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