CHAPTER VIII. THE TWISTED BAR
Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept.Kenneth sat huddled on his chair, and in awe and amazement he listenedto his companion's regular breathing. He had not Galliard's nerves norGalliard's indifference to death, so that neither could he follow hisexample, nor yet so much as realize how one should slumber upon the verybrink of eternity.
For a moment his wonder stood perilously near to admiration; then hisreligious training swayed him, and his righteousness almost drew fromhim a contempt of this man's apathy. There was much of the Pharisee'sattitude towards the publican in his mood.
Anon that regular breathing grew irritating to him; it drew so marked acontrast 'twixt Crispin's frame of mind and his own. Whilst Crispin hadrelated his story, the interest it awakened had served to banish thespectre of fear which the thought of the morrow conjured up. Now thatCrispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grewnumb and sick with the horror of his position.
Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head andhands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dulluneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved.Would she hear of his end? Would she weep for him?--as though itmattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought himto the same issue--to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands stilltighter, and the perspiration would stand' out in beads upon his callowbrow.
At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so mucha prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator. He felt himself acraven--doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner hedespised--and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman shouldmeet his end.
"But I shall be brave to-morrow. I shall be brave," he muttered, andknew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that mightuphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken mightbe his spirit now.
Meanwhile Crispin slept. When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was onhis face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloakand 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 hiscondition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breathand 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 deepdroning voice. "Hast entered upon thy last day of life--a day whose sunthou'lt never see. But five hours more are left thee."
"And it is to tell me this that you have awakened me?" demanded Galliardin such a voice that he of the cloak recoiled a step, as if he thoughta blow must follow. "Out on you for an unmannerly cur to break upon agentleman's repose."
"I come," returned the other in his droning voice, "to call upon thee torepent."
"Plague me not," answered Crispin, with a yawn. "I would sleep."
"Soundly enough shalt thou sleep in a few hours' time. Bethink thee,miserable sinner, of thy soul."
"Sir," cried the Tavern Knight, "I am a man of marvellous shortendurance. But mark you this your ways to heaven are not my ways.Indeed, if heaven be peopled by such croaking things as you, I shall bethankful to escape it. So go, my friend, ere I become discourteous."
The minister stood in silence for a moment; then setting his lanthornupon the table, he raised his hands and eyes towards the low ceiling ofthe chamber.
"Vouchsafe, O Lord," he prayed, "to touch yet the callous heart of thisobdurate, incorrigible sinner, this wicked, perjured and blasphemousmalignant, whose--"
He got no further. Crispin was upon his feet, his harsh countenancethrust into the very face of the minister; his eyes ablaze.
"Out!" he thundered, pointing to the door. "Out! Begone! I would notbe guilty at the end of my life of striking a man in petticoats. But gowhilst I can bethink me of it! Go--take your prayers to hell."
The minister fell back before that blaze of passion. For a second heappeared to hesitate, then he turned towards Kenneth, who stood behindin silence. But the lad's Presbyterian rearing had taught him to hate asectarian as he would a papist or as he would the devil, and he did nomore than echo Galliard's words--though in a gentler key.
"I pray you go," he said. "But if you would perform an act of charity,leave your lanthorn. It will be dark enough hereafter."
The minister looked keenly at the boy, and won over by the humilityof his tone, he set the lanthorn on the table. Then moving towards thedoor, he stopped and addressed himself to Crispin.
"I go since you oppose with violence my ministrations. But I shall prayfor you, and I will return anon, when perchance your heart shall besoftened by the near imminence of your end."
"Sir," quoth Crispin wearily, "you would outtalk a woman."
"I've done, I've done," he cried in trepidation, making shift to depart.On the threshold he paused again. "I leave you the lanthorn," hesaid. "May it light you to a godlier frame of mind. I shall return atdaybreak." And with that he went.
Crispin yawned noisily when he was gone, and stretched himself. Thenpointing to the pallet:
"Come, lad, 'tis your turn," said he.
Kenneth shivered. "I could not sleep," he cried. "I could not."
"As you will." And shrugging his shoulders, Crispin sat down on the edgeof the bed.
"For cold comforters commend me to these cropeared cuckolds," hegrumbled. "They are all thought for a man's soul, but for his body theycare nothing. Here am I who for the last ten hours have had neither meatnor drink. Not that I mind the meat so much, but, 'slife, my throat isdry as one of their sermons, and I would cheerfully give four of myfive hours of life for a posset of sack. A paltry lot are they, Kenneth,holding that because a man must die at dawn he need not sup to-night.Heigho! Some liar hath said that he who sleeps dines, and if I sleepperchance I shall forget my thirst."
He stretched himself upon the bed, and presently he slept again.
It was Kenneth who next awakened him. He opened his eyes to find the ladshivering as with an ague. His face was ashen.
"Now, what's amiss? Oddslife, what ails you?" he cried.
"Is there no way, Sir Crispin? Is there naught you can do?" wailed theyouth.
Instantly Galliard sat up.
"Poor lad, does the thought of the rope affright you?"
Kenneth bowed his head in silence.
"Tis a scurvy death, I own. Look you, Kenneth, there is a dagger in myboot. If you would rather have cold steel, 'tis done. It is the lastservice I may render you, and I'll be as gentle as a mistress. Justthere, over the heart, and you'll know no more until you are inParadise."
Turning down the leather of his right boot, he thrust his hand down theside of his leg. But Kenneth sprang back with a cry.
"No, no," he cried, covering his face with his hands. "Not that!You don't understand. It is death itself I would cheat. What odds toexchange one form for another? Is there no way out of this? Is there noway, Sir Crispin?" he demanded with clenched hands.
"The approach of death makes you maudlin, sir," quoth the other, in whomthis pitiful show of fear produced a profound disgust. "Is there no way;say you? There is the window, but 'tis seventy feet above the river; andthere is the door, but it is locked, and there is a sentry on the otherside."
"I might have known it. I might have known that you would mock me. Whatis death to you, to whom life offers nothing? For you the prospect of ithas no terrors. But for me--bethink you, sir, I am scarce eighteen yearsof age," he added brokenly, "and life was full of promise for me. O God,pity me!"
"True, lad, true," the knight returned in softened tones. "I hadforgotten that death is not to you the blessed release that it is to me.And yet, and yet," he mused, "do I not die leaving a task unfulfilled--atask of vengeance? And by my soul, I know no greater spur to ma
ke a mancling to life. Ah," he sighed wistfully, "if indeed I could find a way."
"Think, Sir Crispin, think," cried the boy feverishly.
"To what purpose? There is the window. But even if the bars were moved,which I see no manner of accomplishing, the drop to the river is seventyfeet at least. I measured it with my eyes when first we entered here. Wehave no rope. Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tied together wouldscarce yield us ten feet. Would you care to jump the remaining sixty?"
At the very thought of it the lad trembled, noting which Sir Crispinlaughed softly.
"There. And yet, boy, it would be taking a risk which if successfulwould mean life--if otherwise, a speedier end than even the rope willafford you. Oddslife," he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, andseizing the lanthorn. "Let us look at these bars."
He stepped across to the window, and held the light so that its raysfell full upon the base of the vertical iron that barred the square.
"It is much worn by rust, Kenneth," he muttered. "The removal of thissingle piece of iron," and he touched the lower arm of the cross,"should afford us passage. Who knows? Hum!"
He walked back to the table and set the lanthorn down. In a tremble,Kenneth watched his every movement, but spoke no word.
"He who throws a main," said Galliard, "must set a stake upon the board.I set my life--a stake that is already forfeit--and I throw for liberty.If I win, I win all; if I lose, I lose naught. 'Slife, I have thrownmany a main with Fate, but never one wherein the odds were moregenerous. Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and we will attempt it ifwe can but move the bar."
"You mean to leap?" gasped the lad.
"Into the river. It is the only way."
"O God, I dare not. It is a fearsome drop."
"Longer, I confess, than they'll give you in an hour's time, if youremain; but it may lead elsewhere."
The boy's mouth was parched. His eyes burned in their sockets, and yethis limbs shook with cold--but not the cold of that September night.
"I'll try it," he muttered with a gulp. Then suddenly clutchingGalliard's arm, he pointed to the window.
"What ails you now?" quoth Crispin testily.
"The dawn, Sir Crispin. The dawn."
Crispin looked, and there, like a gash in the blackness of the heavens,he beheld a streak of grey.
"Quick, Sir Crispin; there is no time to lose. The minister said hewould return at daybreak."
"Let him come," answered Galliard grimly, as he moved towards thecasement.
He gripped the lower bar with his lean, sinewy hands, and setting hisknee against the masonry beneath it, he exerted the whole of his hugestrength--that awful strength acquired during those years of toil as agalley-slave, which even his debaucheries had not undermined. He felthis sinews straining until it seemed that they must crack; the sweatstood out upon his brow; his breathing grew stertorous.
"It gives," he panted at last. "It gives."
He paused in his efforts, and withdrew his hands.
"I must breathe a while. One other effort such as that, and it is done.'Fore George," he laughed, "it is the first time water has stood myfriend, for the rains have sadly rusted that iron."
Without, their sentry was pacing before the door; his steps came nearer,passed, and receded; turned, came nigh again, and again passed on.As once more they grew faint, Crispin seized the bar and renewed hisattempt. This time it was easier. Gradually it ceded to the strainGalliard set upon it.
Nearer came the sentry's footsteps, but they went unheeded by him whotoiled, and by him who watched with bated breath and beating heart. Hefelt it giving--giving--giving. Crack!
With a report that rang through the room like a pistol shot, it brokeoff in its socket. Both men caught their breath, and stood for a secondcrouching, with straining ears. The sentry had stopped at their door.
Galliard was a man of quick action, swift to think, and as swift toexecute the thought. To thrust Kenneth into a corner, to extinguish thelight, and to fling himself upon the bed was all the work of an instant.
The key grated in the lock, and Crispin answered it with a resoundingsnore. The door opened, and on the threshold stood the Roundheadtrooper, holding aloft a lanthorn whose rays were flashed back by hispolished cuirass. He beheld Crispin on the bed with closed eyes and openmouth, and he heard his reassuring and melodious snore. He saw Kennethseated peacefully upon the floor, with his back against the wall, andfor a moment he was puzzled.
"Heard you aught?" he asked.
"Aye," answered Kenneth, in a strangled voice, "I heard something like ashot out there."
The gesture with which he accompanied the words was fatal. Instinctivelyhe had jerked his thumb towards the window, thereby drawing thesoldier's eyes in that direction. The fellow's glance fell upon thetwisted bar, and a sharp exclamation of surprise escaped him.
Had he been aught but a fool he must have guessed at once how it cameso, and having guessed it, he must have thought twice ere heventured within reach of a man who could so handle iron. But he was aslow-reasoning clod, and so far, thought had not yet taken the place ofsurprise. He stepped into, the chamber and across to the window, that hemight more closely view that broken bar.
With eyes that were full of terror and despair, Kenneth watched him;their last hope had failed them. Then, as he looked, it seemed to himthat in one great leap from his recumbent position on the bed, Crispinhad fallen upon the soldier.
The lanthorn was dashed from the fellow's hand, and rolled to Kenneth'sfeet. The fellow had begun' a cry, which broke off suddenly into agurgle as Galliard's fingers closed about his windpipe. He was a bigfellow, and in his mad struggles he carried: Crispin hither and thitherabout the room. Together: they hurtled against the table, which wouldhave: gone crashing over had not Kenneth caught it and drawn it softlyto the wall.
Both men were now upon the bed. Crispin had guessed the soldier's intentto fling himself upon the ground so that the ring of his armour mightbe heard, and perchance bring others to his aid. To avoid this, Galliardhad swung him towards the bed, and hurled him on to it. There he pinnedhim with his knee, and with his fingers he gripped the Roundhead'sthroat, pressing the apple inwards with his thumb.
"The door, Kenneth!" he commanded, in a whisper. "Close the door!"
Vain were the trooper's struggles to free himself from that throttlinggrip. Already his efforts grew his face was purple; his veins stood outin ropes upon his brow till they seemed upon the point of bursting; hiseyes protruded like a lobster's and there was a horrible grin upon hismouth; still his heels beat the bed, and still he struggled. With hisfingers he plucked madly at the throttling hands on his neck, andtore at them with his nails until the blood streamed from them. StillGalliard held him firmly, and with a smile--a diabolical smile it seemedto the poor, half-strangled wretch--he gazed upon his choking victim.
"Someone comes!" gasped Kenneth suddenly. "Someone comes, Sir Crispin!"he repeated, shaking his hands in a frenzy.
Galliard listened. Steps were approaching. The soldier heard them also,and renewed his efforts. Then Crispin spoke.
"Why stand you there like a fool?" he growled. "Quench the light--stay,we may want it! Cast your cloak over it! Quick, man, quick!"
The steps came nearer. The lad had obeyed him, and they were indarkness.
"Stand by the door," whispered Crispin. "Fall upon him as he enters,and see that no cry escapes him. Take him by the throat, and as you loveyour life, do not let him get away."
The footsteps halted. Kenneth crawled softly to his post. The soldier'sstruggles grew of a sudden still, and Crispin released his throat atlast. Then calmly drawing the fellow's dagger, he felt for the strapsof his cuirass, and these he proceeded to cut. As he did so the door wasopened.
By the light of the lamp burning in the passage they beheld silhouettedupon the threshold a black figure crowned by a steeple hat. Then thedroning voice of the Puritan minister greeted them.
"Your hour is at hand!" he announced.
"
Is it time?" asked Galliard from the bed. And as he put the question hesoftly thrust aside the trooper's breastplate, and set his hand to thefellow's heart. It still beat faintly.
"In another hour they will come for you," answered the minister. AndCrispin marvelled anxiously what Kenneth was about. "Repent then,miserable sinners, whilst yet--"
He broke off abruptly, awaking out of his religious zeal to a senseof strangeness at the darkness and the absence of the sentry, whichhitherto he had not remarked.
"What hath--" he began. Then Galliard heard a gasp, followed by thenoise of a fall, and two struggling men came rolling across the chamberfloor.
"Bravely done, boy!" he cried, almost mirthfully. "Cling to him,Kenneth; cling to him a second yet!"
He leapt from the bed, and guided by the faint light coming through thedoor, he sprang across the intervening space and softly closed it.Then he groped his way along the wall to the spot where he had seen thelanthorn stand when Kenneth had flung his cloak over it. As he went, thetwo striving men came up against him.
"Hold fast, lad," he cried, encouraging Kenneth, "hold him yet a moment,and I will relieve you!"
He reached the lanthorn at last, and pulling aside the cloak, he liftedthe light and set it upon the table.