontemptuous words:

"Good steel were too great an honourfor you, Mr. Ashburn."

And as he spoke, his lean, nervousfingers tightened about Joseph's throat in agrip that crushed the breath from him, andwith it the new-born hope of provingmaster in his fresh combat. He had notreckoned with this galley-weaned strengthof Crispin's, a strength that was arevelation to Joseph as he felt himselfalmost lifted from the ground, and swung

this way and that, like a babe in the handsof a grown man. Vain were his struggles.His strength ebbed fast; the blood, heldoverlong in his head, was alreadyobscuring his vision, when at last the griprelaxed, and his breathing was freed. Ashis sight cleared again he found himselfback in his chair at the table-head, andbeside him Sir Crispin, his left handresting upon the board, his right graspingonce more the sword, and his eyes bentmockingly and evilly upon his victim.

Kenneth, looking on, could not repressa shudder. He had known Crispin for atempestuous man quickly moved to wrath,and he had oftentimes seen anger maketerrible his face and glance. But never hadhe seen aught in him to rival this presentfrenzy; it rendered satanical the baleful

glance of his eyes and the awful smile ofhate and mockery with which he gazed atlast upon the helpless quarry that he hadwaited eighteen years to bring to earth. "Iwould," said Crispin, in a harsh,deliberate voice, "that you had a score oflives, Master Joseph. As it is I have donewhat I could. Two agonies have youundergone already, and I am inclined tomercy. The end is at hand. If you haveprayers to say, say them, Master Ashburn,though I doubt me it will be wasted breath—you are over-ripe for hell."

"You mean to kill me," he gasped,growing yet a shade more livid.

"Does the suspicion of it but occur toyou?" laughed Crispin, "and yet twicealready have I given you a foretaste of

death. Think you I but jested?"Joseph's teeth clicked together in a snap

of determination. That sneer of Crispin'sacted upon him as a blow—but as a blowthat arouses the desire to retaliate ratherthan lays low. He braced himself for freshresistance; not of action, for that herealized was futile, but of argument.

"It is murder that you do," he cried."No; it is justice. It has been long on the

way, but it has come at last.""Bethink you, Mr. Marleigh—""Call me not by that name," cried the

other harshly, fearfully. "I have not borneit these eighteen years, and thanks to whatyou have made me, it is not meet that Ishould bear it now." There was a pause.Then Joseph spoke again with great calm

and earnestness."Bethink you, Sir Crispin, of what you

are about to do. It can benefit you innaught."

"Oddslife, think you it cannot? Thinkyou it will benefit me naught to see youearn at last your reward?"

"You may have dearly to pay for whatat best must prove a fleeting satisfaction."

"Not a fleeting one, Joseph," helaughed. "But one the memory of whichshall send me rejoicing through what yearsor days of life be left me. A satisfactionthat for eighteen years I have been waitingto experience; though the moment after itbe mine find me stark and cold."

"Sir Crispin, you are in enmity with theParliament—an outlaw almost. I have

some influence much influence. Byexerting it—"

"Have done, sir!" cried Crispin angrily."You talk in vain. What to me is life, oraught that life can give? If I have so longendured the burden of it, it has been sothat I might draw from it this hour. Do youthink there is any bribe you could offerwould turn me from my purpose?"

A groan from Gregory, who wasregaining consciousness, drew hisattention aside.

"Truss him up, Kenneth," hecommanded, pointing to the recumbentfigure. "How? Do you hesitate? Now, asGod lives, I'll be obeyed; or you shallhave an unpleasant reminder of the oathyou swore me!"

With a look of loathing the lad droppedon his knees to do as he was bidden. Thenof a sudden:

"I have not the means," he announced."Fool, does he not wear a sword-belt

and a sash? Come, attend to it!""Why do you force me to do this?" the

lad still protested passionately. "You havetricked and cheated me, yet I have kept myoath and rendered you the assistance yourequired. They are in your power now,can you not do the rest yourself?"

"On my soul, Master Stewart, I amover-patient with you! Are we to wrangleat every step before you'll take it? I willhave your assistance through this matter asyou swore to give it. Come, truss me thatfellow, and have done with words."

His fierceness overthrew the boy'soutburst of resistance. Kenneth had witenough to see that his mood was not one tobrook much opposition, and so, with anoath and a groan, he went to work topinion Gregory.

Then Joseph spoke again. "Weigh wellthis act of yours, Sir Crispin," he cried."You are still young; much of life lies yetbefore you. Do not wantonly destroy it byan act that cannot repair the past."

"But it can avenge it, Joseph. As for mylife, you destroyed it years ago. The futurehas naught to offer me; the present hasthis." And he drew back his sword tostrike.

CHAPTER XVII.JOSEPH DRIVES A

BARGAINA new terror leapt into Joseph's eyes at

that movement of Crispin's, and for thethird time that night did he taste the agonythat is Death's forerunner. Yet Galliarddelayed the stroke. He held his swordpoised, the point aimed at Joseph's breast,and holding, he watched him, markingeach phase of the terror reflected upon hislivid countenance. He was loth to strike,for to strike would mean to end thisexquisite torture of horror to which he

was subjecting him.Broken Joseph had been before and

passive; now of a sudden he grew violentagain, but in a different way. He flunghimself upon his knees before Sir Crispin,and passionately he pleaded for thesparing of his miserable life.

Crispin looked on with an eye both ofscorn and of cold relish. It was thus hewished to see him, broken and agonized,suffering thus something of all that whichhe himself had suffered through despair inthe years that were sped. With satisfactionthen he watched his victim's agony; hewatched it too with scorn and someloathing—for a craven was in his eyes anugly sight, and Joseph in that moment wastruly become as vile a coward as ever

man beheld. His parchment-like face wasgrey and mottled, his brow bedewed withsweat; his lips were blue and quivering,his eyes bloodshot and almost threateningtears.

In the silence of one who waits stoodCrispin, listening, calm and unmoved, asthough he heard not, until Joseph's whiningprayers culminated in an offer to makereparation. Then Crispin broke in at lengthwith an impatient gesture.

"What reparation can you make, youmurderer? Can you restore to me the wifeand child you butchered eighteen yearsago?"

"I can restore your child at least,"returned the other. "I can and will restorehim to you if you but stay your hand. That

and much more will I do to repair thepast."

Unconsciously Crispin lowered hissword-arm, and for a full minute he stoodand stared at Joseph. His jaw was fallenand the grim firmness all gone from hisface, and replaced by amazement, thenunbelief followed by inquiry; thenunbelief again. The pallor of his cheeksseemed to intensify. At last, however, hebroke into a hard laugh.

"What lie is this you offer me? Zounds,man, are you not afraid?"

"It is no lie," Joseph cried, in accentsso earnest that some of the unbelief passedagain from Galliard's face. "It is the truth-God's truth. Your son lives."

"Hell-hound, it is a lie! On that fell

night, as I swooned under your cowardlythrust, I heard you calling to your brotherto slit the squalling bastard's throat. Thosewere your very words, Master Joseph."

"I own I bade him do it, but I was notobeyed. He swore we should give thebabe a chance of life. It should neverknow whose son it was, he said, and Iagreed. We took the boy away. He haslived and thrived."

The knight sank on to a chair as thoughbereft of strength. He sought to think, butthinking coherently he could not. At last:

"How shall I know that you are notlying? What proof can you advance?" hedemanded hoarsely.

"I swear that what I have told you istrue. I swear it by the cross of our

Redeemer!" he protested, with a solemnitythat was not without effect upon Crispin.Nevertheless, he sneered.

"I ask for proofs, man, not oaths. Whatproofs can you afford me?"

"There are the man and the womanwhom the lad was reared by."

"And where shall I find them?"Joseph opened his lips to answer, then

closed them again. In his eagerness he hadalmost parted with the information whichhe now proposed to make the price of hislife. He regained confidence at Crispin'stone and questions, gathering from boththat the knight was willing to believe ifproof were set before him. He rose to hisfeet, and when next he spoke his voice hadwon back much of its habitual calm

deliberateness."That," said he, "I will tell you when

you have promised to go hence, leavingGregory and me unharmed. I will supplyyou with what money you may need, and Iwill give you a letter to those people, socouched that what they tell you by virtueof it shall be a corroboration of mywords."

His elbow resting upon the table, andhis hand to his brow so that it shaded hiseyes, sat Crispin long in thought, swayedby emotions and doubts, the like of whichhe had never yet known in the whole of hischequered life. Was Joseph lying to him?

That was the question that repeatedlyarose, and oddly enough, for all hismistrust of the man, he was inclined to

account true the ring of his words. Josephwatched him with much anxiety and somehope.

At length Crispin withdrew his handsfrom eyes that were grown haggard, androse.

"Let us see the letter that you willwrite," said he. "There you have pen, ink,and paper. Write."

"You promise?" asked Joseph."I will tell you when you have written."In a hand that shook somewhat, Joseph

wrote a few lines, then handed Crispin thesheet, whereon he read:

The bearer of this is Sir CrispinGalliard, who is intimately interested inthe matter that lies betwixt us, and whom Ipray you answer fully and accurately the

questions he may put you in thatconnexion.

"I understand," said Crispin slowly."Yes, it will serve. Now thesuperscription." And he returned thepaper.

Ashburn was himself again by now. Herealized the advantage he had gained, andhe would not easily relinquish it.

"I shall add the superscription," said hecalmly, "when you swear to departwithout further molesting us."

Crispin paused a moment, weighing theposition well in his mind. If Joseph lied tohim now, he would find means to return,he told himself, and so he took the oathdemanded.

Joseph dipped his pen, and paused

meditatively to watch a drop of ink,wherewith it was overladen, fall back intothe horn. The briefest of pauses was it, yetit was not the accident it appeared to be.Hitherto Joseph had been as sincere as hehad been earnest, intent alone upon savinghis life at all costs, and forgetting in hisfear of the present the dangers that thefuture might hold for him were CrispinGalliard still at large. But in that secondof dipping his quill, assured that the perilof the moment was overcome, and thatCrispin would go forth as he said, thedevil whispered in his ear a cunning andvile suggestion. As he watched the drop ofink roll from his pen-point, heremembered that in London there dwelt atthe sign of the Anchor, in Thames Street,one Colonel Pride, whose son this

Galliard had slain, and who, did he oncelay hands upon him, was not like to let himgo again. In a second was the thoughtconceived and the determination taken,and as he folded the letter and set upon itthe superscription, Joseph felt that hecould have cried out in his exultation atthe cunning manner in which he wasoutwitting his enemy.

Crispin took the package, and readthereon:

This is to Mr. Henry Lane, at the sign ofthe Anchor, Thames Street, London.

The name was a fictitious one—one thatJoseph had set down upon the spur of themoment, his intention being to send amessenger that should outstrip Sir Crispin,and warn Colonel Pride of his coming.

"It is well," was Crispin's onlycomment. He, too, was grown calm againand fully master of himself. He placed theletter carefully within the breast of hisdoublet.

"If you have lied to me, if this is but ashift to win your miserable life, restassured, Master Ashburn, that you havebut put off the day for a very little while."

It was on Joseph's lips to answer thatnone of us are immortal, but he bethoughthim that the pleasantry might be ill-timed,and bowed in silence.

Galliard took his hat and cloak from thechair on which he had placed them upondescending that evening. Then he turnedagain to Joseph.

"You spoke of money a moment ago,"

he said, in the tones of one demandingwhat is his own the tones of a gentlemanspeaking to his steward. "I will take twohundred Caroluses. More I cannot carry incomfort."

Joseph gasped at the amount. For asecond it even entered his mind to resistthe demand. Then he remembered thatthere was a brace of pistols in his study; ifhe could get those he would settle mattersthere and then without the aid of ColonelPride.

"I will fetch the money," said he,betraying his purpose by his alacrity.

"By your leave, Master Ashburn, I willcome with you."

Joseph's eyes flashed him a quick lookof baffled hate.

"As you will," said he, with an illgrace.

As they passed out, Crispin turned toKenneth.

"Remember, sir, you are still in myservice. See that you keep good watch."

Kenneth bent his head without replying.But Master Gregory required littlewatching. He lay a helpless, half-swooning heap upon the floor, which hehad smeared with the blood oozing fromhis wounded shoulder. Even were heuntrussed, there was little to be fearedfrom him.

During the brief while they were alonetogether, Kenneth did not so much asattempt to speak to him. He sat himselfdown upon the nearest chair, and with his

chin in his hands and his elbows on hisknees he pondered over the miserablepredicament into which Sir Crispin hadgot him, and more bitter than ever it hadbeen was his enmity at that momenttowards the knight. That Galliard shouldbe upon the eve of finding his son, and asequel to the story he had heard from himthat night in Worcester, was to Kenneth athing of no interest or moment. Galliardhad ruined him with these Ashburns. Hecould never now hope to win the hand ofCynthia, to achieve which he had beenwilling to turn both fool and knave—aye,had turned both. There was naught left himbut to return him to the paltry Scottishestate of his fathers, there to meet thesneers of those who no doubt had heardthat he was gone South to marry a great

English heiress.That at such a season he could think of

this but serves to prove the shallow natureof his feelings. A love was his that hadgain and vanity for its foundation—in fact,it was no love at all. For what heaccounted love for Cynthia was but thelove of himself, which through Cynthia hesought to indulge.

He cursed the ill-luck that had broughtCrispin into his life. He cursed Crispin forthe evil he had suffered from him,forgetting that but for Crispin he wouldhave been carrion a month ago and more.

Deep at his bitter musings was he whenthe door opened again to admit Joseph,followed by Galliard. The knight cameacross the hall and stooped to look at

Gregory."You may untruss him, Kenneth, when I

am gone," said he. "And in a quarter of anhour from now you are released from youroath to me. Fare you well," he added withunusual gentleness, and turning a glancethat was almost regretful upon the lad."We are not like to meet again, but shouldwe, I trust it may be in happier times. If Ihave harmed you in this business,remember that my need was great. Fareyou well." And he held out his hand.

"Take yourself to hell, sir!" answeredKenneth, turning his back upon him. Theghost of an evil smile played round JosephAshburn's lips as he watched them.

CHAPTER XVIII.COUNTER-PLOT

So soon as Sir Crispin had taken hisdeparture, and whilst yet the beat of hishorse's hoofs was to be distinguishedabove the driving storm of rain and windwithout, Joseph hastened across the hall tothe servants' quarters. There he found hisfour grooms slumbering deeply, theirfaces white and clammy, and their limbstwisted into odd, helpless attitudes. Vainlydid he rain down upon them kicks andcurses; arouse them he could not from thestupor in whose thrall they lay.

And so, seizing a lanthorn, he passed

out to the stables, whence Crispin hadlately taken his best nag, and with his ownhands he saddled a horse. His lips werescrewed into a curious smile—a smilethat still lingered upon them whenpresently he retraced his steps to the roomwhere his brother sat with Kenneth.

In his absence the lad had dressedGregory's wound; he had induced him totake a little wine, and had set him upon achair, in which he now lay back, whiteand exhausted.

"The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,"said Joseph coldly, as he entered.

Kenneth made no sign that he heard. Hesat on like a man in a dream. His eyes thatsaw nothing were bent upon Gregory'spale, flabby face.

"The quarter of an hour is passed, sir,"Joseph repeated in a louder voice.

Kenneth looked up, then rose andsighed, passing his hand wearily acrosshis forehead.

"I understand, sir," he replied in a lowvoice. "You mean that I must go?"

Joseph waited a moment beforereplying. Then:

"It is past midnight," he said slowly,"and the weather is wild. You may liehere until morning, if you are so minded.But go you must then," he added sternly. "Ineed scarce say, sir, that you must have nospeech with Mistress Cynthia, nor thatnever again must you set foot withinCastle Marleigh."

"I understand, sir; I understand. But you

deal hardly with me."Joseph raised his eyebrows in

questioning surprise."I was the victim of my oath, given

when I knew not against whom my handwas to be lifted. Oh, sir, am I to suffer allmy life for a fault that was not my own?You, Master Gregory," he cried, turningpassionately to Cynthia's father, "you areperchance more merciful? You understandmy position—how I was forced into it."

Gregory opened his heavy eyes."A plague on you, Master Stewart," he

groaned. "I understand that you have givenme a wound that will take a month toheal."

"It was an accident, sir. I swear it wasan accident!"

"To swear this and that appears to beyour chief diversion in life," growledGregory for answer. "You had best go; weare not likely to listen to excuses."

"Did you rather suggest a remedy,"Joseph put in quietly, "we might hearyou."

Kenneth swung round and faced him,hope brightening his eyes.

"What remedy is there? How can I undowhat I have done? Show me but the way,and I'll follow it, no matter where itleads!"

Such protestations had Joseph looked tohear, and he was hard put to it todissemble his satisfaction. For a while hewas silent, making pretence to ponder. Atlength:

"Kenneth," he said, "you may in somemeasure repair the evil you have done,and if you are ready to undergo someslight discomfort, I shall be willing on myside to forget this night."

"Tell me how, sir, and whatever thecost I will perform it!"

He gave no thought to the fact thatCrispin's grievance against the Ashburnswas well-founded; that they had wreckedhis life even as they had sought to destroyit; even as eighteen years ago they haddestroyed his wife's. His only thought wasCynthia; his only wish was to possess her.Besides that, justice and honour itselfwere of small account.

"It is but a slight matter," answeredJoseph. "A matter that I might entrust to

one of my grooms."That whilst his grooms lay drugged the

matter was so pressing that his messengermust set out that very night, Joseph did notthink of adding.

"I would, sir," answered the boy, "thatthe task were great and difficult."

"Yes, yes," answered Joseph withbiting sarcasm, "we are acquainted withboth your courage and your resource." Hesat silent and thoughtful for somemoments, then with a sudden sharp glanceat the lad:

"You shall have this chance of settingyourself right with us," he said. Thenabruptly he added.

"Go make ready for a journey. Youmust set out within the hour for London.

Take what you may require and armyourself; then return to me here."

Gregory, who, despite his sluggishwits, divined—partly, at least—what wasafoot, made shift to speak. But his brothersilenced him with a glance.

"Go," Joseph said to the boy. And,without comment, Kenneth rose and leftthem.

"What would you do?" asked Gregorywhen the door had closed.

"Make doubly sure of that ruffian,"answered Joseph coldly. "Colonel Pridemight be absent when he arrives, and hemight learn that none of the name of Lanedwells at the Anchor in Thames Street. Itwould be fatal to awaken his suspicionsand bring him back to us."

"But surely Richard or Stephen mightcarry your errand?"

"They might were they not so druggedthat they cannot be aroused. I might evengo myself, but it is better so." He laughedsoftly. "There is even comedy in it.Kenneth shall outride our bloodthirstyknight to warn Pride of his coming, andwhen he comes he will walk into thehands of the hangman. It will be a surprisefor him. For the rest I shall keep mypromise concerning his son. He shall havenews of him from Pride—but when toolate to be of service."

Gregory shuddered."Fore God, Joseph, 'tis a foul thing you

do," he cried. "Sooner would I never seteyes on the lad again. Let him go his ways

as you intended.""I never did intend it. What trustier

messenger could I find now that I havelent him zest by fright? To win Cynthia,we may rely upon him safely to do that inwhich another might fail."

"Joseph, you will roast in hell for it."Joseph laughed him to scorn."To bed with you, you canting

hypocrite; your wound makes you light-headed."

It was a half-hour ere Kenneth returned,booted, cloaked, and ready for hisjourney. He found Joseph alone, busilywriting, and in obedience to a sign he sathim down to wait.

A few minutes passed, then, with a finalscratch and splutter Joseph flung down his

pen. With the sandbox tilted in the air, likea dicer about to make his throw, he lookedat the lad.

"You will spare neither whip nor spuruntil you arrive in London, MasterKenneth. You must ride night and day; thematter is of the greatest urgency."

Kenneth nodded that he understood, andJoseph sprinkled the sand over the writtenpage.

"I know not when you should reachLondon so that you may be in time, but,"he continued, and as he spoke he creasedthe paper and poured the superfluous sandback into the box, "I should say that bymidnight to-morrow your message shouldbe delivered. Aye," he continued, inanswer to the lad's gasp of surprise, "it is

hard riding, I know, but if you would winCynthia you must do it. Spare neithermoney nor horseflesh, and keep to thesaddle until you are in Thames Street."

He folded the letter, sealed it, andwrote the superscription: "This to ColonelPride, at the sign of the Anchor in ThamesStreet."

He rose and handed the package toKenneth, to whom the superscriptionmeant nothing, since he had not seen thatborne by the letter which Crispin hadreceived.

"You will deliver this intact, and withyour own hands, to Colonel Pride inperson—none other. Should he be absentfrom Thames Street upon your arrival,seek him out instantly, wherever he may

be, and give him this. Upon your faithfulobservance of these conditions rememberthat your future depends. If you are intime, as indeed I trust and think you willbe, you may account yourself Cynthia'shusband. Fail and—well, you need notreturn here."

"I shall not fail, sir," cried Kenneth."What man can do to accomplish thejourney within twenty-four hours, I willdo."

He would have stopped to thank Josephfor the signal favour of this chance ofrehabilitation, but Joseph cut him short.

"Take this purse," he cried impatiently."You will find a horse ready saddled inthe stables. Ride it hard. It will bear youto Norton at least. There get you a fresh

one, and when that is done, another. Nowbe off."

CHAPTER XIX. THEINTERRUPTED

JOURNEYWhen the Tavern Knight left the gates of

Marleigh Park behind him on that wildOctober night, he drove deep the rowelsof his spurs, and set his horse at a perilousgallop along the road to Norwich. Theaction was of instinct rather than ofthought. In the turbulent sea of his mind,one clear current there was, and one only—the knowledge that he was bound forLondon for news of this son of his whomJoseph told him lived. He paused not even

to speculate what manner of man his childwas grown, nor yet what walk of life hehad been reared to tread. He lived: he wassomewhere in the world; that for the timesufficed him. The Ashburns had not, itseemed, destroyed quite everything thatmade his life worth enduring—the life thatso often and so wantonly he had exposed.

His son lived, and in London he shouldhave news of him. To London then must heget himself with all dispatch, and heswore to take no rest until he reached it.And with that firm resolve to urge him, heploughed his horse's flanks, and sped onthrough the night. The rain beat in his face,yet he scarce remarked it, as again moreby instinct than by reason—he buried hisface to the eyes in the folds of his cloak.

Later the rain ceased, and clearer grewthe line of light betwixt the hedgerows, bywhich his horse had steered its desperatecareer. Fitfully a crescent moon peeredout from among the wind-driven clouds.The poor ruffler was fallen intomeditation, and noted not that his nag didno more than amble. He roused himself ofa sudden when half-way down a gentleslope some five miles from Norwich, andout of temper at discovering thesluggishness of the pace, he again gave thehorse a taste of the spurs. The action wasfatal. The incline was become a bed ofsodden clay, and he had not noticed withwhat misgivings his horse pursued thetreacherous footing. The sting of the spurmade the animal bound forward, and thenext instant a raucous oath broke from

Crispin as the nag floundered and droppedon its knees. Like a stone from a catapultGalliard flew over its head and rolleddown the few remaining yards of the slopeinto a very lake of slimy water at thebottom.

Down this same hill, some twentyminutes later, came Kenneth Stewart withinfinite precaution. He was in haste—ahaste more desperate far than evenCrispin's. But his character held none ofGalliard's recklessness, nor were his witsfogged by such news as Crispin had heardthat night. He realized that to be swift hemust be cautious in his night-riding. Andso, carefully he came, with a firm hand onthe reins, yet leaving it to his horse to findsafe footing.

He had reached the level ground insafety, and was about to put his nag to asmarter pace, when of a sudden from thedarkness of the hedge he was hailed by aharsh, metallic voice, the sound of whichsent a tremor through him.

"Sir, you are choicely met, whoeveryou may be. I have suffered a mischancedown that cursed hill, and my horse hasgone lame."

Kenneth kept his cloak over his mouth,trusting that the muffling wouldsufficiently disguise his accents as hemade answer.

"I am in haste, my master. What is yourwill?"

"Why, marry, so am I in haste. My willis your horse, sir. Oh, I'm no robber. I'll

pay you for it, and handsomely. But have itI must. 'Twill be no great discomfort foryou to walk to Norwich. You may do it inan hour."

"My horse, sir, is not for sale," wasKenneth's brief answer. "Give you goodnight."

"Hold, man! Blood and hell, stop! Ifyou'll not sell the worthless beast to servea gentleman, I'll shoot it under you. Makeyour choice."

Kenneth caught the gleam of a pistol-barrel pointed at him from the hedge, andhe shivered. What was he to do? Everyinstant was precious to him. As in a flashit came to him that perchance Sir Crispinalso rode to London, and that it wasexpected of him to arrive there first if he

were to be in time. Swiftly he weighed theodds in his mind, and took thedetermination to dash past Sir Crispin,risking his aim and trusting to the dark tobefriend him.

But even as he determined thus, whatmoon there was became unveiled, and thelight of it fell upon his face, which wasturned towards Galliard. An exclamationof surprise escaped Sir Crispin.

"'Slife, Master Stewart, I knew not yourvoice. Whither do you ride?"

"What is it to you? Have you notwrought enough of evil for me? Am Inever to be rid of you? Castle Marleigh,"he added, with well-feigned anger, "hasclosed its doors upon me. What does itsignify to you whither I ride? Suffer me

leastways to pass unmolested, and toleave you."

Kenneth's passionate reproaches cutGalliard keenly. He held himself at thatmoment a very knave for having draggedthis boy into his work of vengeance, andthereby cast a blight upon his life. Hesought for words wherein to giveexpression to something of what he felt,then realizing how futile and effete allwords must prove, he waved his hand inthe direction of the road.

"Go, Master Stewart," he muttered."Your way is clear."

And Kenneth, waiting for no secondinvitation, rode on and left him. He rodewith gratitude in his heart to theProvidence that had caused him so easily

to overcome an obstacle that at first hehad held impassable. Stronger grew in hismind the conviction that to fulfil themission Joseph required of him, he mustreach London before Sir Crispin. Theknowledge that he was ahead of him, andthat he must derive an ample start fromGalliard's mishap, warmed him like wine.

His mind thus relieved from its weightof anxiety, he little recked fatigue, andsuch excellent use did he make of hishorse that he reached Newmarket on it anhour before the morrow's moon.

An hour he rested there, and broke hisfast. Then on a fresh horse—a powerfuland willing animal he set out once more.

By half-past two he was at Newport.But so hard had he ridden that man and

beast alike were in a lather of sweat, andwhilst he himself felt sick and tired, thehorse was utterly unfit to bear him farther.For half an hour he rested there, and madea meal whose chief constituent wasbrandy. Then on a third horse he startedupon the last stage of his journey.

The wind was damp and penetrating;the roads veritable morasses of mud, andoverhead gloomy banks of dark, greyclouds moved sluggishly, the light thatwas filtered through them giving thelandscape a bleak and dreary aspect. Inhis jaded condition Kenneth soon becamea prey to the depression of it. Hislightness of heart of some dozen hours agowas now all gone, and not even theknowledge that his mission was well-nighaccomplished sufficed to cheer him. To

add to his discomfort a fine rain set intowards four o'clock, and when a coupleof hours later he clattered along the roadcut through a wooded slope in thedirection of Waltham, he was become avery limp and lifeless individual.

He noticed not the horsemen movingcautiously among the closely-set trees oneither side of the road. It was growingprematurely dark, and objects were nonetoo distinct. And thus it befell that whenfrom the reverie of dejection into whichhe had fallen he was suddenly aroused bythe thud of hoofs, he looked up to find twomounted men barring the road some tenyards in front of him. Their attitude wasunmistakable, and it crossed poorKenneth's mind that he was beset byrobbers. But a second glance showed him

their red cloaks and military steel caps,and he knew them for soldiers of theCommonwealth.

Hearing the beat of hoofs behind him,he looked over his shoulder to see fourother troopers closing rapidly down uponhim. Clearly he was the object of theirattention. He had been a fool not to haveperceived this earlier, and his heartmisgave him, for all that had he paused tothink he must have realized that he hadnaught to fear, and that in this somemistake must lie.

"Halt!" thundered the deep voice of thesergeant, who, with a trooper, held theroad in front.

Kenneth drew up within a yard of them,conscious that the man's dark eyes were

scanning him sharply from beneath hismorion.

"Who are you, sir?" the bass voicedemanded.

Alas for the vanity of poor humanmites! Even Kenneth, who never yet hadachieved aught for the cause he served,grew of a sudden chill to think thatperchance this sergeant might recognizehis name for one that he had heard beforeassociated with deeds performed on theKing's behalf.

For a second he hesitated; then:"Blount," he stammered, "Jasper

Blount."He little thought how that fruit of his

vanity was to prove his undoing thereafter."Verily," sneered the sergeant, "it

almost seemed you had forgotten it." Andfrom that sneer Kenneth gathered withfresh dread that the fellow mistrusted him.

"Whence are you, Master Blount?"Again Kenneth hesitated. Then recalling

Ashburn's high favour with the Parliament,and seeing that it could but advance hiscause to state the true sum of his journey:

"From Castle Marleigh," he replied."Verily, sir, you seem yet in some

doubt. Whither do you go?""To London.""On what errand?" The sergeant's

questions fell swift as sword-strokes."With letters for Colonel Pride."The reply, delivered more boldly than

Kenneth had spoken hitherto, was not

without its effect."From whom are these letters?""From Mr. Joseph Ashburn, of Castle

Marleigh.""Produce them."With trembling fingers Kenneth

complied. This the sergeant observed ashe took the package.

"What ails you, man?" quoth he."Naught, sir 'tis the cold."The sergeant scanned the package and

its seal. In a measure it was a passport,and he was forced to the conclusion thatthis man was indeed the messenger herepresented himself. Certainly he had notthe air nor the bearing of him for whomthey waited, nor did the sergeant think that

their quarry would have armed himselfwith a dummy package against such astrait. And yet the sergeant was not masterafter all, and did he let this fellow pursuehis journey, he might reap trouble for ithereafter; whilst likewise if he detainedhim, Colonel Pride, he knew, was not anover-patient man. He was still debatingwhat course to take, and had turned to hiscompanion with the muttered question:"What think you, Peter?" when by hisprecipitancy Kenneth ruined his slenderchance of being permitted to depart.

"I pray you, sir, now that you know myerrand, suffer me to pass on."

There was an eager tremor in his voicethat the sergeant mistook for fear. Henoted it, and remembering the boy's

hesitancy in answering his earlierquestions, he decided upon his course ofaction.

"We shall not delay your journey, sir,"he answered, eyeing Kenneth sharply,"and as your way must lie throughWaltham, I will but ask you to suffer us toride with you thus far, so that there youmay answer any questions our captain mayhave to ask ere you proceed."

"But, sir—""No more, master courier," snarled the

sergeant. Then, beckoning a trooper to hisside, he whispered an order in his ear.

As the man withdrew they wheeledtheir horses, and at a sharp word ofcommand Kenneth rode on towardsWaltham between the sergeant and a

trooper.

CHAPTER XX. THECONVERTED

HOGANNight black and impenetrable had set in

ere Kenneth and his escort clattered overthe greasy stones of Waltham's HighStreet, and drew up in front of theCrusader Inn.

The door stood wide and hospitable,and a warm shaft of light fell from it andset a glitter upon the wet street. Avoidingthe common-room, the sergeant ledKenneth through the inn-yard, and into thehostelry by a side entrance. He urged the

youth along a dimly-lighted passage. On adoor at the end of this he knocked, then,lifting the latch, he ushered Kenneth into aroomy, oak-panelled chamber.

At the far end a huge fire burntcheerfully, and with his back to it, his feetplanted wide apart upon the hearth, stooda powerfully built man of medium height,whose youthful face and uprightness ofcarriage assorted ill with the grey of hishair, pronouncing that greyness premature.He seemed all clad in leather, for wherehis jerkin stopped his boots began. Acuirass and feathered headpiece lay in acorner, whilst on the table Kenneth espieda broad-brimmed hat, a huge sword, and abrace of pistols.

As the boy's eyes came back to the

burly figure on the hearth, he was puzzledby a familiar, intangible something in thefellow's face.

He was racking his mind to recallwhere last he had seen it, when withslightly elevated eyebrows and a look ofrecognition in his somewhat prominentblue eyes.

"Soul of my body," exclaimed the manin surprise, "Master Stewart, as I live."

"Stuart!" cried both sergeant andtrooper in a gasp, starting forward to scantheir prisoner's face.

At that the burly captain broke into alaugh.

"Not the young man Charles Stuart,"said he; "no, no. Your captive is none soprecious. It is only Master Kenneth

Stewart, of Bailienochy.""Then it is not even our man," grumbled

the soldier."But Stewart is not the name he gave,"

cried the sergeant. "Jasper Blount he toldme he was called. It seems that after allwe have captured a malignant, and that Iwas well advised to bring him to you."

The captain made a gesture of disdain.In that moment Kenneth recognized him.He was Harry Hogan—the man whose lifeGalliard had saved in Penrith.

"Bah, a worthless capture, Beddoes,"he said.

"I know not that," retorted the sergeant."He carries papers which he states arefrom Joseph Ashburn, of Castle Marleigh,to Colonel Pride. Colonel Pride's name is

on the package, but may not that be asubterfuge? Why else did he say he wascalled Blount?"

Hogan's brows were of a sudden knit."Faith, Beddoes, you are right. Remove

his sword and search him."Calmly Kenneth suffered them to carry

out this order. Inwardly he boiled at thedelay, and cursed himself for having soneedlessly given the name of Blount. Butfor that, it was likely Hogan would havestraightway dismissed him. He cheeredhimself with the thought that after all theywould not long detain him. Their searchmade, and finding nothing upon him butAshburn's letter, surely they would releasehim.

But their search was very thorough.

They drew off his boots, and well-nighstripped him naked, submitting eacharticle of his apparel to a carefulexamination. At length it was over, andHogan held Ashburn's package, turning itover in his hands with a thoughtfulexpression.

"Surely, sir, you will now allow me toproceed," cried Kenneth. "I assure you thematter is of the greatest urgency, andunless I am in London by midnight I shallbe too late."

"Too late for what?" asked Hogan."I—I don't know.""Oh?" The Irishman laughed

unpleasantly. Colonel Pride and he wereon anything but the best of terms. Thecolonel knew him for a godless soldier of

fortune bound to the Parliament's cause byno interest beyond that of gain; and,himself a zealot, Colonel Pride had withdistasteful frequency shown Hogan thequality of his feelings towards him. ThatHogan was not afraid of him, was becauseit was not in Hogan's nature to be afraid ofanyone. But he realized at least that he hadcause to be, and at the present moment itoccurred to him that it would be passingsweet to find a flaw in the old Puritan'sarmour. If the package were harmless hishaving opened it was still a matter that thedischarge of his duty would sanction. Thushe reasoned; and he resolved to break theseal and make himself master of thecontents of that letter.

Hogan's unpleasant laugh startledKenneth. It suggested to him that perhaps,

after all, his delay was by no means at anend; that Hogan suspected him ofsomething—he could not think of what.

Then in a flash an idea came to him."May I speak to you privately for a

moment, Captain Hogan?" he inquired insuch a tone of importance—imperiousness, almost—that the Irishmanwas impressed by it. He scenteddisclosure.

"Faith, you may if you have aught to tellme," and he signed to Beddoes and hiscompanion to withdraw.

"Now, Master Hogan," Kenneth beganresolutely as soon as they were alone, "Iask you to let me go my way unmolested.Too long already has the stupidity of yourfollowers detained me here unjustly. That

I reach London by midnight is to me amatter of the gravest moment, and youshall let me."

"Soul of my body, Mr. Stewart, what aspirit you have acquired since last wemet."

"In your place I should leave our lastmeeting unmentioned, master turncoat."

The Irishman's eyebrows shot up."By the Mass, young cockerel, I mislike

your tone—""You'll have cause to dislike it more if

you detain me." He was desperate now."What would your saintly, crop-earedfriends say if they knew as much of yourpast history as I do?"

"Tis a matter for conjecture," saidHogan, humouring him.

"How think you would they welcomethe story of the roystering rake anddebauchee who deserted the army of KingCharles because they were about to hanghim for murder?"

"Ah! how, indeed?" sighed Hogan."What manner of reputation, think you,

that for a captain of the godly army of theCommonwealth?"

"A vile one, truly," murmured Hoganwith humility.

"And now, Mr. Hogan," he wound uploftily, "you had best return me thatpackage, and be rid of me before I sowmischief enough to bring you a crop ofhemp."

Hogan stared at the lad's flushed facewith a look of whimsical astonishment,

and for a brief spell there was silencebetween them. Slowly then, with his eyesstill fixed upon Kenneth's, the captainunsheathed a dagger. The boy drew back,with a sudden cry of alarm. Hogan venteda horse-laugh, and ran the blade under theseal of Ashburn's letter.

"Be not afraid, my man of threats," hesaid pleasantly. "I have no thought ofhurting you—leastways, not yet." Hepaused in the act of breaking the seal."Lest you should treasure uncomfortabledelusions, dear Master Stewart, let meremind you that I am an Irishman—not afool. Do you conceive my fame to be sonarrow a thing that when I left thebeggarly army of King Charles for that ofthe Commonwealth, I did not realize howat any moment I might come face to face

with someone who had heard of my oldexploits, and would denounce me? You donot find me masquerading under anassumed name. I am here, sir, as HarryHogan, a sometime dissolute follower ofthe Egyptian Pharaoh, Charles Stuart; anerstwhile besotted, blinded soldier in thearmy of the Amalekite, a whilom erringmalignant, but converted by a crowningmercy into a zealous, faithful servant ofIsrael. There were vouchsafings andupliftings, and the devil knows what else,when this stray lamb was gathered to thefold."

He uttered the words with a nasalintonation, and a whimsical look atKenneth.

"Now, Mr. Stewart, tell them what you

will, and they will tell you yet more inreturn, to show you how signally the lightof grace hath been shed over me."

He laughed again, and broke the seal.Kenneth, crestfallen and abashed, watchedhim, without attempting furtherinterference. Of what avail?

"You had been better advised, youngsir, had you been less hasty and anxious. Itis a fatal fault of youth's, and one of whichnothing but time—if, indeed, you live—will cure you. Your anxiety touching thispackage determines me to open it."

Kenneth sneered at the man'sconclusions, and, shrugging his shoulders,turned slightly aside.

"Perchance, master wiseacres, whenyou have read it, you will appreciate how

egotism may also lead men into fatalerrors. Haply, too, you will be able toafford Colonel Pride some satisfactoryreason for tampering with hiscorrespondence."

But Hogan heard him not. He hadunfolded the letter, and at the first wordshe beheld, a frown contracted his brows.As he read on the frown deepened, andwhen he had done, an oath broke from hislips. "God's life!" he cried, then again wassilent, and so stood a moment with benthead. At last he raised his eyes, and letthem rest long and searchingly uponKenneth, who now observed him in alarm.

"What—what is it?" the lad asked, withhesitancy.

But Hogan never answered. He strode

past him to the door, and flung it wide."Beddoes!" he called. A step sounded

in the passage, and the sergeant appeared."Have you a trooper there?"

"There is Peter, who rode with me.""Let him look to this fellow. Tell him to

set him under lock and bolt here in the innuntil I shall want him, and tell him that heshall answer for him with his neck."

Kenneth drew back in alarm."Sir—Captain Hogan—will you

explain?""Marry, you shall have explanations to

spare before morning, else I'm a fool. Buthave no fear, for we intend you no hurt,"he added more softly. "Take him away,Beddoes; then return to me here."

When Beddoes came back fromconsigning Kenneth into the hands of histrooper, he found Hogan seated in theleathern arm-chair, with Ashburn's letterspread before him on the table.

"I was right in my suspicions, eh?"ventured Beddoes complacently.

"You were more than right, Beddoes,you were Heaven-inspired. It is no Statematter that you have chanced upon, but onethat touches a man in whom I aminterested very nearly."

The sergeant's eyes were full ofquestions, but Hogan enlightened him nofurther.

"You will ride back to your post atonce, Beddoes," he commanded. "ShouldLord Oriel fall into your hands, as we

hope, you will send him to me. But youwill continue to patrol the road, anddemand the business of all comers. I wishone Crispin Galliard, who should passthis way ere long, detained, and brought tome. He is a tall, lank man—"

"I know him, sir," Beddoes interrupted."The Tavern Knight they called him in themalignant army—a rakehelly, dissolutebrawler. I saw him in Worcester when hewas taken after the fight."

Hogan frowned. The righteous Beddoesknew overmuch. "That is the man," heanswered calmly. "Go now, and see thathe does not ride past you. I have great andurgent need of him."

Beddoes' eyes were opened in surprise."He is possessed of valuable

information," Hogan explained. "Awaywith you, man."

When alone, Harry Hogan turned hisarm-chair sideways towards the fire.Then, filling himself a pipe—for in hisforeign campaigning he had acquired thehabit of tobacco-smoking—he stretchedhis sinewy legs across a second chair, andcomposed himself for meditation. An hourwent by; the host looked in to see if thecaptain required anything. Another hoursped on, and the captain dozed.

He awoke with a start. The fire hadburned low, and the hands of the hugeclock in the corner pointed to midnight.From the passage came to him the soundof steps and angry voices.

Before Hogan could rise, the door was

flung wide, and a tall, gaunt man washustled across the threshold by twosoldiers. His head was bare, and his hairwet and dishevelled. His doublet was tornand his shoulder bleeding, whilst hisempty scabbard hung like a lambent tailbehind him.

"We have brought him, captain," one ofthe men announced.

"Aye, you crop-eared, psalm-whiningcuckolds, you've brought me, d—n you,"growled Sir Crispin, whose eyes rolledfiercely.

As his angry glance lighted uponHogan's impressive face, he abruptlystemmed the flow of invective that rushedto his lips.

The Irishman rose, and looked past him

at the troopers. "Leave us," he commandedshortly.

He remained standing by the hearth untilthe footsteps of his men had died away,then he crossed the chamber, passedCrispin without a word, and quietlylocked the door. That done, he turned afriendly smile on his tanned face—andholding out his hand:

"At last, Cris, it is mine to thank youand to repay you in some measure for theservice you rendered me that night atPenrith."

CHAPTER XXI. THEMESSAGE KENNETH

BOREIn bewilderment Crispin took the

outstretched hand of his old fellow-roysterer.

"Oddslife," he growled, "if to have mewaylaid, dragged from my horse andwounded by those sons of dogs, yourmyrmidons, be your manner of expressinggratitude, I'd as lief you had let me gounthanked."

"And yet, Cris, I dare swear you'llthank me before another hour is sped.

Ough, man, how cold you are! There's abottle of strong waters yonder—"

Then, without completing his sentence,Hogan had seized the black jack andpoured half a glass of its contents, whichhe handed Crispin.

"Drink, man," he said briefly, andCrispin, nothing loath, obeyed him.

Next Hogan drew the torn and soddendoublet from his guest's back, pushed achair over to the table, and bade him sit.Again, nothing loath, Crispin did as hewas bidden. He was stiff from long riding,and so with a sigh of satisfaction hesettled himself down and stretched out hislong legs.

Hogan slowly took the seat opposite tohim, and coughed. He was at a loss how to

open the parlous subject, how tocommunicate to Crispin the amazing newsupon which he had stumbled.

"Slife' Hogan," laughed Crispindreamily, "I little thought it was to youthose crop-ears carried me with suchviolence. I little thought, indeed, ever tosee you again. But you have prospered,you knave, since that night you leftPenrith."

And he turned his head the better tosurvey the Irishman.

"Aye, I have prospered," Hoganassented. "My life is a sort of parable ofthe fatted son and the prodigal calf. Theytell me there is greater joy in heaven overthe repentance of a sinner than—than—Plague on it! How does it go?"

"Than over the downfall of a saint?"suggested Crispin.

"I'll swear that's not the text, but any ofmy troopers could quote it you; every manof them is an incarnate Church militant."He paused, and Crispin laughed softly.Then abruptly: "And so you were riding toLondon?" said he.

"How know you that?""Faith, I know more—much more. I can

even tell you to what house you rode, andon what errand. You were for the sign ofthe Anchor in Thames Street, for news ofyour son, whom Joseph Ashburn hath toldyou lives."

Crispin sat bolt upright, a look ofmingled wonder and suspicion on his face.

"You are well informed, you gentlemen

of the Parliament," he said."On the matter of your errand," the

Irishman returned quietly, "I am muchbetter informed than are you. Shall I tellyou who lives at the sign of the Anchor—not whom you have been told lives there,but who really does occupy the house?"Hogan paused a second as though awaitingsome reply; then softly he answered hisown question: "Colonel Pride." And he satback to await results.

There were none. For the moment thename awoke no recollections, conveyedno meaning to Crispin.

"Who may Colonel Pride be?" heasked, after a pause.

Hogan was visibly disappointed."A certain powerful and vindictive

member of the Rump, whose son youkilled at Worcester."

This time the shaft went home. Galliardsprang out of the chair, his browsdarkening, and his cheeks pale beyondtheir wont.

"Zounds, Hogan, do you mean thatJoseph Ashburn was betraying me into thisman's hands?"

"You have said it.""But—"Crispin stopped short. The pallor of his

face increased; it became ashen, and hiseyes glittered as though a fever consumedhim. He sank back into his chair, andsetting both hands upon the table beforehim, he looked straight at Hogan.

"But my son, Hogan, my son?" he

pleaded, and his voice was broken as noman had heard it yet. "Oh, God inheaven!" he cried in a sudden frenzy."What hell's work is this?"

Behind his blue lips his teeth werechattering now. His hands shook as heheld them, still clenched, before him.Then, in a dull, concentrated voice:

"Hogan," he vowed, "I'll kill him for it.Fool, blind, pitiful fool that I am."

Then—his face distorted by passion—he broke into a torrent of imprecations thatwas at length stemmed by Hogan.

"Wait, Cris," said he, laying his handupon the other's arm. "It is not all false.Joseph Ashburn sought, it is true, to betrayyou into the hands of Colonel Pride,sending you to the sign of the Anchor with

the assurance that there you should havenews of your son. That was false; yet notall false. Your son does live, and at thesign of the Anchor it is likely you wouldhave had the news of him you sought. Butthat news would have come when too lateto have been of value to you."

Crispin tried to speak, but failed. Then,mastering himself by an effort, and in avoice that was oddly shaken:

"Hogan," he cried, "you are torturingme! What is the sum of your knowledge?"

At last the Irishman produced Ashburn'sletter to Colonel Pride.

"My men," said he, "are patrolling theroads in wait for a malignant that hasincurred the Parliament's displeasure. Wehave news that he is making for Harwich,

where a vessel lies waiting to carry him toFrance, and we expect that he will ridethis way. Three hours ago a young manunable clearly to account for himself rodeinto our net, and was brought to me. Hewas the bearer of a letter to Colonel Pridefrom Joseph Ashburn. He had given mysergeant a wrong name, and betrayed suchanxiety to be gone that I deemed his erranda suspicious one, and broke the seal ofthat letter. You may thank God, Galliard,every night of your life that I did so."

"Was this youth Kenneth Stewart?"asked Crispin.

"You have guessed it.""D—n the lad," he began furiously.

Then repressing himself, he sighed, and inan altered tone, "No, no," said he. "I have

grievously wronged him! have wreckedhis life—or at least he thinks so now. Ican hardly blame him for seeking to bequits with me."

"The lad," returned Hogan, "must behimself a dupe. He can have had nosuspicion of the message he carried. Letme read it to you; it will make all clear."

Hogan drew a taper nearer, andspreading the paper upon the table, hesmoothed it out, and read:

HONOURED SIR,The bearer of the present should, if he

rides well, outstrip another messenger Ihave dispatched to you upon a fool'serrand, with a letter addressed to one Mr.Lane at the sign of the Anchor. The bearerof that is none other than the notorious

malignant, Sir Crispin Galliard, by whosehand your son was slain under your veryeyes at Worcester, whose capture I knowthat you warmly desire and with whom Idoubt not you will know how to deal. Tous he has been a source of no littlemolestation; his liberty, in fact, is aperpetual menace to our lives. For someeighteen years this Galliard has believeddead a son that my cousin bore him. Newsof this son, whom I have just informed himlives—as indeed he does—is the baitwherewith I have lured him to youraddress. Forewarned by the present, Imake no doubt you will prepare to receivehim fittingly. But ere that justice heescaped at Worcester be meted out to himat Tyburn or on Tower Hill, I would haveyou give him that news touching his son

which I am sending him to you to receive.Inform him, sir, that his son, JocelynMarleigh...

Hogan paused, and shot a furtive glanceat Galliard. The knight was leaningforward now, his eyes strained, hisforehead beaded with perspiration, andhis breathing heavy.

"Read on," he begged hoarsely.His son, Jocelyn Marleigh, is the bearer

of this letter, the man whom he has injuredand who detests him, the youth with whomhe has, by a curious chance, been in muchclose association, and whom he hasknown as Kenneth Stewart.

"God!" gasped Crispin. Then withsudden vigour, "Oh, 'tis a lie," he cried, "afresh invention of that lying brain to

torture me."Hogan held up his hand."There is a little more," he said, and

continued:Should he doubt this, bid him look

closely into the lad's face, and ask him,after he has scrutinized it, what image itevokes. Should he still doubt thereafter,thinking the likeness to which he has beensingularly blind to be no more thanaccidental, bid them strip the lad's rightfoot. It bears a mark that I think shouldconvince him. For the rest, honoured sir, Ibeg you to keep all information touchinghis parentage from the boy himself,wherein I have weighty ends to serve.Within a few days of your receipt of thisletter, I look to have the honour of waiting

upon you. In the meanwhile, honoured sir,believe that while I am, I am yourobedient servant,

JOSEPH ASHBURNAcross the narrow table the two men's

glances met—Hogan's full of concern andpity, Crispin's charged with amazementand horror. A little while they sat thus,then Crispin rose slowly to his feet, andwith steps uncertain as a drunkard's hecrossed to the window. He pushed it open,and let the icy wind upon his face andhead, unconscious of its sting. Momentspassed, during which the knight went overthe last few months of his turbulent lifesince his first meeting at Perth withKenneth Stewart. He recalled howstrangely and unaccountably he had been

drawn to the boy when first he beheld himin the castle yard, and how, owing to afeeling for which he could not account,since the lad's character had little thatmight commend him to such a man asCrispin, he had contrived that Kennethshould serve in his company.

He recalled how at first—aye, andoften afterwards even—he had sought towin the boy's affection, despite the factthat there was naught in the boy that hetruly admired, and much that he despised.Was it possible that these his feelingswere dictated by Nature to hisunconscious mind? It must indeed be so,and the written words of Joseph Ashburnto Colonel Pride were true. Kenneth wasindeed his son; the conviction was uponhim. He conjured up the lad's face, and a

cry of discovery escaped him. How blindhe had been not to have seen before thelikeness of Alice—his poor, butcheredgirl-wife of eighteen years ago. How dullnever before to have realized that thatlikeness it was had drawn him to the boy.

He was calm by now, and in his calmhe sought to analyse his thoughts, and hewas shocked to find that they were notjoyous. He yearned—as he had yearnedthat night in Worcester—for the lad'saffection, and yet, for all his yearning, herealized that with the conviction thatKenneth was his offspring came a dullsense of disappointment. He was not sucha son as the rakehelly knight would havehad him. Swiftly he put the thought fromhim. The craven hands that had reared thelad had warped his nature; he would guide

it henceforth; he would straighten it outinto a nobler shape.

Then he smiled bitterly to himself. Whatmanner of man was he to train a youth toloftiness and honour?—he, a debauchedruler with a nickname for which, had heany sense of shame, he would haveblushed! Again he remembered the lad'sdisposition towards himself; but these, hethought, he hoped, he knew that he wouldnow be able to overcome.

He closed the window, and turned toface his companion. He was himselfagain, and calm, for all that his face washaggard beyond its wont.

"Hogan, where is the boy?""I have detained him in the inn. Will

you see him now?"

"At once, Hogan. I am convinced."The Irishman crossed the chamber, and

opening the door he called an order to thetrooper waiting in the passage.

Some minutes they waited, standing,with no word uttered between them. Atlast steps sounded in the corridor, and amoment later Kenneth was rudely thrustinto the room. Hogan signed to thetrooper, who closed the door andwithdrew.

As Kenneth entered, Crispin advanceda step and paused, his eyes devouring thelad and receiving in exchange a glancethat was full of malevolence.

"I might have known, sir, that you werenot far away," he exclaimed bitterly,forgetting for the moment how he had left

Crispin behind him on the previous night."I might have guessed that my detentionwas your work."

"Why so?" asked Crispin quietly, hiseyes ever scanning the lad's face with apathetic look.

"Because it is your way, I know notwhy, to work my ruin in all things. Notsatisfied with involving me in thatbusiness at Castle Marleigh, you mustneeds cross my path again when I amabout to make amends, and so blight mylast chance. My God, sir, am I never to berid of you? What harm have I done you?"

A spasm of pain, like a ripple overwater, crossed the knight's swart face.

"If you but consider, Kenneth," he said,speaking very quietly, "you must see the

injustice of your words. Since when hasCrispin Galliard served the Parliament,that Roundhead troopers should do hisbidding as you suggest? And touching thatbusiness at Sheringham you are over-hardwith me. It was a compact you made, andbut for which, you forget that you had beencarrion these three weeks."

"Would to Heaven that I had been," theboy burst out, "sooner than pay such aprice for keeping my life!"

"As for my presence here," Crispincontinued, leaving the outburst unheeded,"it has naught to do with your detention."

"You lie!"Hogan caught his breath with a sharp

hiss, and a dead silence followed. Thatsilence struck terror into Kenneth's heart.

He encountered Crispin's eye bent uponhim with a look he could not fathom, andmuch would he now have given to recallthe two words that had burst from him inthe heat of his rage. He bethought him ofthe unscrupulous, deadly characterattributed to the man to whom he hadaddressed them, and in his coward's fancyhe saw already payment demanded.Already he pictured himself lying coldand stark in the streets of Waltham with asword-wound through his middle. Hisface went grey and his lips trembled.

Then Galliard spoke at last, and themildness of his tone filled Kenneth with anew dread. In his experience of Crispin'sways he had come to look upon mildnessas the man's most dangerous phase:

"You are mistaken," Crispin said. "Ispoke the truth; it is a habit of mine—haply the only gentlemanly habit left me. Irepeat, I have had naught to do with yourdetention. I arrived here half an hour ago,as the captain will inform you, and I wasconducted hither by force, having beenseized by his men, even as you wereseized. No," he added, with a sigh, "it wasnot my hand that detained you; it was thehand of Fate." Then suddenly changing hisvoice to a more vehement key, "Know youon what errand you rode to London?" hedemanded. "To betray your father into thehands of his enemies; to deliver him up tothe hangman."

Kenneth's eyes grew wide; his mouthfell open, and a frown of perplexity drewhis brows together. Dully,

uncomprehendingly he met Sir Crispin'ssad gaze.

"My father," he gasped at last. "'Sdeath,sir, what is it you mean? My father hasbeen dead these ten years. I scarceremember him."

Crispin's lips moved, but no word didhe utter. Then with a sudden gesture ofdespair he turned to Hogan, who stoodapart, a silent witness.

"My God, Hogan," he cried. "How shallI tell him?"

In answer to the appeal, the Irishmanturned to Kenneth.

"You have been in error, sir, touchingyour parentage," quoth he bluntly. "AlanStewart, of Bailienochy, was not yourfather."

Kenneth looked from one to the other ofthem.

"Sirs, is this a jest?" he cried,reddening. Then, remarking at length thesolemnity of their countenances, hestopped short. Crispin came close up tohim, and placed a hand upon his shoulder.The boy shrank visibly beneath the touch,and again an expression of pain crossedthe poor ruffler's face.

"Do you recall, Kenneth," he saidslowly, almost sorrowfully, "the story thatI told you that night in Worcester, whenwe sat waiting for dawn and thehangman?"

The lad nodded vacantly."Do you remember the details? Do you

remember I told you how, when I

swooned beneath the stroke of JosephAshburn's sword, the last words I heardwere those in which he bade his brotherslit the throat of the babe in the cradle?You were, yourself, present yesternight atCastle Marleigh when Joseph Ashburntold me Gregory had been mercifullyinclined; that my child had not died; that ifI gave him his life he would restore him tome. You remember?"

Again Kenneth nodded. A vague,numbing fear was creeping round hisheart, and his blood seemed chilled by itand stagnant. With fascinated eyes hewatched the knight's face—drawn andhaggard.

"It was a trap that Joseph Ashburn setfor me. Yet he did not altogether lie. The

child Gregory had indeed spared, and itseems from what I have learned within thelast half-hour that he had entrusted hisrearing to Alan Stewart, of Bailienochy,seeking afterwards—I take it—to wed himto his daughter, so that should the Kingcome to his own again, they should havethe protection of a Marleigh who hadserved his King."

"You mean," the lad almost whispered,and his accents were unmistakably ofhorror, "you mean that I am your—Oh,God, I'll not believe it!" he cried out, withsuch sudden loathing and passion thatCrispin recoiled as though he had beenstruck. A dull flush crept into his cheeks tofade upon the instant and give place to apallor, if possible, intenser than before.

"I'll not believe it! I'll not believe it!"the boy repeated, as if seeking by thatreiteration to shut out a conviction bywhich he was beset. "I'll not believe it!"he cried again; and now his voice had lostits passionate vehemence, and was sunkalmost to a moan.

"I found it hard to believe myself," wasCrispin's answer, and his voice was notfree from bitterness. "But I have a proofhere that seems incontestable, even had Inot the proof of your face to which I havebeen blind these months. Blind with theeyes of my body, at least. The eyes of mysoul saw and recognized you when firstthey fell on you in Perth. The voice of theblood ordered me then to your side, andthough I heard its call, I understood notwhat it meant. Read this letter, boy—the

letter that you were to have carried toColonel Pride."

With his eyes still fixed in a gaze ofstupefaction upon Galliard's face, Kennethtook the paper. Then slowly, involuntarilyalmost it seemed, he dropped his glance toit, and read. He was long in reading, asthough the writing presented difficulties,and his two companions watched him thewhile, and waited. At last he turned thepaper over, and examined seal andsuperscription as if suspicious that he helda forgery.

But in some subtle, mysterious way—that voice of the blood perchance to whichCrispin had alluded—he felt convictionstealing down upon his soul. Mechanicallyhe moved across to the table, and sat

down. Without a word, and still holdingthe crumpled letter in his clenched hand,he set his elbows on the table, and,pressing his temples to his palms, he satthere dumb. Within him a very volcanoraged, and its fires were fed with loathing—loathing for this man whom he had everhated, yet never as he hated him now,knowing him to be his father. It seemed asif to all the wrongs which Crispin haddone him during the months of theiracquaintanceship he had now added afresh and culminating wrong bydiscovering this parentage.

He sat and thought, and his soul grewsick. He probed for some flaw, sought forsome mistake that might have been made.And yet the more he thought, the more hedwelt upon his youth in Scotland, the more

convinced was he that Crispin had toldhim the truth. Pre-eminent argument ofconviction to him was the desire of theAshburns that he should marry Cynthia.Oft he had marvelled that they, wealthy,and even powerful, selfish and ambitious,should have selected him, the scion of anobscure and impoverished Scottish house,as a bridegroom for their daughter. Thenews now before him made their motivesclear; indeed, no other motive could exist,no other explanation could there be. Hewas the heir of Castle Marleigh, and theusurpers sought to provide against the daywhen another revolution might oust themand restore the rightful owners.

Some elation his shallow nature felt atrealizing this, but that elation was short-lived, and dashed by the thought that this

ruler, this debauchee, this drunken,swearing, roaring tavern knight was hisfather; dashed by the knowledge thatmeanwhile the Parliament was master, andthat whilst matters stood so, the Ashburnscould defy—could even destroy him, didthey learn how much he knew; dashed bythe memory that Cynthia, whom in hisselfish way—out of his love for himself—he loved, was lost to him for all time.

And here, swinging in a circle, histhoughts reverted to the cause of this—Crispin Galliard, the man who hadbetrayed him into yesternight's foulbusiness and destroyed his every chanceof happiness; the man whom he hated, andwhom, had he possessed the courage as hewas possessed by the desire, he had risenup and slain; the man that now announced

himself his father.And thinking thus, he sat on in silent,

resentful vexation. He started to feel ahand upon his shoulder, and to hear thevoice of Galliard evidently addressinghim, yet using a name that was new to him.

"Jocelyn, my boy," the voice trembled."You have thought, and you have realized—is it not so? I too thought, and thoughtbrought me conviction that what that papertells is true."

Vaguely then the boy remembered thatJocelyn was the name the letter gave him.He rose abruptly, and brushed thecaressing hand from his shoulder. Hisvoice was hard—possibly the knowledgethat he had gained told him that he hadnothing to fear from this man, and in that

assurance his craven soul grew brave andbold and arrogant.

"I have realized naught beyond the factthat I owe you nothing but unhappiness andruin. By a trick, by a low fraud, youenlisted me into a service that has provedmy undoing. Once a cheat always a cheat.What credit in the face of that can I givethis paper?" he cried, talking wildly. "Tome it is incredible, nor do I wish to creditit, for though it were true, what then? Whatthen?" he repeated, raising his voice intoaccents of defiance.

Grief and amazement were blended inGalliard's glance, and also, maybe, somereproach.

Hogan, standing squarely upon thehearth, was beset by the desire to kick

Master Kenneth, or Master Jocelyn, intothe street. His lip curled into a sneer ofineffable contempt, for his shrewd eyesread to the bottom of the lad's mean souland saw there clearly writ the confidencethat emboldened him to voice that insult tothe man he must know for his father.Standing there, he compared the two,marvelling deeply how they came to befather and son. A likeness he saw nowbetween them, yet a likeness that seemedbut to mark the difference. The one harsh,resolute, and manly, for all his recklessliving and his misfortunes; the other mild,effeminate, hypocritical and shifty. Heread it not on their countenances alone, butin every line of their figures as they stood,and in his heart he cursed himself forhaving been the instrument to disclose the

relationship in which they stood.The youth's insolent question was

followed by a spell of silence. Crispincould not believe that he had heard aright.At last he stretched out his hands in agesture of supplication—he whothroughout his thirty-eight years of life,and despite the misfortunes that had beenhis, had never yet stooped to plead fromany man.

"Jocelyn," he cried, and the pain in hisvoice must have melted a heart of steel,"you are hard. Have you forgotten thestory of my miserable life, the story that Itold you in Worcester? Can you notunderstand how suffering may destroy allthat is lofty in a man; how theforgetfulness of the winecup may come to

be his only consolation; the hope ofvengeance his only motive for living on,withholding him from self-destruction?Can you not picture such a life, and canyou not pity and forgive much of the wreckthat it may make of a man once virtuousand honourable?"

Pleadingly he looked into the lad's face.It remained cold and unmoved.

"I understand," he continued brokenly,"that I am not such a man as any lad mightwelcome for a father. But you who knowwhat my life has been, Jocelyn, you cansurely find it in your heart to pity. I hadnaught that was good or wholesome tolive for, Jocelyn; naught to curb the evilmoods that sent me along evil ways toseek forgetfulness and reparation.

"But from to-night, Jocelyn, my life inyou must find a new interest, a newmotive. I will abandon my old ways. Foryour sake, Jocelyn, I will seek again tobecome what I was, and you shall have nocause to blush for your father."

Still the lad stood silent."Jocelyn! My God, do I talk in vain?"

cried the wretched man. "Have you noheart, no pity, boy?"

At last the youth spoke. He was notmoved. The agony of this strong man, thebroken pleading of one whom he had everknown arrogant and strong had no powerto touch his mean, selfish mind, consumedas it was by the contemplation of hisundoing—magnified a hundredfold—which this man had wrought.

"You have ruined my life," was all hesaid.

"I will rebuild it, Jocelyn," criedGalliard eagerly. "I have friends in France—friends high in power who lack neitherthe means nor the will to aid me. You area soldier, Jocelyn."

"As much a soldier as I'm a saint,"sneered Hogan to himself.

"Together we will find service in thearmies of Louis," Crispin pursued. "Ipromise it. Service wherein you shall gainhonour and renown. There we will abideuntil this England shakes herself out of herrebellious nightmare. Then, when the Kingshall come to his own, Castle Marleighwill be ours again. Trust in me, Jocelyn."Again his arms went out appealingly:

"Jocelyn my son!"But the boy made no move to take the

outstretched hands, gave no sign ofrelenting. His mind nurtured its resentment—cherished it indeed.

"And Cynthia?" he asked coldly.Crispin's hands fell to his sides; they

grew clenched, and his eyes lighted of asudden.

"Forgive me, Jocelyn. I had forgotten! Iunderstand you now. Yes, I dealt sorelywith you there, and you are right to beresentful. What, after all, am I to you whatcan I be to you compared with her whoseimage fills your soul? What is aught in theworld to a man, compared with thewoman on whom his heart is set? Do I notknow it? Have I not suffered for it?

"But mark me, Jocelyn"—and hestraightened himself suddenly—"even inthis, that which I have done I will undo.As I have robbed you of your mistress, sowill I win her back for you. I swear it.And when that is done, when thus everyharm I have caused you is repaired, then,Jocelyn, perhaps you will come to lookwith less repugnance upon your father, andto feel less resentment towards him."

"You promise much, sir," quoth the boy,with an illrepressed sneer. "How will youaccomplish it?"

Hogan grunted audibly. Crispin drewhimself up, erect, lithe and supple—afigure to inspire confidence in the mostdespairing. He placed a hand, nervous,and strong as steel, upon the boy's

shoulder, and the clutch of his fingersmade Jocelyn wince.

"Low though your father be fallen," saidhe sternly, "he has never yet broken hisword. I have pledged you mine, and to-morrow I shall set out to perform what Ihave promised. I shall see you ere I start.You will sleep here, will you not?"

Jocelyn shrugged his shoulders."It signifies little where I lie."Crispin smiled sadly, and sighed."You have no faith in me yet. But I shall

earn it, or"—and his voice fell suddenly—"or rid you of a loathsome parent.Hogan, can you find him quarters?"

Hogan replied that there was the roomhe had already been confined in, and thathe could lie in it. And deeming that there

was nothing to be gained by waiting, hethereupon led the youth from the room anddown the passage. At the foot of the stairsthe Irishman paused in the act ofdescending, and raised the taper aloft sothat its light might fall full upon the face ofhis companion.

"Were I your father," said he grimly, "Iwould kick you from one end of Walthamto the other by way of teaching you filialpiety! And were you not his son, I wouldthis night read you a lesson you'd neverlive to practise. I would set you to sleep alast long sleep in the kennels of Walthamstreets. But since you are—marvellousthough it seem—his offspring, and since Ilove him and may not therefore hurt you, Imust rest content with telling you that youare the vilest thing that breathes. You

despise him for a roysterer, for a man ofloose ways. Let me, who have seensomething of men, and who read you to-night to the very dregs of yourcontemptible soul, tell you that comparedwith you he is a very god. Come, youwhite-livered cur!" he ended abruptly. "Iwill light you to your chamber."

When presently Hogan returned toCrispin he found the Tavern Knight—thatman of iron in whom none had ever seen atrace of fear or weakness seated with hisarms before him on the table, and his faceburied in them, sobbing like a poor, weakwoman.

CHAPTER XXII. SIRCRISPIN'S

UNDERTAKINGThrough the long October night Crispin

and Hogan sat on, and neither sought hisbed. Crispin's quick wits his burst of griefonce over—had been swift to fasten on aplan to accomplish that which he hadundertaken.

One difficulty confronted him, and untilhe had mentioned it to Hogan seemedunsurmountable he had need of a ship. Butin this the Irishman could assist him. Heknew of a vessel then at Greenwich,

whose master was in his debt, whichshould suit the purpose. Money, however,would be needed. But when Crispinannounced that he was master of some twohundred Caroluses, Hogan, with a wave ofthe hand, declared the matter settled. Lessthan half that sum would hire the man heknew of. That determined, Crispinunfolded his project to Hogan, wholaughed at the simplicity of it, for all thatinwardly he cursed the risk Sir Crispinmust run for the sake of one so unworthy.

"If the maid loves him, the thing is asgood as done."

"The maid does not love him;leastways, I fear not."

Hogan was not surprised."Why, then it will be difficult, well-

nigh impossible." And the Irishmanbecame grave.

But Crispin laughed unpleasantly.Years and misfortune had made himcynical.

"What is the love of a maid?" quoth hederisively. "A caprice, a fancy, a thingthat may be guided, overcome orcompelled as the occasion shall demand.Opportunity is love's parent, Hogan, andgiven that, any maid may love any man.Cynthia shall love my son."

"But if she prove rebellious? If she saynay to your proposals? There are suchwomen."

"How then? Am I not the stronger? Insuch a case it shall be mine to compel her,and as I find her, so shall I carry her

away. It will be none so poor a vengeanceon the Ashburns after all." His brow grewclouded. "But not what I had dreamed of;what I should have taken had he notcheated me. To forgo it now—after allthese years of waiting—is anothersacrifice I make to Jocelyn. To serve himin this matter I must proceed cautiously.Cynthia may fret and fume and stamp, butwilly-nilly I shall carry her away. Onceshe is in France, friendless, alone, I makeno doubt that she will see the convenienceof loving Jocelyn—leastways of weddinghim and thus shall I have more thanrepaired the injuries I have done him."

The Irishman's broad face was verygrave; his reckless merry eye fixedGalliard with a look of sorrow, and thisgrey-haired, sinning soldier of fortune,

who had never known a conscience,muttered softly:

"It is not a nice thing you contemplate,Cris."

Despite himself, Galliard winced, andhis glance fell before Hogan's. For amoment he saw the business in its truelight, and he wavered in his purpose.Then, with a short bark of laughter:

"Gadso, you are sentimental, Harry!"said he, to add, more gravely: "There ismy son, and in this lies the only way to hisheart.".

Hogan stretched a hand across the table,and set it upon Crispin's arm.

"Is he worth such a stain upon yourhonour, Crispin?"

There was a pause.

"Is it not late in the day, Hogan, for youand me to prate of honour?" asked Crispinbitterly, yet with averted gaze. "Godknows my honour is as like honour as abeggar's rags are like unto a cloak ofermine. What signifies another splash,another rent in that which is tatteredbeyond all semblance of its originalcondition?"

"I asked you," the Irishman persisted,"whether your son was worth the sacrificethat the vile deed you contemplateentails?"

Crispin shook his arm from the other'sgrip, and rose abruptly. He crossed to thewindow, and drew back the curtain.

"Day is breaking," said he gruffly. Thenturning, and facing Hogan across the room,

"I have pledged my word to Jocelyn," hesaid. "The way I have chosen is the onlyone, and I shall follow it. But if yourconscience cries out against it, Hogan, Igive you back your promise of assistance,and I shall shift alone. I have done so allmy life."

Hogan shrugged his massive shoulders,and reached out for the bottle of strongwaters.

"If you are resolved, there is an end toit. My conscience shall not trouble me,and upon what aid I have promised andwhat more I can give, you may depend. Idrink to the success of your undertaking."

Thereafter they discussed the matter ofthe vessel that Crispin would require, andit was arranged between them that Hogan

should send a message to the skipper,bidding him come to Harwich, and thereawait and place himself at the command ofSir Crispin Galliard. For fifty poundsHogan thought that he would undertake toland Sir Crispin in France. The messengermight be dispatched forthwith, and theLady Jane should be at Harwich, two dayslater.

By the time they had determined uponthis, the inmates of the hostelry were astir,and from the innyard came to them thenoise of bustle and preparation for theday.

Presently they left the chamber wherethey had sat so long, and at the yard pumpthe Tavern Knight performed a rudemorning toilet. Thereafter, on a simple

fare of herrings and brown ale, they broketheir fast; and ere that meal was done,Kenneth, pale and worn, with dark circlesround his eyes, entered the common room,and sat moodily apart. But when laterHogan went to see to the dispatching ofhis messenger, Crispin rose andapproached the youth.

Kenneth watched him furtively, withoutpausing in his meal. He had spent a verymiserable night pondering over the future,which looked gloomy enough, anddebating whether—forgetting and ignoringwhat had passed—he should return to thegenteel poverty of his Scottish home, oraccept the proffered service of this manwho announced himself—and whom henow believed—to be his father. He hadthought, but he was far from having chosen

between Scotland and France, whenCrispin now greeted him, not withoutconstraint.

"Jocelyn," he said, speaking slowly,almost humbly. "In an hour's time I shallset out to return to Marleigh to fulfil mylast night's promise to you. How I shallaccomplish it I scarce know as yet; butaccomplish it I shall. I have arranged tohave a vessel awaiting me, and withinthree days—or four at the most—I look tocross to France, bearing your bride withme."

He paused for some reply, but nonecame. The boy sat on with an impassiveface, his eyes glued to the table, but hismind busy enough upon that which hisfather was pouring into his ear. Presently

Crispin continued:"You cannot refuse to do as I suggest,

Jocelyn. I shall make you the fullestamends for the harm that I have done you,if you but obey my directions. You mustquit this place as soon as possible, andproceed on your way to London. Thereyou must find a boat to carry you toFrance, and you will await me at theAuberge du Soleil at Calais. You areagreed, Jocelyn?"

There was a slight pause, and Jocelyntook his resolution. Yet there was still asullen look in the eyes he lifted to hisfather's face.

"I have little choice, sir," he madeanswer, "and so I must agree. If youaccomplish what you promise, I own that

you will have made amends, and I shallcrave your pardon for my yesternight'swant of faith. I shall await you at Calais."

Crispin sighed, and for a second hisface hardened. It was not the answer towhich he held himself entitled, and for amoment it rose to the lips of this man offierce and sudden moods to draw backand let the son, whom at the moment hebegan to detest, go his own way, whichassuredly would lead him to perdition.But a second's thought sufficed to quellthat mood of his.

"I shall not fail you," he said coldly."Have you money for the journey?"

The boy flushed as he remembered thatlittle was left of what Joseph Ashburn hadgiven him. Crispin saw the flush, and

reading aright its meaning, he drew fromhis pocket a purse that he had beenfingering, and placed it quietly upon thetable. "There are fifty Caroluses in thatbag. That should suffice to carry you toFrance. Fare you well until we meet atCalais."

And without giving the boy time to utterthanks that might be unwilling, he quicklyleft the room.

Within the hour he was in the saddle,and his horse's head was turnednorthwards once more.

He rode through Newport some threehours later without drawing rein. By thedoor of the Raven Inn stood a travellingcarriage, upon which he did not so muchas bestow a look.

By the merest thread hangs at times thewhole of a man's future life, the destinieseven of men as yet unborn. So much maydepend indeed upon a glance, that had notCrispin kept his eyes that morning uponthe grey road before him, had he chancedto look sideways as he passed the RavenInn at Newport, and seen the Ashburnarms displayed upon the panels of thatcoach, he would of a certainty havepaused. And had he done so, his wholedestiny would assuredly have shaped adifferent course from that which he wasunconsciously steering.

CHAPTER XXIII.GREGORY'SATTRITION

Joseph's journey to London wasoccasioned by his very natural anxiety toassure himself that Crispin was caught inthe toils of the net he had so cunninglybaited for him, and that at Castle Marleighhe would trouble them no more. To thisend he quitted Sheringham on the day afterCrispin's departure.

Not a little perplexed was Cynthia atthe topsy-turvydom in which that morningshe had found her father's house. Kenneth

was gone; he had left in the dead of night,and seemingly in haste and suddenness,since on the previous evening there hadbeen no talk of his departing. Her fatherwas abed with a wound that made himfeverish. Their grooms were all sick, andwandered in a dazed and witless fashionabout the castle, their faces deadly paleand their eyes lustreless. In the hall shehad found a chaotic disorder upondescending, and one of the panels of thewainscot she saw was freshly cracked.

Slowly the idea forced itself upon hermind that there had been brawling thenight before, yet was she far fromsurmising the motives that could have ledto it. The conclusion she came to in theend was that the men had drunk deep, thatin their cups they had waxed quarrelsome,

and that swords had been drawn.Of Joseph then she sought

enlightenment, and Joseph lied righthandsomely, like the ready-witted knavehe was. A wondrously plausible story hadhe for her ear; a story that playedcunningly upon her knowledge of thecompact that existed between Kenneth andSir Crispin.

"You may not know," said he—fullwell aware that she did know—"that whenGalliard saved Kenneth's life atWorcester he exacted from the lad thepromise that in return Kenneth should aidhim in some vengeful business he had onhand."

Cynthia nodded that she understood orthat she knew, and glibly Joseph pursued:

"Last night, when on the point ofdeparting, Crispin, who had drunk over-freely, as is his custom, reminded Kennethof his plighted word, and demanded of theboy that he should upon the instant go forthwith him. Kenneth replied that the hourwas overlate to be setting out upon ajourney, and he requested Galliard to waituntil to-day, when he would be ready tofulfil what he had promised. But Crispinretorted that Kenneth was bound by hisoath to go with him when he shouldrequire it, and again he bade the boy makeready at once. Words ensued betweenthem, the boy insisting upon waiting untilto-day, and Crispin insisting upon hisgetting his boots and cloak and comingwith him there and then. More heatedgrew the argument, till in the end Galliard,

being put out of temper, snatched at hissword, and would assuredly have spittedthe boy had not your father interposed,thereby getting himself wounded.Thereafter, in his drunken lust Sir Crispinwent the length of wantonly cracking thatpanel with his sword by way of showingKenneth what he had to expect unless heobeyed him. At that I intervened, and usingmy influence, I prevailed upon Kenneth togo with Galliard as he demanded. To this,for all his reluctance, Kenneth ended byconsenting, and so they are gone."

By that most glib and speciousexplanation Cynthia was convinced. True,she added a question touching the amazingcondition of the grooms, in reply to whichJoseph afforded her a part of the truth.

"Sir Crispin sent them some wine, andthey drank to his departure so heartily thatthey are not rightly sober yet."

Satisfied with this explanation Cynthiarepaired to her father.

Now Gregory had not agreed withJoseph what narrative they were to offerCynthia, for it had never crossed his dullmind that the disorder of the hall and theabsence of Kenneth might cause herastonishment. And so when she touchedupon the matter of his wound, like theblundering fool he was, he must needs lethis tongue wag upon a tale which, if noless imaginative than Joseph's, was vastlyits inferior in plausibility and had yet thequality of differing from it totally insubstance.

"Plague on that dog, your lover,Cynthia," he growled from the mountain ofpillows that propped him. "If he shouldcome to wed my daughter after pinning meto the wainscot of my own hall may I befor ever damned."

"How?" quoth she. "Do you say thatKenneth did it?"

"Aye, did he. He ran at me ere I coulddraw, like the coward he is, sink him, andhad me through the shoulder in thetwinkling of an eye."

Here was something beyond herunderstanding. What were they concealingfrom her? She set her wits to thediscovery and plied her father withanother question.

"How came you to quarrel?"

"How? 'Twas—'twas concerning you,child," replied Gregory at random, andunable to think of a likelier motive.

"How, concerning me?""Leave me, Cynthia," he groaned in

despair. "Go, child. I am grievouslywounded. I have the fever, girl. Go; let mesleep."

"But tell me, father, what passed.""Unnatural child," whined Gregory

feebly, "will you plague a sick man withquestions? Would you keep him from thesleep that may mean recovery to him?"

"Father, dear," she murmured softly, "ifI thought it was as you say, I would leaveyou. But you know that you are butattempting to conceal something from mesomething that I should know, that I must

know. Bethink you that it is of my loverthat you have spoken."

By a stupendous effort Gregory shapeda story that to him seemed likely.

"Well, then, since know you must," heanswered, "this is what befell: we had alldrunk over-deep to our shame do I confessit—and growing tenderhearted for you,and bethinking me of your professeddistaste to Kenneth's suit, I told him thatfor all the results that were likely to attendhis sojourn at Castle Marleigh, he might aswell bear Crispin company in hisdeparture. He flared up at that, anddemanded of me that I should read him myriddle. Faith, I did by telling him that wewere like to have snow on midsummer'sday ere he 'became your husband. That

speech of mine so angered him, being ashe was all addled with wine and ripe forany madness, that he sprang up and drewon me there and then. The others sought toget between us, but he was over-quick,and before I could do more than rise fromthe table his sword was through myshoulder and into the wainscot at my back.After that it was clear he could not remainhere, and I demanded that he should leaveupon the instant. Himself he was nothingloath, for he realized his folly, and hemisliked the gleam of Joseph's eye—which can be wondrous wicked uponoccasion. Indeed, but for my intercessionJoseph had laid him stark."

That both her uncle and her father hadlied to her—the one cunningly, the otherstupidly—she had never a doubt, and

vaguely uneasy was Cynthia to learn thetruth. Later that day the castle was busywith the bustle of Joseph's departure, andthis again was a matter that puzzled her.

"Whither do you journey, uncle?" sheasked of him as he was in the act ofstepping out to enter the waiting carriage.

"To London, sweet cousin," was hisbrisk reply. "I am, it seems, becoming avery vagrant in my old age. Have youcommands for me?"

"What is it you look to do in London?""There, child, let that be for the present.

I will tell you perhaps when I return. Thedoor, Stephen."

She watched his departure with uneasyeyes and uneasy heart. A fear pervadedher that in all that had befallen, in all that

was befalling still—what ever it might be—some evil was at work, and an evil thathad Crispin for its scope. She had neitherreason nor evidence from which to drawthis inference. It was no more than theinstinct whose voice cries out to us attimes a presage of ill, and oftentimescompels our attention in a degree farhigher than any evidence could command.

The fear that was in her urged her toseek what information she could on everyhand, but without success. From nonecould she cull the merest scrap ofevidence to assist her.

But on the morrow she had informationas prodigal as it was unlooked-for, andfrom the unlikeliest of sources—her fatherhimself. Chafing at his inaction and lured

into indiscretions by the subsiding of thepain of his wound, Gregory quitted hisbed and came below that night to sup withhis daughter. As his wont had been foryears, he drank freely. That done, alive tothe voice of his conscience, and seeking todrown its loud-tongued cry, he drank morefreely still, so that in the end hishenchman, Stephen, was forced to carryhim to bed.

This Stephen had grown grey in theservice of the Ashburns, and amongstmuch valuable knowledge that he hadamassed, was a skill in dealing withwounds and a wide understanding of theways to go about healing them. Thisknowledge made him realize how unwiseat such a season was Gregory's debauch,and sorrowfully did he wag his head over

his master's condition of stupor.Stephen had grave fears concerning

him, and these fears were realized whenupon the morrow Gregory awoke on firewith the fever. They summoned a leechfrom Sheringham, and this cunning knave,with a view to adding importance to thecure he was come to effect, and which inreality presented no alarming difficulty,shook his head with ominous gravity, andwhilst promising to do "all that his skillpermitted," he spoke of a clergyman tohelp Gregory make his peace with God.For the leech had no cause to suspect thatthe whole of the Sacred College mighthave found the task beyond its powers.

A wild fear took Gregory in its grip.How could he die with such a load as that

which he now carried upon his soul? Andthe leech, seeing how the matter preyedupon his patient's mind, made shift—buttoo late—to tranquillize him withassurances that he was not really like todie, and that he had but mentioned aparson so that Gregory in any case shouldbe prepared.

The storm once raised, however, wasnot so easily to be allayed, and theconviction remained with Gregory that hissands were well-nigh run, and that the endcould be but a matter of days in coming.

Realizing as he did how richly he hadearned damnation, a frantic terror wasupon him, and all that day he tossed andturned, now blaspheming, now praying,now weeping. His life had been indeed

one protracted course of wrong-doing, andmany had suffered by Gregory's evil ways—many a man and many a woman. But asthe stars pale and fade when the sunmounts the sky, so too were the lesserwrongs that marked his earthly pilgrimageof sin rendered pale or blotted intoinsignificance by the greater wrong he haddone Ronald Marleigh—a wrong whichwas not ended yet, but whose completionJoseph was even then working to effect. Ifonly he could save Crispin even now inthe eleventh hour; if by some means hecould warn him not to repair to the sign ofthe Anchor in Thames Street. Hisdisordered mind took no account of thefact that in the time that was sped sinceGalliard's departure, the knight shouldalready have reached London.

And so it came about that, consumed atonce by the desire to make confession towhomsoever it might be, and the wish toattempt yet to avert the crowning evil ofwhose planning he was partly guiltyinasmuch as he had tacitly consented toJoseph's schemes, Gregory called for hisdaughter. She came readily enough, hopingfor exactly that which was about to takeplace, yet fearing sorely that her hopeswould suffer frustration, and that shewould learn nothing from her father.

"Cynthia," he cried, in mingled dreadand sorrow, "Cynthia, my child, I amabout to die."

She knew both from Stephen and fromthe leech that this was far from being hiscondition. Nevertheless her filial piety

was at that moment a touching sight. Shesmoothed his pillows with a gentle gracethat was in itself a soothing caress, evenas her soft sympathetic voice was acaress. She took his hand, and spoke tohim endearingly, seeking to relieve thesombre mood whose prey he was become,assuring him that the leech had told her hisdanger was none so imminent, and thatwith quiet and a little care he would be upand about again ere many days were sped.But Gregory rejected hopelessly allefforts at consolation.

"I am on my death-bed, Cynthia," heinsisted, "and when I am gone I know notwhom there may be to cheer and comfortyour lot in life. Your lover is away on anerrand of Joseph's, and it may well betidethat he will never again cross the

threshold of Castle Marleigh. Unnaturalthough I may seem, sweetheart, my dyingwish is that this may be so."

She looked up in some surprise."Father, if that be all that grieves you, I

can reassure you. I do not love Kenneth.""You apprehend me amiss," said he

tartly. "Do you recall the story of SirCrispin Galliard's life that you had fromKenneth on the night of Joseph's return?"His voice shook as he put the question.

"Why, yes. I am not like to forget it, andnightly do I pray," she went on, her tongueoutrunning discretion and betraying herfeelings for Galliard, "that God maypunish those murderers who wrecked hisexistence."

"Hush, girl," he whispered in a

quavering voice. "You know not what yousay."

"Indeed I do; and as there is a just Godmy prayer shall be answered."

"Cynthia," he wailed. His eyes werewild, and the hand that rested in herstrembled violently. "Do you know that it isagainst your father and your father'sbrother that you invoke God's vengeance?"

She had been kneeling at his bedside;but now, when he pronounced thosewords, she rose slowly and stood silentfor a spell, her eyes seeking his with anawful look that he dared not meet. At last:

"Oh, you rave," she protested, "it is thefever."

"Nay, child, my mind is clear, and whatI have said is true."

"True?" she echoed, no louder than awhisper, and her eyes grew round withhorror. "True that you and my uncle arethe butchers who slew their cousin, thisman's wife, and sought to murder him aswell—leaving him for dead? True that youare the thieves who claiming kinship byvirtue of that very marriage have usurpedhis estates and this his castle during allthese years, whilst he himself went anoutcast, homeless and destitute? Is thatwhat you ask me to believe?"

"Even so," he assented, with a feeblesob.

Her face was pale—white to the verylips, and her blue eyes smouldered behindthe shelter of her drooping lids. She puther hand to her breast, then to her brow,

pushing back the brown hair by amechanical gesture that was pathetic in thetale of pain it told. For support she wasleaning now against the wall by the headof his couch. In silence she stood so whileyou might count to twenty; then with asudden vehemence revealing the passionof anger and grief that swayed her:

"Why," she cried, "why in God's namedo you tell me this?"

"Why?" His utterance was thick, and hiseyes, that were grown dull as a snake's,stared straight before him, daring not tomeet his daughter's glance. "I tell it you,"he said, "because I am a dying man." Andhe hoped that the consideration of thatmomentous fact might melt her, and mightby pity win her back to him—that she was

lost to him he realized."I tell you because I am a dying man,"

he repeated. "I tell it you because in suchan hour I fain would make confession andrepent, that God may have mercy upon mysoul. I tell it you, too, because the tragedybegun eighteen years ago is not yet playedout, and it may yet be mine to avert the endwe had prepared—Joseph and I. Thusperhaps a merciful God will place it in mypower to make some reparation. Listen,child. It was against us, as you will haveguessed, that Galliard enlisted Kenneth'sservices, and here on the night of Joseph'sreturn he called upon the boy to fulfil himwhat he had sworn. The lad had no choicebut to obey; indeed, I forced him to it byattacking him and compelling him to draw,which is how I came by this wound.

"Crispin had of a certainty killedJoseph but that your uncle bethought himof telling him that his son lived."

"He saved his life by a lie! That wasworthy of him," said Cynthia scornfully.

"Nay, child, he spoke the truth, andwhen Joseph offered to restore the boy tohim, he had every intention of so doing.But in the moment of writing thesuperscription to the letter Crispin was tobear to those that had reared the child,Joseph bethought him of a foul scheme forGalliard's final destruction. And so he hassent him to London instead, to a house inThames Street, where dwells one ColonelPride, who bears Sir Crispin a heavygrudge, and into whose hands he will bethus delivered. Can aught be done,

Cynthia, to arrest this—to save SirCrispin from Joseph's snare?"

"As well might you seek to restore thebreath to a dead man," she answered, andher voice was so oddly calm, so cold andbare of expression, that Gregoryshuddered to hear it.

"Do not delude yourself," she added."Sir Crispin will have reached Londonlong ere this, and by now Joseph will bewell on his way to see that there is nomistake made, and that the life you ruinedhopelessly years ago is plucked at lastfrom this unfortunate man. Merciful God!am I truly your daughter?" she cried. "Ismy name indeed Ashburn, and have I beenreared upon the estates that by crime yougained possession of? Estates that by

crime you hold—for they are his; everystone, every stick that goes to make theplace belongs to him, and now he has goneto his death by your contriving."

A moan escaped her, and she coveredher face with her hands. A moment shestood rocking there—a fair, lissom plantswept by a gale of ineffable emotion. Thenthe breath seemed to go all out of her inone great sigh, and Gregory, who darednot look her way, heard the swish of hergown, followed by a thud as she collapsedand lay swooning on the ground.

So disturbed at that was Gregory'sspirit that, forgetting his wound, his fever,and the death which he had believedimpending, he leapt from his couch, andthrowing wide the door, bellowed lustily

for Stephen. In frightened haste came hishenchman to answer the petulant summons,and in obedience to Gregory's commandshe went off again as quickly in quest ofCatherine—Cynthia's woman.

Between them they bore theunconscious girl to her chamber, leavingGregory to curse himself for having beenlured into a confession that it now seemedto him had been unnecessary, since in hisnewly found vitality he realized that deathwas none so near a thing as thatscoundrelly fool of a leech had led him tobelieve.

CHAPTER XXIV.THE WOOING OF

CYNTHIACynthia's swoon was after all but brief.

Upon recovering consciousness her firstact was to dismiss her woman. She hadneed to be alone—the need of the animalthat is wounded to creep into its lair andhide itself. And so alone with her sorrowshe sat through that long day.

That her father's condition was grievousshe knew to be untrue, so that concerninghim there was not even that pity that shemight have felt had she believed—as he

would have had her believe that he wasdying.

As she pondered the monstrousdisclosure he had made, her hearthardened against him, and even as she hadasked him whether indeed she was hisdaughter, so now she vowed to herself thatshe would be his daughter no longer. Shewould leave Castle Marleigh, never againto set eyes upon her father, and she hopedthat during the little time she must yetremain there—a day, or two at most—shemight be spared the ordeal of againmeeting a parent for whom respect wasdead, and who inspired her with just thatfeeling of horror she must have for anyman who confessed himself a murdererand a thief.

She resolved to repair to London to asister of her mother's, where for her deadmother's sake she would find a havenextended readily.

At eventide she came at last from herchamber.

She had need of air, need of the balmthat nature alone can offer in solitude topoor wounded human souls.

It was a mild and sunny evening, worthyrather of August than of October, andaimlessly Mistress Cynthia wanderedtowards the cliffs overlooking SheringhamHithe. There she sate herself in saddejection upon the grass, and gazedwistfully seaward, her mind straying nowfrom the sorry theme that had helddominion in it, to the memories that very

spot evoked.It was there, sitting as she sat now, her

eyes upon the shimmering waste of sea,and the gulls circling overhead, that shehad awakened to the knowledge of herlove for Crispin. And so to him strayednow her thoughts, and to the fate her fatherhad sent him to; and thus back again to herfather and the evil he had wrought. It ismatter for conjecture whether her loathingfor Gregory would have been as intense asit was, had another than Crispin Galliardbeen his victim.

Her life seemed at an end as she sat thatOctober evening on the cliffs. No singleinterest linked her to existence; nothing, itseemed, was left her to hope for till theend should come—and no doubt it would

be long in coming, for time moves slowlywhen we wait.

Wistful she sat and thought, and everythought begat a sigh, and then of a sudden—surely her ears had tricked her,enslaved by her imagination—a crisp,metallic voice rang out close behind her.

"Why are we pensive, MistressCynthia?"

There was a catch in her breath as sheturned her head. Her cheeks took fire, andfor a second were aflame. Then they wentdeadly white, and it seemed that time andlife and the very world had paused in itsrelentless progress towards eternity. Forthere stood the object of her thoughts andsighs, sudden and unexpected, as thoughthe earth had cast him up on to her surface.

His thin lips were parted in a smile thatsoftened wondrously the harshness of hisface, and his eyes seemed then to heralight with kindness. A moment's pausethere was, during which she sought hervoice, and when she had found it, all thatshe could falter was:

"Sir, how came you here? They told methat you rode to London."

"Why, so I did. But on the road Ichanced to halt, and having halted Idiscovered reason why I should return."

He had discovered a reason. She askedherself breathlessly what might that reasonbe, and finding herself no answer to thequestion, she put it next to him.

He drew near to her before replying."May I sit with you awhile, Cynthia?"

She moved aside to make room for him,as though the broad cliff had been anarrow ledge, and with the sigh of aweary man finding a resting-place at last,he sank down beside her.

There was a tenderness in his voice thatset her pulses stirring wildly. Did sheguess aright the reason that had causedhim to break his journey and return? Thathe had done so—no matter what thereason—she thanked God from her inmostheart, as for a miracle that had saved himfrom the doom awaiting him in Londontown.

"Am I presumptuous, child, to think thathaply the meditation in which I found yourapt was for one, unworthy though he be,who went hence but some few days

since?"The ambiguous question drove every

thought from her mind, filling it tooverflowing with the supreme good of hispresence, and the frantic hope that she hadread aright the reason of it.

"Have I conjectured rightly?" he asked,since she kept silence.

"Mayhap you have," she whispered inreturn, and then, marvelling at herboldness, blushed. He glanced sharply ather from narrowing eyes. It was not theanswer he had looked to hear.

As a father might have done he took theslender hand that rested upon the grassbeside him, and she, poor child, mistakingthe promptings of that action, suffered it tolie in his strong grasp. With averted head

she gazed upon the sea below, until a mistof tears rose up to blot it out. The breezeseemed full of melody and gladness. Godwas very good to her, and sent her in herhour of need this great consolation—aconsolation indeed that must have servedto efface whatever sorrow could havebeset her.

"Why then, sweet lady, is my task that Ihad feared to find all fraught withdifficulty, grown easy indeed."

And hearing him pause:"What task is that, Sir Crispin?" she

asked, intent on helping him.He did not reply at once. He found it

difficult to devise an answer. To tell herbrutally that he was come to bear heraway, willing or unwilling, on behalf of

another, was not easy. Indeed, it wasimpossible, and he was glad thatinclinations in her which he had littledreamt of, put the necessity aside.

"My task, Mistress Cynthia, is to bearyou hence. To ask you to resign thispeaceful life, this quiet home in a littlecorner of the world, and to go forth tobear life's hardships with one who,whatever be his shortcomings, has the all-redeeming virtue of loving you beyondaught else in life."

He gazed intently at her as he spoke,and her eyes fell before his glance. Henoted the warm, red blood suffusing hercheeks, her brow, her very neck; and hecould have laughed aloud for joy atfinding so simple that which he had feared

would prove so hard. Some pity, too,crept unaccountably into his stern heart,fathered by the little faith which in hisinmost soul he reposed in Jocelyn. Andwhere, had she resisted him, he wouldhave grown harsh and violent, heracquiescence struck the weapons from hishands, and he caught himself well-nighwarning her against accompanying him.

"It is much to ask," he said. "But love isselfish, and love asks much."

"No, no," she protested softly, "it is notmuch to ask. Rather is it much to offer."

At that he was aghast. Yet he continued:"Bethink you, Mistress Cynthia, I have

ridden back to Sheringham to ask you tocome with me into France, where my sonawaits us?"

He forgot for the moment that she wasin ignorance of his relationship to him helooked upon as her lover, whilst she gavethis mention of his son, of whose existenceshe had already heard from her; father,little thought at that moment. The hour wastoo full of other things that touched hermore nearly.

"I ask you to abandon the ease andpeace of Sheringham for a life as asoldier's bride that may be rough andprecarious for a while, though, truth totell, I have some influence at theLuxembourg, and friends upon whoseassistance I can safely count, to find yourhusband honourable employment, and sethim on the road to more. And how, guidedby so sweet a saint, can he but mount tofame and honour?"

She spoke no word, but the hand restingin his entwined his fingers in an answeringpressure.

"Dare I then ask so much?" cried he.And as if the ambiguity which had markedhis speech were not enough, he mustneeds, as he put this question, bend in hiseagerness towards her until her browntresses touched his swart cheek. Was itthen strange that the eagerness wherewithhe urged another's suit should have beenby her interpreted as her heart would havehad it?

She set her hands upon his shoulders,and meeting his eager gaze with the frankglance of the maid who, out of trust, isfearless in her surrender:

"Throughout my life I shall thank God

that you have dared it," she made answersoftly.

A strange reply he deemed it, yet,pondering, he took her meaning to be thatsince Jocelyn had lacked the courage towoo boldly, she was glad that he had sentan ambassador less timid.

A pause followed, and for a spell theysat silent, he thinking of how to frame hisnext words; she happy and content to sitbeside him without speech.

She marvelled somewhat at thestrangeness of his wooing, which was likeunto no wooing her romancer's tales hadtold her of, but then she reflected howunlike he was to other men, and thereinshe saw the explanation.

"I wish," he mused, "that matters were

easier; that it might be mine to boldly sueyour hand from your father, but it may notbe. Even had events not fallen out as theyhave done, it had been difficult; as it is, itis impossible."

Again his meaning was obscure, andwhen he spoke of suing for her hand fromher father, he did not think of adding thathe would have sued it for his son.

"I have no father," she replied. "Thisvery day have I disowned him." Andobserving the inquiry with which his eyeswere of a sudden charged: "Would youhave me own a thief, a murderer, myfather?" she demanded, with a fiercenessof defiant shame.

"You know, then?" he ejaculated."Yes," she answered sorrowfully, "I

know all there is to be known. I learnt itall this morning. All day have I ponderedit in my shame to end in the resolve toleave Sheringham. I had intended going toLondon to my mother's sister. You arevery opportunely come." She smiled up athim through the tears that were glisteningin her eyes. "You come even as I wasdespairing—nay, when already I haddespaired."

Sir Crispin was no longer puzzled bythe readiness of her acquiescence. Herewas the explanation of it. Forced by thehonesty of her pure soul to abandon thehouse of a father she knew at last for whathe was, the refuge Crispin now offeredher was very welcome. She haddetermined before he came to quit CastleMarleigh, and timely indeed was his offer

of the means of escape from a life that wasgrown impossible. A great pity filled hisheart. She was selling herself, he thought;accepting the proposal which, on his son'sbehalf, he made, and from which at anyother season, he feared, she would haveshrunk in detestation.

That pity was reflected on hiscountenance now, and noting its solemnity,and misconstruing it, she laughed outright,despite herself. He did not ask her whyshe laughed, he did not notice it; histhoughts were busy already upon anothermatter.

When next he spoke, it was to describeto her the hollow of the road where on thenight of his departure from the castle hehad been flung from his horse. She knew

the spot, she told him, and there at duskupon the following day she would come tohim. Her woman must accompany her, andfor all that he feared such an addition tothe party might retard their flight, yet hecould not gainsay her resolution. Heruncle, he learnt from her, was absent fromSheringham; he had set out four days agofor London. For her father she wouldleave a letter, and in this matter Crispinurged her to observe circumspection,giving no indication of the direction of herjourney.

In all he said, now that matters werearranged he was calm, practical, andunloverlike, and for all that she would hehad been less self-possessed, her faith inhim caused her, upon reflection, even toadmire this which she conceived to be

restraint. Yet, when at parting he did nomore than courteously bend before her,and kiss her hand as any simpering gallantmight have done, she was all but vexed,and not to be outdone in coldness, shegrew frigid. But it was lost upon him. Hehad not a lover's discernment, quickenedby anxious eyes that watch for each flittingchange upon his mistress's face.

They parted thus, and into the heart ofMistress Cynthia there crept that night adoubt that banished sleep. Was she wisein entrusting herself so utterly to a man ofwhom she knew but little, and that learntfrom rumours which had not been good?But scarcely was it because of that thatdoubts assailed her. Rather was it becauseof his cool deliberateness which arguednot the great love wherewith she fain

would fancy him inspired.For consolation she recalled a line that

had it great fires were soon burnt out, andshe sought to reassure herself that theflame of his love, if not all-consuming,would at least burn bright and steadfastlyuntil the end of life. And so she fellasleep, betwixt hope and fear, yet nolonger with any hesitancy touching themorrow's course.

In the morning she took her woman intoher confidence, and scared her with it outof what little sense the creature owned.Yet to such purpose did she talk, thatwhen that evening, as Crispin waited bythe coach he had taken, in the hollow ofthe road, he saw approaching him a portly,middle-aged dame with a valise. This was

Cynthia's woman, and Cynthia herself wasnot long in following, muffled in a long,black cloak.

He greeted her warmly—affectionatelyalmost yet with none of the rapture towhich she held herself entitled as somelittle recompense for all that on his behalfshe left behind.

Urbanely he handed her into the coach,and, after her, her woman. Then seeingthat he made shift to close the door:

"How is this?" she cried. "Do you notride with us?"

He pointed to a saddled horse standingby the roadside, and which she had notnoticed.

"It will be better so. You will be atmore comfort in the carriage without me.

Moreover, it will travel the lighter and theswifter, and speed will prove our bestfriend."

He closed the door, and stepped backwith a word of command to the driver.The whip cracked, and Cynthia flungherself back almost in a pet. What mannerof lover, she asked herself, was thin andwhat manner of woman she, to let herselfbe borne away by one who made so littleuse of the arts and wiles of sweetpersuasion? To carry her off, and yet notso much as sit beside her, was worthyonly of a man who described such ajourney as tedious. She marvelled greatlyat it, yet more she marvelled at herself thatshe did not abandon this mad undertaking.

The coach moved on and the flight from

Sheringham was begun.

CHAPTER XXV.CYNTHIA'S FLIGHT

Throughout the night they went rumblingon their way at a pace whose sluggishnesselicited many an oath from Crispin as herode a few yards in the rear, ever watchfulof the possibility of pursuit. But there wasnone, nor none need he have feared, sincewhilst he rode through the cold night,Gregory Ashburn slept as peacefully as aman may with the fever and an evilconscience, and imagined his dutifuldaughter safely abed.

With the first streaks of steely lightcame a thin rain to heighten Crispin's

discomfort, for of late he had beenovermuch in the saddle, and strong thoughhe was, he was yet flesh and blood, andsubject to its ills. Towards ten o'clockthey passed through Denham. When theywere clear of it Cynthia put her head fromthe window. She had slept well, and hermood was lighter and happier. As Crispinrode a yard or so behind, he caught sightof her fresh, smiling face, and it affectedhim curiously. The tenderness that twodays ago had been his as he talked to herupon the cliffs was again upon him, andthe thought that anon she would be linkedto him by the ties of relationship, waspleasurable. She gave him good morrowprettily, and he, spurring his horse to thecarriage door, was solicitous to know ofher comfort. Nor did he again fall behind

until Stafford was reached at noon. Here,at the sign of the Suffolk Arms, he called ahalt, and they broke their fast on the bestthe house could give them.

Cynthia was gay, and so indeed wasCrispin, yet she noted in him that coolnesswhich she accounted restraint, andgradually her spirits sank again before it.

To Crispin's chagrin there were nohorses to be had. Someone in great hastehad ridden through before them, and takenwhat relays the hostelry could give,leaving four jaded beasts in the stable. Itseemed, indeed, that they must remainthere until the morrow, and in coming tothat conclusion, Sir Crispin's tempersuffered sorely.

"Why need it put you so about," cried

Cynthia, in arch reproach, "since I amwith you?"

"Blood and fire, madam," roaredGalliard, "it is precisely for that reasonthat I am exercised. What if your fathercame upon us here?"

"My father, sir, is abed with a sword-wound and a fever," she replied, and heremembered then how Kenneth had spittedGregory through the shoulder.

"Still," he returned, "he will havediscovered your flight, and I dare swearwe shall have his myrmidons upon ourheels. Should they come up with us weshall hardly find them more gentle than hewould be."

She paled at that, and for a second therewas silence. Then her hand stole forth

upon his arm, and she looked at him withtightened lips and a defiant air.

"What, indeed, if they do? Are you notwith me?" A king had praised his daring,and for his valour had dubbed him knightupon a field of stricken battle; yet thehonour of it had not brought him theelation those words—expressive of herutter faith in him and his prowess—begatin his heart. Upon the instant the delayceased to fret him.

"Madam," he laughed, "since you put itso, I care not who comes. The LordProtector himself shall not drag you fromme."

It was the nearest he had gone to apassionate speech since they had leftSheringham, and it pleased her; yet in

uttering it he had stood a full two yardsaway, and in that she had taken nopleasure.

Bidding her remain and get what restshe might, he left her, and she, followinghis straight, lank figure—so eloquent ofstrength—and the familiar poise of his lefthand upon the pummel of his sword, feltproud indeed that he belonged to her, andsecure in his protection. She sat herself atthe window when he was gone, and whilstshe awaited his return, she hummed a gaymeasure softly to herself. Her eyes werebright, and there was a flush upon hercheeks. Not even in the wet, greasy streetcould she find any unsightliness thatafternoon. But as she waited, and theminutes grew to hours, that flush faded,and the sparkle died gradually from her

eyes. The measure that she had hummedwas silenced, and her shapely mouth tookon a pout of impatience, which anon grewinto a tighter mould, as he continuedabsent.

A frown drew her brows together, andMistress Cynthia's thoughts were much asthey had been the night before she leftCastle Marleigh. Where was he? Whycame he not? She took up a book of playsthat lay upon the table, and sought to whileaway the time by reading. The afternoonfaded into dusk, and still he did not come.Her woman appeared, to ask whether sheshould call for lights and at that Cynthiabecame almost violent.

"Where is Sir Crispin?" she demanded.And to the dame's quavering answer that

she knew not, she angrily bade her goascertain.

In a pet, Cynthia paced the chamberwhilst Catherine was gone upon thaterrand. Did this man account her a toy towhile away the hours for which he couldfind no more profitable diversion, and toleave her to die of ennui when aught elseoffered? Was it a small thing that he hadasked of her, to go with him into a strangeland, that he should show himself so littlesensible of the honour done him?

With such questions did she plagueherself, and finding them eitherunanswerable, or answerable only byaffirmatives, she had well-nigh resolvedupon leaving the inn, and making her wayback to London to seek out her aunt, when

the door opened and her womanreappeared.

"Well?" cried Cynthia, seeing heralone. "Where is Sir Crispin?"

"Below, madam.""Below?" echoed she. "And what, pray,

doth he below?""He is at dice with a gentleman from

London."In the dim light of the October twilight

the woman saw not the sudden pallor ofher mistress's cheeks, but she heard thegasp of pain that was almost a cry. In hermortification, Cynthia could have wepthad she given way to her feelings. Theman who had induced her to elope withhim sat at dice with a gentleman fromLondon! Oh, it was monstrous! At the

thought of it she broke into a laugh thatappalled her tiring-woman; then masteringher hysteria, she took a suddendetermination.

"Call me the host," she cried, and thefrightened Catherine obeyed her at a run.

When the landlord came, bearing lights,and bending his aged back obsequiously:

"Have you a pillion?" she askedabruptly. "Well, fool, why do you stare?Have you a pillion?"

"I have, madam.""And a knave to ride with me, and a

couple more as escort?""I might procure them, but—""How soon?""Within half an hour, but—"

"Then go see to it," she broke in, herfoot beating the ground impatiently.

"But, madam—""Go, go, go!" she cried, her voice rising

at each utterance of that imperative."But, madam," the host persisted

despairingly, and speaking quickly so thathe might get the words out, "I have nohorses fit to travel ten miles."

"I need to go but five," she retortedquickly, her only thought being to get thebeasts, no matter what their condition."Now, go, and come not back until all isready. Use dispatch and I will pay youwell, and above all, not a word to thegentleman who came hither with me."

The sorely-puzzled host withdrew to doher bidding, won to it by her promise of

good payment.Alone she sat for half an hour, vainly

fostering the hope that ere the landlordreturned to announce the conclusion of hispreparations, Crispin might haveremembered her and come. But he did notappear, and in her solitude this poor littlemaid was very miserable, and shed sometears that had still more of anger thansorrow in their source. At length thelandlord came. She summoned herwoman, and bade her follow by post onthe morrow. The landlord she rewardedwith a ring worth twenty times the valueof the service, and was led by him througha side door into the innyard.

Here she found three horses, oneequipped with the pillion on which she

was to ride behind a burly stableboy. Theother two were mounted by a couple ofstalwart and well-armed men, one ofwhom carried a funnel-mouthedmusketoon with a swagger that promisedprodigies of valour.

Wrapped in her cloak, she mountedbehind the stable-boy, and bade him setout and take the road to Denham. Herdream was at an end.

Master Quinn, the landlord, watchedher departure with eyes that were chargedwith doubt and concern. As he made fastthe door of the stableyard after she hadpassed out, he ominously shook his hoaryhead and muttered to himself humble,hostelry-flavoured philosophies touchingthe strange ways of men with women, and

the stranger ways of women with men.Then, taking up his lanthorn, he slowlyretraced his steps to the buttery where hiswife was awaiting him.

With sleeves rolled high above her pinkand deeply-dimpled elbows stoodMistress Quinn at work upon thefashioning of a pastry, when her husbandentered and set down his lanthorn with asigh.

"To be so plagued," he growled. "To bebrowbeaten by a slip of a wench—a finegentleman's baggage with the airs andvapours of a lady of quality. Am I not afool to have endured it?"

"Certainly you are a fool," his wifeagreed, kneading diligently, "whateveryou may have endured. What now?"

His fat face was puckered into athousand wrinkles. His little eyes gazed ather with long-suffering malice.

"You are my wife," he answeredpregnantly, as who would say: Thus is myfolly clearly proven! and seeing that theassertion was not one that admitted ofdispute, Mistress Quinn was silent.

"Oh, 'tis ill done!" he broke out amoment later. "Shame on me for it; it is illdone!"

"If you have done it 'tis sure to be illdone, and shame on you in good sooth—but for what?" put in his wife.

"For sending those poor jaded beastsupon the road."

"What beasts?""What beasts? Do I keep turtles? My

horses, woman.""And whither have you sent them?""To Denham with the baggage that came

hither this morning in the company of thatvery fierce gentleman who was in such apet because we had no horses."

"Where is he?" inquired the hostess."At dice with those other gallants from

town.""At dice quotha? And she's gone, you

say?" asked Mrs. Quinn, pausing in herlabours squarely to face her husband.

"Aye," said he."Stupid!" rejoined his docile spouse,

vexed by his laconic assent. "Do you meanshe has run away?"

"Tis what anyone might take from what

I have told you," he answered sweetly."And you have lent her horses and

helped her to get away, and you leave herhusband at play in there?"

"You have seen her marriage lines, Imake no doubt," he sneered irrelevantly.

"You dolt! If the gentleman horsewhipsyou, you will have richly earned it."

"Eh? What?" gasped he, and hisrubicund cheeks lost something of theirhigh colour, for here was a possibility thathad not entered into his calculations. ButMistress Quinn stayed not to answer him.Already she was making for the door,wiping the dough from her hands on to herapron as she went. A suspicion of herpurpose flashed through her husband'smind.

"What would you do?" he inquirednervously.

"Tell the gentleman what has takenplace."

"Nay," he cried, resolutely barring herway. "Nay. That you shall not. Would you—would you ruin me?"

She gave him a look of contempt, anddodging his grasp she gained the door andwas half-way down the passage towardsthe common room before he had overtakenher and caught her round the middle.

"Are you mad, woman?" he shouted."Will you undo me?"

"Do you undo me," she bade him,snatching at his hands. But he clutchedwith the tightness of despair.

"You shall not go," he swore. "Come

back and leave the gentleman to make thediscovery for himself. I dare swear it willnot afflict him overmuch. He hasabandoned her sorely since they came; nota doubt of it but that he is weary of her. Atleast he need not know I lent her horses.Let him think she fled a-foot, when hediscovers her departure."

"I will go," she answered stubbornly,dragging him with her a yard or twonearer the door. "The gentleman shall bewarned. Is a woman to run away from herhusband in my house, and the husbandnever be warned of it?"

"I promised her," he began."What care I for your promises?" she

asked. "I will tell him, so that he may yetgo after her and bring her back."

"You shall not," he insisted, grippingher more closely. But at that moment adelicately mocking voice greeted theirears.

"Marry, 'tis vastly diverting to hearyou," it said. They looked round, to findone of the party of town sparks that hadhalted at the inn standing arms akimbo inthe narrow passage, clearly waiting forthem to make room. "A touching sight,sir," said he sardonically to the landlord."A wondrous touching sight to behold aman of your years playing the turtle-doveto his good wife like the merestfledgeling. It grieves me to intrude myselfso harshly upon your cooing, though ifyou'll but let me pass you may resumeyour chaste embrace without uneasiness,for I give you my word I'll never look

behind me."Abashed, the landlord and his dame fell

apart. Then, ere the gentleman could passher, Mistress Quinn, like a trueopportunist, sped swiftly down thepassage and into the common room beforeher husband could again detain her.

Now, within the common room of theSuffolk Arms Sir Crispin sat face to facewith a very pretty fellow, all musk andribbons, and surrounded by some half-dozen gentlemen on their way to Londonwho had halted to rest at Stafford.

The pretty gentleman swore lustily,affected a monstrous wicked look, assuredthat he was impressing all who stoodabout with some conceit of the rakehellyways he pursued in town.

A game started with crowns to whileaway the tedium of the enforced sojourn atthe inn had grown to monstrousproportions. Fortune had favoured theyouth at first, but as the stakes grew herfavours to him diminished, and at themoment that Cynthia rode out of the inn-yard, Mr. Harry Foster flung his last goldpiece with an oath upon the table.

"Rat me," he groaned, "there's the endof a hundred."

He toyed sorrowfully with the redribbon in his black hair, and Crispin,seeing that no fresh stake wasforthcoming, made shift to rise. But thecoxcomb detained him.

"Tarry, sir," he cried, "I've not yetdone. 'Slife, we'll make a night of it."

He drew a ring from his finger, andwith a superb gesture of disdain pushed itacross the board.

"What'll ye stake?" And, in the samebreath, "Boy, another stoup," he cried.

Crispin eyed the gem carelessly."Twenty Caroluses," he muttered."Rat me, sir, that nose of yours

proclaims you a jew, without more. Saytwenty-five, and I'll cast."

With a tolerant smile, and the shrug of aman to whom twenty-five or a hundred areof like account, Crispin consented. Theythrew; Crispin passed and won.

"What'll ye stake?" cried Mr. Foster,and a second ring followed the first.

Before Crispin could reply, the door

leading to the interior of the inn was flungopen, and Mrs. Quinn, breathless withexertion and excitement, came scurryingacross the room. In the doorway stood thehost in hesitancy and fear. Bending toCrispin's ear, Mrs. Quinn delivered hermessage in a whisper that was heard bymost of those who were about.

"Gone!" cried Crispin in consternation.The woman pointed to her husband, and

Crispin, understanding from this that shereferred him to the host, called to him.

"What know you, landlord?" heshouted. "Come hither, and tell me whitheris she gone!"

"I know not," replied the quaking host,adding the particulars of Cynthia'sdeparture, and the information that the

lady seemed in great anger."Saddle me a horse," cried Crispin,

leaping to his feet, and pitching Mr.Foster's trinket upon the table as though itwere a thing of no value. "TowardsDenham you say they rode? Quick, man!"And as the host departed he swept thegold and the ring he had won into hispockets preparing to depart.

"Hoity toity!" cried Mr. Foster. "Whatsudden haste is this?"

"I am sorry, sir, that Fortune has beenunkind to you, but I must go.Circumstances have arisen which—"

"D—n your circumstances!" roaredFoster, get ting on his feet. "You'll notleave me thus!"

"With your permission, sir, I will."

"But you shall not have my permission!""Then I shall be so unfortunate as to go

without it. But I shall return.""Sir, 'tis an old legend, that!"Crispin turned about in despair. To be

embroiled now might ruin everything, andby a miracle he kept his temper. He had amoment to spare while his horse wasbeing saddled.

"Sir," he said, "if you have upon yourpretty person trinkets to half the value ofwhat I have won from you, I'll stake thewhole against them on one throw, afterwhich, no matter what the result, I take mydeparture. Are you agreed?"

There was a murmur of admiration fromthose present at the recklessness and thegenerosity of the proposal, and Foster was

forced to accept it. Two more rings hedrew forth, a diamond from the ruffles athis throat, and a pearl that he wore in hisear. The lot he set upon the board, andCrispin threw the winning cast as the hostentered to say that his horse was ready.

He gathered the trinkets up, and with apolite word of regret he was gone, leavingMr. Harry Foster to meditate upon thepledging of one of his horses to thelandlord in discharge of his lodging.

And so it fell out that before Cynthiahad gone six miles along the road toDenham, one of her attendants caught arapid beat of hoofs behind them, and drewher attention to it, suggesting that theywere being followed. Faster Cynthia badethem travel, but the pursuer gained upon

them at every stride. Again the man drewher attention to it, and proposed that theyshould halt and face him who followed.The possession of the musketoon gave himconfidence touching the issue. But Cynthiashuddered at the thought, and again, withpromises of rich reward, urged them to gofaster. Another mile they went, but everymoment brought the pursuing hoof-beatsnearer and nearer, until at last a hoarsechallenge rang out behind them, and theyknew that to go farther would be vain;within the next half-mile, ride as theymight, their pursuer would be upon them.

The night was moonless, yet sufficientlyclear for objects to be perceived againstthe sky, and presently the black shadow ofhim who rode behind loomed up upon theroad, not a hundred paces off.

Despite Cynthia's orders not to fire, heof the musketoon raised his weapon undercover of the darkness and blazed at theapproaching shadow.

Cynthia cried out—a shriek of dismay itwas; the horses plunged, and Sir Crispinlaughed aloud as he bore down upon them.He of the musketoon heard the swish of asword being drawn, and saw the glitter ofthe blade in the dark. A second later therewas a shock as Crispin's horse dashedinto his, and a crushing blow across theforehead, which Galliard delivered withthe hilt of his rapier, sent him hurtlingfrom the saddle. His comrade clappedspurs to his horse at that and was runninga race with the night wind in the directionof Denham.

Before Cynthia quite knew what hadhappened the seat on the pillion in front ofher was empty, and she was riding back toStafford with Crispin beside her, his handupon the bridle of her horse.

"You little fool!" he said half-angrily,half-gibingly; and thereafter they rode insilence—she too mortified with shameand anger to venture upon words.

That journey back to Stafford was aspeedy one, and soon they stood again inthe inn-yard out of which she had riddenbut an hour ago. Avoiding the commonroom, Crispin ushered her through the sidedoor by which she had quitted the house.The landlord met them in the passage, andlooking at Crispin's face the pallor andfierceness of it drove him back without a

word.Together they ascended to the chamber

where in solitude she had spent the day.Her feelings were those of a child caughtin an act of disobedience, and she wasangry with herself and her weakness that itshould be so. Yet within the room shestood with bent head, never glancing ather companion, in whose eyes there was alook of blended anger and amazement ashe observed her. At length in calm, leveltones:

"Why did you run away?" he asked.The question was to her anger as a gust

of wind to a smouldering fire. She threwback her head defiantly, and fixed himwith a glance as fierce as his own.

"I will tell you," she cried, and

suddenly stopped short. The fire died fromher eyes, and they grew wide in wonder—in fascinated wonder—to see a deep stainoverspreading one side of his greydoublet, from the left shoulderdownwards. Her wonder turned to horroras she realized the nature of that stain andremembered that one of her men had firedupon him.

"You are wounded?" she faltered.A sickly smile came into his face, and

seemed to accentuate its pallor. He madea deprecatory gesture. Then, as if in thatgesture he had expended his last grain ofstrength, he swayed suddenly as he stood.He made as if to reach a chair, but at thesecond step he stumbled, and withoutfurther warning he fell prone at her feet,

his left hand upon his heart, his rightoutstretched straight from the shoulder.The loss of blood he had sustained,following upon the fatigue andsleeplessness that had been his of late, haddemanded its due from him, man of ironthough he was.

Upon the instant her anger vanished. Agreat fear that he was dead descendedupon her, and to heighten the horror of itcame the thought that he had received hisdeath-wound through her agency. With amoan of anguish she went down upon herknees beside him. She raised his head andpillowed it in her lap, calling to him byname, as though her voice alone mustsuffice to bring him back to life andconsciousness. Instinctively sheunfastened his doublet at the neck, and

sought to draw it away that she might seethe nature of his hurt and staunch thewound if possible, but her strength ebbedaway from her, and she abandoned hertask, unable to do more than murmur hisname.

"Crispin, Crispin, Crispin!"She stooped and kissed the white,

clammy forehead, then his lips, and as shedid so a tremor ran through her, and heopened his eyes. A moment they lookeddull and lifeless, then they waxedquestioning.

A second ago these two had stood inanger with the width of the room betwixtthem; now, in a flash, he found his head onher lap, her lips on his. How came hethere? What meant it?

"Crispin, Crispin," she cried, "thankGod you did but swoon!"

Then the awakening of his soul cameswift upon the awakening of his body. Helay there, oblivious of his wound,oblivious of his mission, oblivious of hisson. He lay with senses still half dormantand comprehension dulled, but with a soulalert he lay, and was supremely happywith a happiness such as he had neverknown in all his ill-starred life.

In a feeble voice he asked:"Why did you run away?""Let us forget it," she answered softly."Nay—tell me first.""I thought—I thought—" she stammered;

then, gathering courage, "I thought you didnot really care, that you made a toy of

me," said she. "When they told me that yousat at dice with a gentleman from London Iwas angry at your neglect. If you lovedme, I told myself, you would not haveused me so, and left me to mope alone."

For a moment Crispin let his grey eyesdevour her blushing face. Then he closedthem and pondered what she had said,realization breaking upon him now like agreat flood. The light came to him in oneblinding yet all-illuming flash. A hundredthings that had puzzled him in the last twodays grew of a sudden clear, and filledhim with a joy unspeakable. He daredscarce believe that he was awake, andCynthia by him—that he had indeed heardaright what she had said. How blind hehad been, how nescient of himself!

Then, as his thoughts travelled on to thesource of the misapprehension heremembered his son, and the memory waslike an icy hand upon his temples thatchilled him through and through. Lyingthere with eyes still closed he groaned.Happiness was within his grasp at last.Love might be his again did he but ask it,and the love of as pure and sweet acreature as ever God sent to chasten aman's life. A great tenderness possessedhim. A burning temptation to cast to thewinds his plighted word, to make a mockof faith, to deride honour, and to seize thiswoman for his own. She loved him heknew it now; he loved her—theknowledge had come as suddenly uponhim. Compared with this what could hisfaith, his word, his honour give him? What

to him, in the face of this, was that paltryfellow, his son, who had spurned him!

The hardest fight he ever fought, hefought it there, lying supine upon theground, his head in her lap.

Had he fought it out with closed eyes,perchance honour and his plighted wordhad won the day; but he opened them, andthey met Cynthia's.

A while they stayed thus; the hungryglance of his grey eyes peering into theclear blue depths of hers; and in thosedepths his soul was drowned, his honourstifled.

"Cynthia," he cried, "God pity me, Ilove you!" And he swooned again.

CHAPTER XXVI. TOFRANCE

That cry, which she but half understood,was still ringing in her ears, when thedoor was of a sudden flung open, andacross the threshold a very daintilyarrayed young gentleman stepped briskly,the expostulating landlord following closeupon his heels.

"I tell thee, lying dog," he cried, "I sawhim ride into the yard, and, 'fore George,he shall give me the chance of mending mylosses. Be off to your father, you Devil'snatural."

Cynthia looked up in alarm, whereuponthat merry blood catching sight of her,halted in some confusion at what he saw.

"Rat me, madam," he cried, "I did notknow—I had not looked to—" Hestopped, and remembering at last hismanners he made her a low bow.

"Your servant, madam," said he, "yourservant Harry Foster."

She gazed at him, her eyes full ofinquiry, but said nothing, whereat thepretty gentleman plucked awkwardly athis ruffles and wished himself elsewhere.

"I did not know, madam, that yourhusband was hurt."

"He is not my husband, sir," sheanswered, scarce knowing what she said.

"Gadso!" he ejaculated. "Yet you ran

away from him?"Her cheeks grew crimson."The door, sir, is behind you.""So, madam, is that thief the landlord,"

he made answer, no whit abashed. "Comehither, you bladder of fat, the gentleman ishurt."

Thus courteously summoned, thelandlord shuffled forward, and Mr. Fosterbegged Cynthia to allow him with thefellow's aid to see to the gentleman'swound. Between them they laid Crispin ona couch, and the town spark went to workwith a dexterity little to have beenexpected from his flippant exterior. Hedressed the wound, which was in theshoulder and not in itself of a dangerouscharacter, the loss of blood it being that

had brought some gravity to the knight'scondition. They propped his head upon apillow, and presently he sighed and,opening his eyes, complained of thirst, andwas manifestly surprised at seeing thecoxcomb turned leech.

"I came in search of you to pursue ourgame," Foster explained when they hadministered to him, "and, 'fore George, I amvastly grieved to find you in thiscondition."

"Pish, sir, my condition is none sogrievous—a scratch, no more, and weremy heart itself pierced the knowledge thatI have gained—" He stopped short. "Butthere, sir," he added presently, "I amgrateful beyond words for your timelyministration, and if to my debt you will

add that of leaving me awhile to rest, Ishall appreciate it."

His glance met Cynthia's and he smiled.The host coughed significantly, andshuffled towards the door. But MasterFoster made no shift to move; but stoodinstead beside Galliard, though inapparent hesitation.

"I should like a word with you ere Igo," he said at length. Then turning andperceiving the landlord standing by thedoor in an attitude of eloquent waiting:"Take yourself off," he cried to him."Crush me, may not one gentleman say aword to another without being forced tospeak into your inquisitive ears as well?You will forgive my heat, madam, but,God a'mercy, that greasy rascal tries me

sorely.""Now, sir," he resumed, when the host

was gone. "I stand thus: I have lost to youto-day a sum of money which, thoughsome might account considerable, is initself no more than a trifle.

"I am, however, greatly exercised at theloss of certain trinkets which have to me apeculiar value, and which, to be frank, Istaked in a moment of desperation. I hadhoped, sir, to retrieve my losses o'er afriendly main this evening, for I have stillto stake a coach and four horses—asnoble a set of beasts as you'll find inEngland, aye rat me. Your wound, sir,renders it impossible for me to ask you togive yourself the fatigue of obliging me. Icome, then, to propose that you return me

those trinkets against my note of hand forthe amount that was staked on them. I amwell known in town, sir," he addedhurriedly, "and you need have no anxiety."

Crispin stopped him with a wave of thehand.

"I have none, sir, in that connexion, andI am willing to do as you suggest." Hethrust his hand into his pocket, and drewforth the rings, the brooch and the ear-ringhe had won. "Here, sir, are your trinkets."

"Sir," cried Mr. Foster, thrown intosome confusion by Galliard'sunquestioning generosity, "I am indebtedto you. Rat me, sir, I am indeed. You shallhave my note of hand on the instant. Howmuch shall we say?"

"One moment, Mr. Foster," said

Crispin, an idea suddenly occurring tohim. "You mentioned horses. Are theyfresh?"

"As June roses.""And you are returning to London, are

you not?""I am.""When do you wish to proceed?""To-morrow.""Why, then, sir, I have a proposal to

make which will remove the need of yournote of hand. Lend me your horses, sir, toreach Harwich. I wish to set out at once!"

"But your wound?" cried Cynthia. "Youare still faint."

"Faint! Not I. I am awake and strong.My wound is no wound, for a scratch may

not be given that name. So there,sweetheart." He laughed, and drawingdown her head, he whispered the words:"Your father." Then turning again toFoster. "Now, sir," he continued, "thereare four tolerable posthorses of minebelow, on which you can followtomorrow to Harwich, there exchangingthem again for your own, which you shallfind awaiting you, stabled at the GarterInn. For this service, to me ofimmeasurable value, I will willingly cedethose gewgaws to you."

"But, rat me, sir," cried Foster inbewilderment, "tis too generous—'ponhonour it is. I can't consent to it. No, ratme, I can't."

"I have told you how great a boon you

will confer. Believe me, sir, to me it isworth twice, a hundred times the value ofthose trinkets."

"You shall have my horses, sir, and mynote of hand as well," said Foster firmly.

"Your note of hand is of no value to me,sir. I look to leave England to-morrow,and I know not when I may return."

Thus in the end it came about that thebargain was concluded. Cynthia's maidwas awakened and bidden to rise. Thehorses were harnessed to Crispin's coach,and Crispin, leaning upon Harry Foster'sarm, descended and took his place withinthe carriage.

Leaving the London blood at the door ofthe Suffolk Arms, crushing, burning,damning and ratting himself at Crispin's

magnificence, they rolled away throughthe night in the direction of Ipswich.

Ten o'clock in the morning beheld themat the door of the Garter Inn at Harwich.But the jolting of the coach had so hardlyused Crispin that he had to be carried intothe hostelry. He was much exercisedtouching the Lady Jane and his inability togo down to the quay in quest of her, whenhe was accosted by a burly, red-facedindividual who bluntly asked him was hecalled Sir Crispin Galliard. Ere he couldframe an answer the man had added thathe was Thomas Jackson, master of theLady Jane—at which piece of good newsCrispin felt like to shout for joy.

But his reflection upon his presentposition, when at last he lay in the

schooner's cabin, brought him the bitterreverse of pleasure. He had set out tobring Cynthia to his son; he had pledgedhis honour to accomplish it. How was hefulfilling his trust? In his despondency,during a moment when alone, he cursedthe knave that had wounded him for hisclumsiness in not having taken a loweraim when he fired, and thus solved himthis ugly riddle of life for all time.

Vainly did he strive to console himselfand endeavour to palliate the wrong hehad done with the consideration that hewas the man Cynthia loved, and not hisson; that his son was nothing to her, andthat she would never have accompaniedhim had she dreamt that he wooed her foranother.

No. The deed was foul, and renderedfouler still by virtue of those other wrongsin whose extenuation it had beenundertaken. For a moment he grew almosta coward. He was on the point of biddingMaster Jackson avoid Calais and makesome other port along the coast. But in amoment he had scorned the cravenargument of flight, and determined thatcome what might he would face his son,and lay the truth before him, leaving himto judge how strong fate had been. As helay feverish and fretful in the vessel'scabin, he came well-nigh to hatingKenneth; he remembered him only as apoor, mean creature, now a bigot, now afop, now a psalm-monger, now aroysterer, but ever a hypocrite, ever acoward, and never such a man as he could

have taken pride in presenting as hisoffspring.

They had a fair wind, and towardsevening Cynthia, who had been absentfrom his side a little while, came to tellhim that the coast of France grew nigh.

His answer was a sigh, and when shechid him for it, he essayed a smile thatwas yet more melancholy. For a second hewas tempted to confide in her; to tell herof the position in which he found himselfand to lighten his load by sharing it withher. But this he dared not do. Cynthia mustnever know.

CHAPTER XXVII.THE AUBERGE DU

SOLEILIn a room of the first floor of the

Auberge du Soleil, at Calais, the hostinquired of Crispin if he were milordGalliard. At that question Crispin caughthis breath in apprehension, and felthimself turn pale. What it portended, heguessed; and it stifled the hope that hadbeen rising in him since his arrival, andbecause he had not found his son awaitinghim either on the jetty or at the inn. Hedared ask no questions, fearing that the

reply would quench that hope, which rosedespite himself, and begotten of a desireof which he was hardly conscious.

He sighed before replying, and passinghis brown, nervous hand across his brow,he found it moist.

"My name, M. l'hote, is CrispinGalliard. What news have you for me?"

"A gentleman—a countryman ofmilord's—has been here these three daysawaiting him."

For a little while Crispin sat quite still,stripped of his last rag of hope. Thensuddenly bracing himself, he sprang up,despite his weakness.

"Bring him to me. I will see him atonce."

"Tout-a-l'heure, monsieur," replied the

landlord. "At the moment he is absent. Hewent out to take the air a couple of hoursago, and is not yet returned."

"Heaven send he has walked into thesea!" Crispin broke out passionately. Thenas passionately he checked himself. "No,no, my God—not that! I meant not that."

"Monsieur will sup?""At once, and let me have lights." The

host withdrew, to return a moment laterwith a couple of lighted tapers, which heset upon the table.

As he was retiring, a heavy stepsounded on the stair, accompanied by theclank of a scabbard against the baluster.

"Here comes milord's countryman," thelandlord announced.

And Crispin, looking up in

apprehension, saw framed in the doorwaythe burly form of Harry Hogan.

He sat bolt upright, staring as though hebeheld an apparition. With a sad smile,Hogan advanced, and set his handaffectionately upon Galliard's shoulder.

"Welcome to France, Crispin," said he."If not him whom you looked to find, youhave at least a loyal friend to greet you."

"Hogan!" gasped the knight. "Whatmake you here? How came you here?Where is Jocelyn?"

The Irishman looked at him gravely fora moment, then sighed and sank downupon a chair. "You have brought thelady?" he asked.

"She is here. She will be with uspresently."

Hogan groaned and shook his grey headsorrowfully.

"But where is Jocelyn?" cried Galliardagain, and his haggard face looked verywan and white as he turned it inquiringlyupon his companion. "Why is he nothere?"

"I have bad news.""Bad news?" muttered Crispin, as

though he understood not the meaning ofthe words. "Bad news?" he repeatedmusingly. Then bracing himself, "What isthis news?"

"And you have brought the lady too!"Hogan complained. "Faith, I had hopedthat you had failed in that at least."

"Sdeath, Harry," Crispin exclaimed."Will you tell me the news?"

Hogan pondered a moment. Then:"I will relate the story from the very

beginning," said he. "Some four hoursafter your departure from Waltham) mymen brought in the malignant we werehunting. I dispatched my sergeant and thetroop forthwith to London with theprisoner, keeping just two troopers withme. An hour or so later a coach clatteredinto the yard, and out of it stepped a short,lean man in black, with a very evil faceand a crooked eye, who bawled out that hewas Joseph Ashburn of Castle Marleigh, afriend of the Lord General's, and that hemust have horses on the instant to proceedupon his journey to London. I was in theyard at the time, and hearing the fullannouncement I guessed what his businessin London was. He entered the inn to

refresh himself and I followed him. In thecommon room the first man his eyeslighted on was your son. He gasped atsight of him, and when he had recoveredhis breath he let fly as round a volley ofblasphemy as ever I heard from the lips ofa Puritan. When that was over, "Fool," heyells, "what make you here?" The ladstammered and grew confused. At last—"Iwas detained here," says he. "Detained!"thunders the other, "and by whom?" "Bymy father, you murdering villain!" was thehot answer.

"At that Master Ashburn grows verywhite and very evil-looking. "So," hesays, in a playful voice, "you have learntthat, have you? Well, by God! the lessonshall profit neither you nor that rascal yourfather. But I'll begin with you, you cur."

And with that he seizes a jug of ale thatstood on the table, and empties it over theboy's face. Soul of my body! The ladshowed such spirit then as I had neverlooked to find in him. "Outside," yells he,tugging at his sword with one hand, andpointing to the door with the other."Outside, you hound, where I can killyou!" Ashburn laughed and cursed him,and together they flung past me into theyard. The place was empty at the moment,and there, before the clash of their bladeshad drawn interference, the thing was over—and Ashburn had sent his sword throughJocelyn's heart."

Hogan paused, and Crispin sat very stilland white, his soul in torment.

"And Ashburn?" he asked presently, in

a voice that was singularly hoarse andlow. "What became of him? Was he notarrested?"

"No," said Hogan grimly, "he was notarrested. He was buried. Before he hadwiped his blade I had stepped up to himand accused him of murdering a beardlessboy. I remembered the reckoning he owedyou, I remembered that he had sought tosend you to your death; I saw the boy'sbody still warm and bleeding upon theground, and I struck him with my knuckleson the mouth. Like the cowardly ruffian hewas, he made a pass at me with his swordbefore I had got mine out. I avoided itnarrowly, and we set to work.

"People rushed in and would havestopped us, but I cursed them so whilst I

fenced, swearing to kill any man that camebetween us, that they held off and waited.I didn't keep them overlong. I was no rawyoungster fresh from the hills of Scotland.I put the point of my sword through JosephAshburn's throat within a minute of ourengaging.

"It was then as I stood in that shamblesand looked down upon my handiwork thatI recalled in what favour Master Ashburnwas held by the Parliament, and I grewsick to think of what the consequencesmight be. To avoid them I got me there andthen to horse, and rode in a straight linefor Greenwich, hoping to find the LadyJane still there. But my messenger hadalready sent her to Harwich for you. I waswell ahead of possible pursuit, and so Ipushed on to Dover, and thence I crossed,

arriving here three days ago."Crispin rose and stepped up to Hogan.

"The last time you came to me after killinga man, Harry, I was of some service toyou. You shall find me no less useful now.You will come to Paris with me?"

"But the lady?" gasped Hogan, amazedat Crispin's lack of thought for her.

"I hear her step upon the stairs. Leaveme now, Harry, but as you go, desire thelandlord to send for a priest. The ladyremains."

One look of utter bewilderment didHogan bestow upon Sir Crispin, and foronce his glib, Irish tongue could shape noother words than:

"Soul of my body!"He wrung Crispin's hand, and in a state

of ineffable perplexity he hurried from theroom to do what was required of him.

For a moment Crispin stood by thewindow, and looking out into the night hethanked God from his heart for hissolution of the monstrous riddle that hadbeen set him.

Then the rustle of a gown drew hisattention, and he swung round to findCynthia smiling upon him from thethreshold.

He advanced to meet her, and settinghis hands upon her shoulders, he held herat arm's length, looking down into hereyes.

"Cynthia, my Cynthia!" he cried. Andshe, breaking past the barrier of his grasp,nestled up to him with a sigh of sweet and

unalloyed content.

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