eard from him that night in Worcester,
was to Kenneth a thing of no interest or moment. Galliard had ruined him
with these Ashburns. He could never now hope to win the hand of Cynthia,
to achieve which he had been willing to turn both fool and knave--aye,
had turned both. There was naught left him but to return him to the
paltry Scottish estate of his fathers, there to meet the sneers of those
who no doubt had heard that he was gone South to marry a great English
heiress.

That at such a season he could think of this but serves to prove the
shallow nature of his feelings. A love was his that had gain and
vanity for its foundation--in fact, it was no love at all. For what he
accounted love for Cynthia was but the love of himself, which through
Cynthia he sought to indulge.

He cursed the ill-luck that had brought Crispin into his life. He cursed
Crispin for the evil he had suffered from him, forgetting that but for
Crispin he would have been carrion a month ago and more.

Deep at his bitter musings was he when the door opened again to admit
Joseph, followed by Galliard. The knight came across the hall and
stooped to look at Gregory.

"You may untruss him, Kenneth, when I am gone," said he. "And in a
quarter of an hour from now you are released from your oath to me. Fare
you well," he added with unusual gentleness, and turning a glance that
was almost regretful upon the lad. "We are not like to meet again, but
should we, I trust it may be in happier times. If I have harmed you in
this business, remember that my need was great. Fare you well." And he
held out his hand.

"Take yourself to hell, sir!" answered Kenneth, turning his back upon
him. The ghost of an evil smile played round Joseph Ashburn's lips as he
watched them.

CHAPTER XVIII. COUNTER-PLOT

So soon as Sir Crispin had taken his departure, and whilst yet the beat
of his horse's hoofs was to be distinguished above the driving storm of
rain and wind without, Joseph hastened across the hall to the servants'
quarters. There he found his four grooms slumbering deeply, their faces
white and clammy, and their limbs twisted into odd, helpless attitudes.
Vainly did he rain down upon them kicks and curses; arouse them he could
not from the stupor in whose thrall they lay.

And so, seizing a lanthorn, he passed out to the stables, whence Crispin
had lately taken his best nag, and with his own hands he saddled a
horse. His lips were screwed into a curious