that neither could he follow his
example, nor yet so much as realize how one should slumber upon the very
brink of eternity.

For a moment his wonder stood perilously near to admiration; then his
religious training swayed him, and his righteousness almost drew from
him a contempt of this man's apathy. There was much of the Pharisee's
attitude towards the publican in his mood.

Anon that regular breathing grew irritating to him; it drew so marked a
contrast 'twixt Crispin's frame of mind and his own. Whilst Crispin had
related his story, the interest it awakened had served to banish the
spectre of fear which the thought of the morrow conjured up. Now that
Crispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grew
numb and sick with the horror of his position.

Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head and
hands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dull
uneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved.
Would she hear of his end? Would she weep for him?--as though it
mattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought him
to the same issue--to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands still
tighter, and the perspiration would stand' out in beads upon his callow
brow.

At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so much
a prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator. He felt himself a
craven--doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner he
despised--and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman should
meet his end.

"But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall be brave," he muttered, and
knew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that might
uphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken might
be his spirit now.

Meanwhile Crispin slept. When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was on
his face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloak
and a slouched hat whose broad brim left the features unrevealed.

Still half asleep, and blinking like an owl, he sat up.

"I have always held burnt sack to be well enough, but--"

He stopped short, fully awake at last, and, suddenly remembering his
condition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breath
and in a voice as indifferent as he could make it:

"What's o'clock?" he asked.

"Past midnight, miserable wretch," was the answer delivered in a deep
droning voice. "Hast ent