Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept.
Kenneth sat huddled on his chair, and in awe and amazement he listened
to his companion's regular breathing. He had not Galliard's nerves nor
Galliard's indifference to death, so that neither could he follow his
example, nor yet so much as realize how one should slumber upon the very
brink of eternity.
For a moment his wonder stood perilously near to admiration; then his
religious training swayed him, and his righteousness almost drew from
him a contempt of this man's apathy. There was much of the Pharisee's
attitude towards the publican in his mood.
Anon that regular breathing grew irritating to him; it drew so marked a
contrast 'twixt Crispin's frame of mind and his own. Whilst Crispin had
related his story, the interest it awakened had served to banish the
spectre of fear which the thought of the morrow conjured up. Now that
Crispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grew
numb and sick with the horror of his position.
Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head and
hands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dull
uneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved.
Would she hear of his end? Would she weep for him?--as though it
mattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought him
to the same issue--to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands still
tighter, and the perspiration would stand' out in beads upon his callow
brow.
At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so much
a prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator. He felt himself a
craven--doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner he
despised--and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman should
meet his end.
“But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall be brave,” he muttered, and
knew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that might
uphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken might
be his spirit now.
Meanwhile Crispin slept. When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was on
his face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloak
and a slouched hat whose broad brim left the features unrevealed.
Still half asleep, and blinking like an owl, he sat up.
“I have always held burnt sack to be well enough, but--”
He stopped short, fully awake at last, and, suddenly remembering his
condition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breath
and in a voice as indifferent as he could make it:
“What's o'clock?” he asked.
“Past midnight, miserable wretch,” was the answer delivered in a deep
droning voice. “Hast entered upon thy last day of life--a day whose sun
thou'lt never see. But five hours more are left thee.”
“And it is to tell me this that you have awakened me?” demanded Galliard
in such a voice that he of the cloak recoiled a step, as if he thought
a blow must follow. “Out on you for an unmannerly cur to break upon a
gentleman's repose.”
“I come,” returned the other in his droning voice, “to call upon thee to
repent.”
“Plague me not,” answered Crispin, with a yawn. “I would sleep.”
“Soundly enough shalt thou sleep in a few hours' time. Bethink thee,
miserable sinner, of thy soul.”
“Sir,” cried the Tavern Knight, “I am a man of marvellous short
endurance. But mark you this your ways to heaven are not my ways.
Indeed, if heaven be peopled by such croaking things as you, I shall be
thankful to escape it. So go, my friend, ere I become discourteous.”
The minister stood in silence for a moment; then setting his lanthorn
upon the table, he raised his hands and eyes towards the low ceiling of
the chamber.
“Vouchsafe, O Lord,” he prayed, “to touch yet the callous heart of this
obdurate, incorrigible sinner, this wicked, perjured and blasphemous
malignant, whose--”
He got no further. Crispin was upon his feet, his harsh countenance
thrust into the very face of the minister; his eyes ablaze.
“Out!” he thundered, pointing to the door. “Out! Begone! I would not
be guilty at the end of my life of striking a man in petticoats. But go
whilst I can bethink me of it! Go--take your prayers to hell.”
The minister fell back before that blaze of passion. For a second he
appeared to hesitate, then he turned towards Kenneth, who stood behind
in silence. But the lad's Presbyterian rearing had taught him to hate a
sectarian as he would a papist or as he would the devil, and he did no
more than echo Galliard's words--though in a gentler key.
“I pray you go,” he said. “But if you would perform an act of charity,
leave your lanthorn. It will be dark enough hereafter.”
The minister looked keenly at the boy, and won over by the humility
of his tone, he set the lanthorn on the table. Then moving towards the
door, he stopped and addressed himself to Crispin.
“I go since you oppose with violence my ministrations. But I shall pray
for you, and I will return anon, when perchance your heart shall be
softened by the near imminence of your end.”
“Sir,” quoth Crispin wearily, “you would outtalk a woman.”
“I've done, I've done,” he cried in trepidation, making shift to depart.
On the threshold he paused again. “I leave you the lanthorn,” he
said. “May it light you to a godlier frame of mind. I shall return at
daybreak.” And with that he went.
Crispin yawned noisily when he was gone, and stretched himself. Then
pointing to the pallet:
“Come, lad, 'tis your turn,” said he.
Kenneth shivered. “I could not sleep,” he cried. “I could not.”
“As you will.” And shrugging his shoulders, Crispin sat down on the edge
of the bed.
“For cold comforters commend me to these cropeared cuckolds,” he
grumbled. “They are all thought for a man's soul, but for his body they
care nothing. Here am I who for the last ten hours have had neither meat
nor drink. Not that I mind the meat so much, but, 'slife, my throat is
dry as one of their sermons, and I would cheerfully give four of my
five hours of life for a posset of sack. A paltry lot are they, Kenneth,
holding that because a man must die at dawn he need not sup to-night.
Heigho! Some liar hath said that he who sleeps dines, and if I sleep
perchance I shall forget my thirst.”
He stretched himself upon the bed, and presently he slept again.
It was Kenneth who next awakened him. He opened his eyes to find the lad
shivering as with an ague. His face was ashen.
“Now, what's amiss? Oddslife, what ails you?” he cried.
“Is there no way, Sir Crispin? Is there naught you can do?” wailed the
youth.
Instantly Galliard sat up.
“Poor lad, does the thought of the rope affright you?”
Kenneth bowed his head in silence.
“Tis a scurvy death, I own. Look you, Kenneth, there is a dagger in my
boot. If you would rather have cold steel, 'tis done. It is the last
service I may render you, and I'll be as gentle as a mistress. Just
there, over the heart, and you'll know no more until you are in
Paradise.”
Turning down the leather of his right boot, he thrust his hand down the
side of his leg. But Kenneth sprang back with a cry.
“No, no,” he cried, covering his face with his hands. “Not that!
You don't understand. It is death itself I would cheat. What odds to
exchange one form for another? Is there no way out of this? Is there no
way, Sir Crispin?” he demanded with clenched hands.
“The approach of death makes you maudlin, sir,” quoth the other, in whom
this pitiful show of fear produced a profound disgust. “Is there no way;
say you? There is the window, but 'tis seventy feet above the river; and
there is the door, but it is locked, and there is a sentry on the other
side.”
“I might have known it. I might have known that you would mock me. What
is death to you, to whom life offers nothing? For you the prospect of it
has no terrors. But for me--bethink you, sir, I am scarce eighteen years
of age,” he added brokenly, “and life was full of promise for me. O God,
pity me!”
“True, lad, true,” the knight returned in softened tones. “I had
forgotten that death is not to you the blessed release that it is to me.
And yet, and yet,” he mused, “do I not die leaving a task unfulfilled--a
task of vengeance? And by my soul, I know no greater spur to make a man
cling to life. Ah,” he sighed wistfully, “if indeed I could find a way.”
“Think, Sir Crispin, think,” cried the boy feverishly.
“To what purpose? There is the window. But even if the bars were moved,
which I see no manner of accomplishing, the drop to the river is seventy
feet at least. I measured it with my eyes when first we entered here. We
have no rope. Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tied together would
scarce yield us ten feet. Would you care to jump the remaining sixty?”
At the very thought of it the lad trembled, noting which Sir Crispin
laughed softly.
“There. And yet, boy, it would be taking a risk which if successful
would mean life--if otherwise, a speedier end than even the rope will
afford you. Oddslife,” he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, and
seizing the lanthorn. “Let us look at these bars.”
He stepped across to the window, and held the light so that its rays
fell full upon the base of the vertical iron that barred the square.
“It is much worn by rust, Kenneth,” he muttered. “The removal of this
single piece of iron,” and he touched the lower arm of the cross,
“should afford us passage. Who knows? Hum!”
He walked back to the table and set the lanthorn down. In a tremble,
Kenneth watched his every movement, but spoke no word.
“He who throws a main,” said Galliard, “must set a stake upon the board.
I set my life--a stake that is already forfeit--and I throw for liberty.
If I win, I win all; if I lose, I lose naught. 'Slife, I have thrown
many a main with Fate, but never one wherein the odds were more
generous. Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and we will attempt it if
we can but move the bar.”
“You mean to leap?” gasped the lad.
“Into the river. It is the only way.”
“O God, I dare not. It is a fearsome drop.”
“Longer, I confess, than they'll give you in an hour's time, if you
remain; but it may lead elsewhere.”
The boy's mouth was parched. His eyes burned in their sockets, and yet
his limbs shook with cold--but not the cold of that September night.
“I'll try it,” he muttered with a gulp. Then suddenly clutching
Galliard's arm, he pointed to the window.
“What ails you now?” quoth Crispin testily.
“The dawn, Sir Crispin. The dawn.”
Crispin looked, and there, like a gash in the blackness of the heavens,
he beheld a streak of grey.
“Quick, Sir Crispin; there is no time to lose. The minister said he
would return at daybreak.”
“Let him come,” answered Galliard grimly, as he moved towards the
casement.
He gripped the lower bar with his lean, sinewy hands, and setting his
knee against the masonry beneath it, he exerted the whole of his huge
strength--that awful strength acquired during those years of toil as a
galley-slave, which even his debaucheries had not undermined. He felt
his sinews straining until it seemed that they must crack; the sweat
stood out upon his brow; his breathing grew stertorous.
“It gives,” he panted at last. “It gives.”
He paused in his efforts, and withdrew his hands.
“I must breathe a while. One other effort such as that, and it is done.
'Fore George,” he laughed, “it is the first time water has stood my
friend, for the rains have sadly rusted that iron.”
Without, their sentry was pacing before the door; his steps came nearer,
passed, and receded; turned, came nigh again, and again passed on.
As once more they grew faint, Crispin seized the bar and renewed his
attempt. This time it was easier. Gradually it ceded to the strain
Galliard set upon it.
Nearer came the sentry's footsteps, but they went unheeded by him who
toiled, and by him who watched with bated breath and beating heart. He
felt it giving--giving--giving. Crack!
With a report that rang through the room like a pistol shot, it broke
off in its socket. Both men caught their breath, and stood for a second
crouching, with straining ears. The sentry had stopped at their door.
Galliard was a man of quick action, swift to think, and as swift to
execute the thought. To thrust Kenneth into a corner, to extinguish the
light, and to fling himself upon the bed was all the work of an instant.
The key grated in the lock, and Crispin answered it with a resounding
snore. The door opened, and on the threshold stood the Roundhead
trooper, holding aloft a lanthorn whose rays were flashed back by his
polished cuirass. He beheld Crispin on the bed with closed eyes and open
mouth, and he heard his reassuring and melodious snore. He saw Kenneth
seated peacefully upon the floor, with his back against the wall, and
for a moment he was puzzled.
“Heard you aught?” he asked.
“Aye,” answered Kenneth, in a strangled voice, “I heard something like a
shot out there.”
The gesture with which he accompanied the words was fatal. Instinctively
he had jerked his thumb towards the window, thereby drawing the
soldier's eyes in that direction. The fellow's glance fell upon the
twisted bar, and a sharp exclamation of surprise escaped him.
Had he been aught but a fool he must have guessed at once how it came
so, and having guessed it, he must have thought twice ere he
ventured within reach of a man who could so handle iron. But he was a
slow-reasoning clod, and so far, thought had not yet taken the place of
surprise. He stepped into, the chamber and across to the window, that he
might more closely view that broken bar.
With eyes that were full of terror and despair, Kenneth watched him;
their last hope had failed them. Then, as he looked, it seemed to him
that in one great leap from his recumbent position on the bed, Crispin
had fallen upon the soldier.
The lanthorn was dashed from the fellow's hand, and rolled to Kenneth's
feet. The fellow had begun' a cry, which broke off suddenly into a
gurgle as Galliard's fingers closed about his windpipe. He was a big
fellow, and in his mad struggles he carried: Crispin hither and thither
about the room. Together: they hurtled against the table, which would
have: gone crashing over had not Kenneth caught it and drawn it softly
to the wall.
Both men were now upon the bed. Crispin had guessed the soldier's intent
to fling himself upon the ground so that the ring of his armour might
be heard, and perchance bring others to his aid. To avoid this, Galliard
had swung him towards the bed, and hurled him on to it. There he pinned
him with his knee, and with his fingers he gripped the Roundhead's
throat, pressing the apple inwards with his thumb.
“The door, Kenneth!” he commanded, in a whisper. “Close the door!”
Vain were the trooper's struggles to free himself from that throttling
grip. Already his efforts grew his face was purple; his veins stood out
in ropes upon his brow till they seemed upon the point of bursting; his
eyes protruded like a lobster's and there was a horrible grin upon his
mouth; still his heels beat the bed, and still he struggled. With his
fingers he plucked madly at the throttling hands on his neck, and
tore at them with his nails until the blood streamed from them. Still
Galliard held him firmly, and with a smile--a diabolical smile it seemed
to the poor, half-strangled wretch--he gazed upon his choking victim.
“Someone comes!” gasped Kenneth suddenly. “Someone comes, Sir Crispin!”
he repeated, shaking his hands in a frenzy.
Galliard listened. Steps were approaching. The soldier heard them also,
and renewed his efforts. Then Crispin spoke.
“Why stand you there like a fool?” he growled. “Quench the light--stay,
we may want it! Cast your cloak over it! Quick, man, quick!”
The steps came nearer. The lad had obeyed him, and they were in
darkness.
“Stand by the door,” whispered Crispin. “Fall upon him as he enters,
and see that no cry escapes him. Take him by the throat, and as you love
your life, do not let him get away.”
The footsteps halted. Kenneth crawled softly to his post. The soldier's
struggles grew of a sudden still, and Crispin released his throat at
last. Then calmly drawing the fellow's dagger, he felt for the straps
of his cuirass, and these he proceeded to cut. As he did so the door was
opened.
By the light of the lamp burning in the passage they beheld silhouetted
upon the threshold a black figure crowned by a steeple hat. Then the
droning voice of the Puritan minister greeted them.
“Your hour is at hand!” he announced.
“Is it time?” asked Galliard from the bed. And as he put the question he
softly thrust aside the trooper's breastplate, and set his hand to the
fellow's heart. It still beat faintly.
“In another hour they will come for you,” answered the minister. And
Crispin marvelled anxiously what Kenneth was about. “Repent then,
miserable sinners, whilst yet--”
He broke off abruptly, awaking out of his religious zeal to a sense
of strangeness at the darkness and the absence of the sentry, which
hitherto he had not remarked.
“What hath--” he began. Then Galliard heard a gasp, followed by the
noise of a fall, and two struggling men came rolling across the chamber
floor.
“Bravely done, boy!” he cried, almost mirthfully. “Cling to him,
Kenneth; cling to him a second yet!”
He leapt from the bed, and guided by the faint light coming through the
door, he sprang across the intervening space and softly closed it.
Then he groped his way along the wall to the spot where he had seen the
lanthorn stand when Kenneth had flung his cloak over it. As he went, the
two striving men came up against him.
“Hold fast, lad,” he cried, encouraging Kenneth, “hold him yet a moment,
and I will relieve you!”
He reached the lanthorn at last, and pulling aside the cloak, he lifted
the light and set it upon the table.