ning 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.

CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN

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