ined it; a pair
of green breeches, frayed to their utmost; and coarse boots of untanned
leather, adorned by rusty spurs.

On the terrace Gregory paused a moment to call his groom to attend
the new-comers, then he passed down the steps to greet Kenneth with
boisterous effusion. Behind him, slow and stately as a woman of twice
her years, came Cynthia. Calm was her greeting of her lover, contained
in courteous expressions of pleasure at beholding him safe, and
suffering him to kiss her hand.

In the background, his sable locks uncovered out of deference to the
lady, stood Sir Crispin, his face pale and haggard, his lips parted, and
his grey eyes burning as they fell again, after the lapse of years, upon
the stones of this his home--the castle to which he was now come, hat in
hand, to beg for shelter.

Gregory was speaking, his hands resting upon Kenneth's shoulder.

"We have been much exercised concerning you, lad," he was saying. "We
almost feared the worst, and yesterday Joseph left us to seek news of
you at Cromwell's hands. Where have you tarried?"

"Anon, sir; you shall learn anon. The story is a long one."

"True; you will be tired, and perchance you would first rest a while.
Cynthia will see to it. But what scarecrow have you there? What
tatterdemalion is this?" he cried, pointing to Galliard. He had imagined
him a servant, but the dull flush that overspread Sir Crispin's face
told him of his error.

"I would have you know, sir," Crispin began, with some heat, when
Kenneth interrupted him.

"Tis to this gentleman, sir, that I owe my presence here. He was my
fellow-prisoner, and but for his quick wit and stout arm I should be
stiff by now. Anon, sir, you shall hear the story of it, and I dare
swear it will divert you. This gentleman is Sir Crispin Galliard, lately
a captain of horse with whom I served in Middleton's Brigade."

Crispin bowed low, conscious of the keen scrutiny in which Gregory's
eyes were bent upon him. In his heart there arose a fear that, haply
after all, the years that were sped had not wrought sufficient change in
him.

"Sir Crispin Galliard," Ashburn was saying, after the manner of one who
is searching his memory. "Galliard, Galliard--not he whom they called
'Rakehelly Galliard,' and who gave us such trouble in the late King's
time?"

Crispin breathed once more. Ashburn's scrutiny was explained.

"The same, sir," he answered, with a smile and a fresh bow. "Your
servant, sir; and y