slip on to the stairs and take him in the
flank. Twice one of his opponents essayed it, and twice did Galliard's
deadly point repel him. But at the third attempt the man got through,
another stepped into his place in front, and thus from two, Crispin's
immediate assailants became increased to three.

He realized that the end was at hand, and wildly did he lay about him,
but to no purpose. And presently, he who had gained the stairs leaped
suddenly upon him sideways, and clung to his swordarm. Before he could
make a move to shake himself free, the two that faced him had caught at
his other arm.

Like one possessed he struggled then, for the sheer lust of striving;
but they that held him gripped effectively.

Thrice they bore him struggling to the ground, and thrice he rose again
and sought to shake them from him as a bull shakes off a pack of dogs.
But they held fast, and again they forced him down; others sprang to
their aid, and the Tavern Knight could rise no more.

"Disarm the dog!" cried Pride. "Disarm and truss him hand and foot."

"Sirs, you need not," he answered, gasping. "I yield me. Take my sword.
I'll do your bidding."

The fight was fought and lost, but it had been a great Homeric struggle,
and he rejoiced almost that upon so worthy a scene of his life was the
curtain to fall, and again to hope that, thanks to the stand he had
made, the King should have succeeded in effecting his escape.

CHAPTER VI. COMPANIONS IN MISFORTUNE

Through the streets of Worcester the Roundheads dragged Sir Crispin, and
for all that he was as hard and callous a man as any that ever buckled
on a cuirass, the horrors that in going he beheld caused him more than
once to shudder.

The place was become a shambles, and the very kennels ran with blood.
The Royalist defeat was by now complete, and Cromwell's fanatic butchers
overran the town, vying to outdo one another in savage cruelty
and murder. Houses were being broken into and plundered, and their
inmates--resisting or unresisting; armed or unarmed; men, women and
children alike were pitilessly being put to the sword. Charged was the
air of Worcester with the din of that fierce massacre. The crashing of
shivered timbers, as doors were beaten in, mingled with the clatter and
grind of sword on sword, the crack of musket and pistol, the clank of
armour, and the stamping of men and horses in that troubled hour.

And above all rang out the fierce, raucous blasphemy of t