“When they come for you,” answered the parson meekly.
“And how soon, O prophet, will they come?”
“In an hour's time, or thereabout,” replied the Puritan, glancing towards the window as he spoke. Galliard followed his glance, and observed that the light was growing perceptibly stronger.
“Aye,” he commented, “in an hour's time there should be light enough to hang us by. Is there no chance of anyone coming sooner?”
“None that I can imagine. The only other occupants of the house are a party of half a dozen troopers in the guardroom below.”
“Where is the Lord General?”
“Away—I know not where. But he will be here at sunrise.”
“And the sentry that was at our door—is he not to a changed 'twixt this and hanging-time?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I think not. The guard was relieved just before I came.”
“And the men in the guardroom—answer me truthfully, O Elijah—what manner of watch are they keeping?”
“Alas, sir, they have drunk enough this night to put a rakehelly Cavalier to shame. I was but exhorting them.”
When Kenneth had removed the Puritan's girdle, a small Bible—such as men of his calling were wont to carry—had dropped out. This Kenneth had placed upon the table. Galliard now took it up, and, holding it before the Puritan's eyes, he watched him narrowly the while.
“Will you swear by this book that you have answered nothing but the truth?”
Without a moment's hesitation the parson pledged his oath, that, to the best of his belief, he had answered accurately.
“That is well, sir. And now, though it grieve me to cause you some slight discomfort, I must ensure your silence, my friend.”
And, placing his sword upon the table, he passed behind the Puritan, and taking the man's own scarf, he effectively gagged him with it.
“Now, Kenneth,” said he, turning to the lad. Then he stopped abruptly as if smitten by a sudden thought. Presently—“Kenneth,” he continued in a different tone, “a while ago I mind me you said that were your liberty restored you, you would join hands with me in punishing the evildoers who wrecked my life.”
“I did, Sir Crispin.”
For a moment the knight paused. It was a vile thing that he was about to do, he told himself, and as he realized how vile, his impulse was to say no more; to abandon the suddenly formed project and to trust to his own unaided wits and hands. But as again he thought of the vast use this lad would be to him—this lad who was the betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn—he saw that the matter was not one hastily to be judged and dismissed. Carefully he weighed it in the balance of his mind. On the one hand was the knowledge that did they succeed in making good their escape, Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter to his friends the Ashburns—the usurpers of Castle Marleigh. What then more natural than his taking with him the man who had helped him to escape, and who shared his own danger of recapture? And with so plausible a motive for admission to Castle Marleigh, how easy would not his vengeance become? He might at first wean himself into their good graces, and afterwards—
Before his mental eyes there unfolded itself the vista of a great revenge; one that should be worthy of him, and commensurate with the foul deed that called for it.
In the other scale the treacherous flavour of this method weighed heavily. He proposed to bind the lad to a promise, the shape of whose fulfilment he would withhold—a promise the lad would readily give, and yet, one that he must sooner die than enter into, did he but know what manner of fulfilment would be exacted. It amounted to betraying the lad into a betrayal of his friends—the people of his future wife. Whatever the issue for Crispin, 'twas odds Kenneth's prospect of wedding this Cynthia would be blighted for all time by the action into which Galliard proposed to thrust him all unconscious.
So stood the case in Galliard's mind, and the scales fell now on one side, now on the other. But against his scruples rose the memory of the treatment which the lad had meted out to him that night; the harshness of the boy's judgment; the irrevocable contempt wherein he had clearly seen that he was held by this fatuous milksop. All this aroused his rancour now, and steeled his heart against the voice of honour. What was this boy to him, he asked himself, that he should forego for him the accomplishing of his designs? How had this lad earned any consideration from him? What did he owe him? Naught! Still, he would not decide in haste.
It was characteristic of the man whom Kenneth held to be destitute of all honourable principles, to stand thus in the midst of perils, when every second that sped lessened their chances of escape, turning over in his mind calmly and collectedly a point of conduct. It was in his passions only that Crispin was ungovernable, in violence only that he was swift—in all things else was he deliberate.
Of this Kenneth had now a proof that set him quaking with impatient fear. Anxiously, his hands clenched and his face pale, he watched his companion, who stood with brows knit in thought, and his grey eyes staring at the ground. At length he could brook that, to him, incomprehensible and mad delay no longer.
“Sir Crispin,” he whispered, plucking at his sleeve; “Sir Crispin.”
The knight flashed him a glance that was almost of anger. Then the fire died out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. In that second's glance he had seen the lad's face; the fear and impatience written on it had disgusted him, and caused the scales to fall suddenly and definitely against the boy.
“I was thinking how it might be accomplished,” he said.
“There is but one way,” cried the lad.
“On the contrary, there are two, and I wish to choose carefully.”
“If you delay your choice much longer, none will be left you,” cried Kenneth impatiently.
Noting the lad's growing fears, and resolved now upon his course, Galliard set himself to play upon them until terror should render the boy as wax in his hands.
“There speaks your callow inexperience,” said he, with a pitying smile. “When you shall have lived as long as I have done, and endured as much; when you shall have set your wits to the saving of your life as often as have I—you will have learnt that haste is fatal to all enterprises. Failure means the forfeiture of something; tonight it would mean the forfeiture of our lives, and it were a pity to let such good efforts as these”—and with a wave of the hand he indicated their two captors—“go wasted.”
“Sir,” exclaimed Kenneth, well-nigh beside himself, “if you come not with me, I go alone!”
“Whither?” asked Crispin dryly.
“Out of this.”
Galliard bowed slightly.
“Fare you well, sir. I'll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it is for you to choose between the door and the window.”
And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed to the bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped, and unbuckling the soldier's swordbelt—to which the scabbard was attached—he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keeping his back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next to the table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restored it to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:
“Come, Sir Crispin!” cried the lad. “Are you ready?”
Galliard