The Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini. Rafael Sabatini

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СКАЧАТЬ he has done the killing.”

      “That I can better understand. 'Tis not the first time, I'll be sworn.”

      “But it will be the last, Sir Crispin.”

      “Like enough. The King is severe since we crossed the Border.” Then in a brisker tone: “I thank you for bringing me this news,” said he, “and I regret that in my poor house there be naught I can offer you wherein to drink His Majesty's health ere you proceed upon your search. Give you good night, sir.” And by drawing back a pace he signified his wish to close the door and be quit of them.

      “We thought,” faltered the young officer, “that—that perchance you would assist us by—”

      “Assist you!” roared Crispin, with a fine assumption of anger. “Assist you take a man? Sink me, sir, I would have you know I am a soldier, not a tipstaff!”

      The ensign's cheeks grew crimson under the sting of that veiled insult.

      “There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name for you.”

      “Like enough—when I am not by,” sneered Crispin. “The world is full of foul tongues in craven heads. But, sirs, the night air is chill and you are come inopportunely, for, as you'll perceive, I was at play. Haply you'll suffer me to close the door.”

      “A moment, Sir Crispin. We must search this house. He is believed to have come this way.”

      Crispin yawned. “I will spare you the trouble. You may take it from me that he could not be here without my knowledge. I have been in this room these two hours past.”

      “Twill not suffice,” returned the officer doggedly. “We must satisfy ourselves.”

      “Satisfy yourselves?” echoed the other, in tones of deep amazement. “What better satisfaction can I afford you than my word? 'Swounds, sir jackanapes,” he added, in a roar that sent the lieutenant back a pace as though he had been struck, “am I to take it that your errand is a trumped-up business to affront me? First you invite me to turn tipstaff, then you add your cursed innuendoes of what people say of me, and now you end by doubting me! You must satisfy yourself!” he thundered, waxing fiercer at every word. “Linger another moment on that threshold, and d——n me, sir, I'll give you satisfaction of another flavour! Be off!”

      Before that hurricane of passion the ensign recoiled, despite himself.

      “I will appeal to General Montgomery,” he threatened.

      “Appeal to the devil! Had you come hither with your errand in a seemly fashion you had found my door thrown wide in welcome, and I had received you courteously. As it is, sir, the cause for complaint is on my side, and complain I will. We shall see whether the King permits an old soldier who has followed the fortunes of his family these eighteen years to be flouted by a malapert bantam of yesterday's brood!”

      The subaltern paused in dismay. Some demur there was in the gathered crowd. Then the officer fell back a pace, and consulted an elderly trooper at his elbow. The trooper was of opinion that the fugitive must have gone farther. Moreover, he could not think, from what Sir Crispin had said, that it would have been possible for Hogan to have entered the house. With this, and realizing that much trouble and possible loss of time must result from Sir Crispin's obstinacy, did they attempt to force a way into the house, and bethinking himself, also, maybe, how well this rascally ruffler stood with Lord Middleton, the ensign determined to withdraw, and to seek elsewhere.

      And so he took his leave with a venomous glance, and a parting threat to bring the matter to the King's ears, upon which Galliard slammed the door before he had finished.

      There was a curious smile on Crispin's face as he walked slowly to the table, and resumed his seat.

      “Master Stewart,” he whispered, as he spread his cards anew, “the comedy is not yet played out. There is a face glued to the window at this moment, and I make little doubt that for the next hour or so we shall be spied upon. That pretty fellow was born to be a thief-taker.”

      The boy turned a glance of sour reproof upon his companion. He had not stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the door.

      “You lied to them,” he said at last.

      “Sh! Not so loud, sweet youth,” was the answer that lost nothing of menace by being subdued. “Tomorrow, if you please, I will account to you for offending your delicate soul by suggesting a falsehood in your presence. To-night we have a man's life to save, and that, I think, is work enough. Come, Master Stewart, we are being watched. Let us resume our game.”

      His eye, fixed in cold command upon the boy, compelled obedience. And the lad, more out of awe of that glance than out of any desire to contribute to the saving of Hogan, mutely consented to keep up this pretence. But in his soul he rebelled. He had been reared in an atmosphere of honourable and religious bigotry. Hogan was to him a coarse ruffler; an evil man of the sword; such a man as he abhorred and accounted a disgrace to any army—particularly to an army launched upon England under the auspices of the Solemn League and Covenant.

      Hogan had been guilty of an act of brutality; he had killed a man; and Kenneth deemed himself little better, since he assisted in harbouring instead of discovering him, as he held to be his duty. But 'neath the suasion of Galliard's inexorable eye he sat limp and docile, vowing to himself that on the morrow he would lay the matter before Lord Middleton, and thus not only endeavour to make amends for his present guilty silence, but rid himself also of the companionship of this ruffianly Sir Crispin, to whom no doubt a hempen justice would be meted.

      Meanwhile, he sat on and left his companion's occasional sallies unanswered. In the street men stirred and lanthorns gleamed fitfully, whilst ever and anon a face surmounted by a morion would be pressed against the leaded panes of the window.

      Thus an hour wore itself out during which poor Hogan sat above, alone with his anxiety and unsavoury thoughts.

      CHAPTER II.

       ARCADES AMBO

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      Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and rose. It was close upon an hour and a half since Hogan's advent. In the streets the sounds had gradually died down, and peace seemed to reign again in Penrith. Yet was Sir Crispin cautious—for to be cautious and mistrustful of appearances was the lesson life had taught him.

      “Master Stewart,” said he, “it grows late, and I doubt me you would be abed. Give you good night!”

      The lad rose. A moment he paused, hesitating, then—

      “To-morrow, Sir Crispin—” he began. But Crispin cut him short.

      “Leave to-morrow till it dawn, my friend. Give you good night. Take one of those noisome tapers with you, and go.”

      In sullen silence the boy took up one of the candle-bearing bottles and passed out through the door leading to the stairs.

      For a moment Crispin remained standing by the table, and in that moment the expression of his face was softened. A momentary regret of his treatment of the boy stirred in him. Master Stewart might be СКАЧАТЬ