By the lanthorn's yellow glare Crispin beheld the two men-a mass of
writhing bodies and a bunch of waving legs--upon the ground. Kenneth,
who was uppermost, clung purposefully to the parson's throat. The
faces of both were alike distorted, but whilst the lad's breath came in
gasping hisses, the other's came not at all.
Going over to the bed, Crispin drew the unconscious trooper's
tuck-sword. He paused for a moment to bend over the man's face; his
breath came faintly, and Crispin knew that ere many moments were sped
he would regain consciousness. He smiled grimly to see how well he had
performed his work of suffocation without yet utterly destroying life.
Sword in hand, he returned to Kenneth and the parson. The Puritan's
struggles were already becoming mere spasmodic twitchings; his face was
as ghastly as the trooper's had been a while ago.
“Release him, Kenneth,” said Crispin shortly.
“He struggles still.”
“Release him, I say,” Galliard repeated, and stooping he caught the
lad's wrist and compelled him to abandon his hold.
“He will cry out,” exclaimed Kenneth, in apprehension.
“Not he,” laughed Crispin. “Leastways, not yet awhile. Observe the
wretch.”
With mouth wide agape, the minister lay gasping like a fish newly
taken from the water. Even now that his throat was free he appeared to
struggle for a moment before he could draw breath. Then he took it in
panting gulps until it seemed that he must choke in his gluttony of air.
“Fore George,” quoth Crispin, “I was no more than in time. Another
second, and we should have had him, too, unconscious. There, he is
recovering.”
The blood was receding from the swollen veins of the parson's head, and
his cheeks were paling to their normal hue. Anon they went yet paler
than their wont, as Galliard rested the point of his sword against the
fellow's neck.
“Make sound or movement,” said Crispin coldly, “and I'll pin you to the
floor like a beetle. Obey me, and no harm shall come to you.”
“I will obey you,” the fellow answered, in a wheezing whisper. “I swear
I will. But of your charity, good sir, I beseech you remove your sword.
Your hand might slip, sir,” he whined, a wild terror in his eyes.
Where now was the deep bass of his whilom accents? Where now the
grotesque majesty of his bearing, and the impressive gestures that
erstwhile had accompanied his words of denunciation?
“Your hand might slip, sir,” he whined again.
“It might--and, by Gad, it shall if I hear more from you. So that you
are discreet and obedient, have no fear of my hand.” Then, still keeping
his eye upon the fellow: “Kenneth,” he said, “attend to the crop-ear
yonder, he will be recovering. Truss him with the bedclothes, and gag
him with his scarf. See to it, Kenneth, and do it well, but leave his
nostrils free that he may breathe.”
Kenneth carried out Galliard's orders swiftly and effectively, what time
Crispin remained standing over the recumbent minister. At length, when
Kenneth announced that it was done, he bade the Puritan rise.
“But have a care,” he added, “or you shall taste the joys of the
Paradise you preach of. Come, sir parson; afoot!”
A prey to a fear that compelled unquestioning obedience, the fellow rose
with alacrity.
“Stand there, sir. So,” commanded Crispin, his point within an inch of
the man's Geneva bands. “Take your kerchief, Kenneth, and pinion his
wrists behind him.”
That done, Crispin bade the lad unbuckle and remove the parson's belt.
Next he ordered that man of texts to be seated upon their only chair,
and with that same belt he commanded Kenneth to strap him to it. When
at length the Puritan was safely bound, Crispin lowered his rapier, and
seated himself upon the table edge beside him.
“Now, sir parson,” quoth he, “let us talk a while. At your first outcry
I shall hurry you into that future world whither it is your mission to
guide the souls of others. Maybe you'll find it a better world to preach
of than to inhabit, and so, for your own sake, I make no doubt you
will obey me. To your honour, to your good sense and a parson's natural
horror of a lie, I look for truth in answer to what questions I may
set you. Should I find you deceiving me, sir, I shall see that your
falsehood overtakes you.” And eloquently raising his blade, he intimated
the exact course he would adopt. “Now, sir, attend to me. How soon are
our friends likely to discover this topsy-turvydom?”
“When they come for you,” answered the parson meekly.
“And how soon, O prophet, will they come?”
“In an hour's time, or thereabout,” replied the Puritan, glancing
towards the window as he spoke. Galliard followed his glance, and
observed that the light was growing perceptibly stronger.
“Aye,” he commented, “in an hour's time there should be light enough to
hang us by. Is there no chance of anyone coming sooner?”
“None that I can imagine. The only other occupants of the house are a
party of half a dozen troopers in the guardroom below.”
“Where is the Lord General?”
“Away--I know not where. But he will be here at sunrise.”
“And the sentry that was at our door--is he not to a changed 'twixt this
and hanging-time?”
“I cannot say for sure, but I think not. The guard was relieved just
before I came.”
“And the men in the guardroom--answer me truthfully, O Elijah--what
manner of watch are they keeping?”
“Alas, sir, they have drunk enough this night to put a rakehelly
Cavalier to shame. I was but exhorting them.”
When Kenneth had removed the Puritan's girdle, a small Bible--such as
men of his calling were wont to carry--had dropped out. This Kenneth had
placed upon the table. Galliard now took it up, and, holding it before
the Puritan's eyes, he watched him narrowly the while.
“Will you swear by this book that you have answered nothing but the
truth?”
Without a moment's hesitation the parson pledged his oath, that, to the
best of his belief, he had answered accurately.
“That is well, sir. And now, though it grieve me to cause you some
slight discomfort, I must ensure your silence, my friend.”
And, placing his sword upon the table, he passed behind the Puritan, and
taking the man's own scarf, he effectively gagged him with it.
“Now, Kenneth,” said he, turning to the lad. Then he stopped abruptly as
if smitten by a sudden thought. Presently--“Kenneth,” he continued in a
different tone, “a while ago I mind me you said that were your liberty
restored you, you would join hands with me in punishing the evildoers
who wrecked my life.”
“I did, Sir Crispin.”
For a moment the knight paused. It was a vile thing that he was about to
do, he told himself, and as he realized how vile, his impulse was to say
no more; to abandon the suddenly formed project and to trust to his own
unaided wits and hands. But as again he thought of the vast use this lad
would be to him--this lad who was the betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn--he
saw that the matter was not one hastily to be judged and dismissed.
Carefully he weighed it in the balance of his mind. On the one hand was
the knowledge that did they succeed in making good their escape,
Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter to his friends the Ashburns--the
usurpers of Castle Marleigh. What then more natural than his taking with
him the man who had helped him to escape, and who shared his own danger
of recapture? And with so plausible a motive for admission to Castle
Marleigh, how easy would not his vengeance become? He might at first
wean himself into their good graces, and afterwards--
Before his mental eyes there unfolded itself the vista of a great
revenge; one that should be worthy of him, and commensurate with the
foul deed that called for it.
In the other scale the treacherous flavour of this method weighed
heavily. He proposed to bind the lad to a promise, the shape of whose
fulfilment he would withhold--a promise the lad would readily give, and
yet, one that he must sooner die than enter into, did he but know what
manner of fulfilment would be exacted. It amounted to betraying the lad
into a betrayal of his friends--the people of his future wife. Whatever
the issue for Crispin, 'twas odds Kenneth's prospect of wedding this
Cynthia would be blighted for all time by the action into which Galliard
proposed to thrust him all unconscious.
So stood the case in Galliard's mind, and the scales fell now on one
side, now on the other. But against his scruples rose the memory of the
treatment which the lad had meted out to him that night; the harshness
of the boy's judgment; the irrevocable contempt wherein he had clearly
seen that he was held by this fatuous milksop. All this aroused his
rancour now, and steeled his heart against the voice of honour. What
was this boy to him, he asked himself, that he should forego for him the
accomplishing of his designs? How had this lad earned any consideration
from him? What did he owe him? Naught! Still, he would not decide in
haste.
It was characteristic of the man whom Kenneth held to be destitute of
all honourable principles, to stand thus in the midst of perils, when
every second that sped lessened their chances of escape, turning over
in his mind calmly and collectedly a point of conduct. It was in his
passions only that Crispin was ungovernable, in violence only that he
was swift--in all things else was he deliberate.
Of this Kenneth had now a proof that set him quaking with impatient
fear. Anxiously, his hands clenched and his face pale, he watched his
companion, who stood with brows knit in thought, and his grey
eyes staring at the ground. At length he could brook that, to him,
incomprehensible and mad delay no longer.
“Sir Crispin,” he whispered, plucking at his sleeve; “Sir Crispin.”
The knight flashed him a glance that was almost of anger. Then the fire
died out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. In that second's glance
he had seen the lad's face; the fear and impatience written on it had
disgusted him, and caused the scales to fall suddenly and definitely
against the boy.
“I was thinking how it might be accomplished,” he said.
“There is but one way,” cried the lad.
“On the contrary, there are two, and I wish to choose carefully.”
“If you delay your choice much longer, none will be left you,” cried
Kenneth impatiently.
Noting the lad's growing fears, and resolved now upon his course,
Galliard set himself to play upon them until terror should render the
boy as wax in his hands.
“There speaks your callow inexperience,” said he, with a pitying smile.
“When you shall have lived as long as I have done, and endured as much;
when you shall have set your wits to the saving of your life as often
as have I--you will have learnt that haste is fatal to all enterprises.
Failure means the forfeiture of something; tonight it would mean the
forfeiture of our lives, and it were a pity to let such good efforts as
these”--and with a wave of the hand he indicated their two captors--“go
wasted.”
“Sir,” exclaimed Kenneth, well-nigh beside himself, “if you come not
with me, I go alone!”
“Whither?” asked Crispin dryly.
“Out of this.”
Galliard bowed slightly.
“Fare you well, sir. I'll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it is
for you to choose between the door and the window.”
And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed to
the bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped,
and unbuckling the soldier's swordbelt--to which the scabbard was
attached--he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keeping
his back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next to
the table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restored
it to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:
“Come, Sir Crispin!” cried the lad. “Are you ready?”
Galliard wheeled sharply round.
“How? Not gone yet?” said he sardonically.
“I dare not,” the lad confessed. “I dare not go alone.”
Galliard laughed softly; then suddenly waxed grave.
“Ere we go, Master Kenneth, I would again remind you of your assurance
that were we to regain our liberty you would aid me in the task of
vengeance that lies before me.”
“Once already have I answered you that it is so.”
“And pray, are you still of the same mind?”
“I am, I am! Anything, Sir Crispin; anything so that you come away!”
“Not so fast, Kenneth. The promise that I shall ask of you is not to
be so lightly given. If we escape I may fairly claim to have saved your
life, 'twixt what I have done and what I may yet do. Is it not so?”
“Oh, I acknowledge it!”
“Then, sir, in payment I shall expect your aid hereafter to help me in
that which I must accomplish, that which the hope of accomplishing is
the only spur to my own escape.”
“You have my promise!” cried the lad.
“Do not give it lightly, Kenneth,” said Crispin gravely. “It may cause
you much discomfort, and may be fraught with danger even to your life.”
“I promise.”
Galliard bowed his head; then, turning, he took the Bible from the
table.
“With your hand upon this book, by your honour, your faith, and your
every hope of salvation, swear that if I bear you alive out of this
house you will devote yourself to me and to my task of vengeance until
it shall be accomplished or until I perish; swear that you will set
aside all personal matters and inclinations of your own, to serve me
when I shall call upon you. Swear that, and, in return, I will give
my life if need be to save yours to-night, in which case you will be
released from your oath without more ado.”
The lad paused a moment. Crispin was so impressive, the oath he imposed
so solemn, that for an instant the boy hesitated. His cautious, timid
nature whispered to him that perchance he should know more of this
matter ere he bound himself so irrevocably. But Crispin, noting the
hesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad's fears.
“Resolve yourself,” he exclaimed abruptly. “It grows light, and the time
for haste is come.”
“I swear!” answered Kenneth, overcome by his impatience. “I swear, by my
honour, my faith, and my every hope of heaven to lend you my aid, when
and how you may demand it, until your task be accomplished.”
Crispin took the Bible from the boy's hands, and replaced it on the
table. His lips were pressed tight, and he avoided the lad's eyes.
“You shall not find me wanting in my part of the bargain,” he muttered,
as he took up the soldier's cloak and hat. “Come, take that parson's
steeple hat and his cloak, and let us be going.”
He crossed to the door, and opening it he peered down the passage. A
moment he stood listening. All was still. Then he turned again. In the
chamber the steely light of the breaking day was rendering more yellow
still the lanthorn's yellow flame.
“Fare you well, sir parson,” he said. “Forgive me the discomfort I have
been forced to put upon you, and pray for the success of our escape.
Commend me to Oliver of the ruby nose. Fare you well, sir. Come,
Kenneth.”
He held the door for the lad to pass out. As they stood in the dimly
lighted passage he closed it softly after them, and turned the key in
the lock.
“Come,” he said again, and led the way to the stairs, Kenneth tiptoeing
after him with wildly beating heart.