The Tavern Knight

  CHAPTER IX. THE BARGAIN

  By the lanthorn's yellow glare Crispin beheld the two men-a mass ofwrithing bodies and a bunch of waving legs--upon the ground. Kenneth,who was uppermost, clung purposefully to the parson's throat. Thefaces of both were alike distorted, but whilst the lad's breath came ingasping hisses, the other's came not at all.

  Going over to the bed, Crispin drew the unconscious trooper'stuck-sword. He paused for a moment to bend over the man's face; hisbreath came faintly, and Crispin knew that ere many moments were spedhe would regain consciousness. He smiled grimly to see how well he hadperformed his work of suffocation without yet utterly destroying life.

  Sword in hand, he returned to Kenneth and the parson. The Puritan'sstruggles were already becoming mere spasmodic twitchings; his face wasas ghastly as the trooper's had been a while ago.

  "Release him, Kenneth," said Crispin shortly.

  "He struggles still."

  "Release him, I say," Galliard repeated, and stooping he caught thelad's wrist and compelled him to abandon his hold.

  "He will cry out," exclaimed Kenneth, in apprehension.

  "Not he," laughed Crispin. "Leastways, not yet awhile. Observe thewretch."

  With mouth wide agape, the minister lay gasping like a fish newlytaken from the water. Even now that his throat was free he appeared tostruggle for a moment before he could draw breath. Then he took it inpanting gulps until it seemed that he must choke in his gluttony of air.

  "Fore George," quoth Crispin, "I was no more than in time. Anothersecond, and we should have had him, too, unconscious. There, he isrecovering."

  The blood was receding from the swollen veins of the parson's head, andhis cheeks were paling to their normal hue. Anon they went yet palerthan their wont, as Galliard rested the point of his sword against thefellow's neck.

  "Make sound or movement," said Crispin coldly, "and I'll pin you to thefloor like a beetle. Obey me, and no harm shall come to you."

  "I will obey you," the fellow answered, in a wheezing whisper. "I swearI will. But of your charity, good sir, I beseech you remove your sword.Your hand might slip, sir," he whined, a wild terror in his eyes.

  Where now was the deep bass of his whilom accents? Where now thegrotesque majesty of his bearing, and the impressive gestures thaterstwhile had accompanied his words of denunciation?

  "Your hand might slip, sir," he whined again.

  "It might--and, by Gad, it shall if I hear more from you. So that youare discreet and obedient, have no fear of my hand." Then, still keepinghis eye upon the fellow: "Kenneth," he said, "attend to the crop-earyonder, he will be recovering. Truss him with the bedclothes, and gaghim with his scarf. See to it, Kenneth, and do it well, but leave hisnostrils free that he may breathe."

  Kenneth carried out Galliard's orders swiftly and effectively, what timeCrispin remained standing over the recumbent minister. At length, whenKenneth announced that it was done, he bade the Puritan rise.

  "But have a care," he added, "or you shall taste the joys of theParadise you preach of. Come, sir parson; afoot!"

  A prey to a fear that compelled unquestioning obedience, the fellow rosewith alacrity.

  "Stand there, sir. So," commanded Crispin, his point within an inch ofthe man's Geneva bands. "Take your kerchief, Kenneth, and pinion hiswrists behind him."

  That done, Crispin bade the lad unbuckle and remove the parson's belt.Next he ordered that man of texts to be seated upon their only chair,and with that same belt he commanded Kenneth to strap him to it. Whenat length the Puritan was safely bound, Crispin lowered his rapier, andseated himself upon the table edge beside him.

  "Now, sir parson," quoth he, "let us talk a while. At your first outcryI shall hurry you into that future world whither it is your mission toguide the souls of others. Maybe you'll find it a better world to preachof than to inhabit, and so, for your own sake, I make no doubt youwill obey me. To your honour, to your good sense and a parson's naturalhorror of a lie, I look for truth in answer to what questions I mayset you. Should I find you deceiving me, sir, I shall see that yourfalsehood overtakes you." And eloquently raising his blade, he intimatedthe exact course he would adopt. "Now, sir, attend to me. How soon areour friends likely to discover this topsy-turvydom?"

  "When they come for you," answered the parson meekly.

  "And how soon, O prophet, will they come?"

  "In an hour's time, or thereabout," replied the Puritan, glancingtowards the window as he spoke. Galliard followed his glance, andobserved that the light was growing perceptibly stronger.

  "Aye," he commented, "in an hour's time there should be light enough tohang us by. Is there no chance of anyone coming sooner?"

  "None that I can imagine. The only other occupants of the house are aparty of half a dozen troopers in the guardroom below."

  "Where is the Lord General?"

  "Away--I know not where. But he will be here at sunrise."

  "And the sentry that was at our door--is he not to a changed 'twixt thisand hanging-time?"

  "I cannot say for sure, but I think not. The guard was relieved justbefore I came."

  "And the men in the guardroom--answer me truthfully, O Elijah--whatmanner of watch are they keeping?"

  "Alas, sir, they have drunk enough this night to put a rakehellyCavalier to shame. I was but exhorting them."

  When Kenneth had removed the Puritan's girdle, a small Bible--such asmen of his calling were wont to carry--had dropped out. This Kenneth hadplaced upon the table. Galliard now took it up, and, holding it beforethe Puritan's eyes, he watched him narrowly the while.

  "Will you swear by this book that you have answered nothing but thetruth?"

  Without a moment's hesitation the parson pledged his oath, that, to thebest of his belief, he had answered accurately.

  "That is well, sir. And now, though it grieve me to cause you someslight discomfort, I must ensure your silence, my friend."

  And, placing his sword upon the table, he passed behind the Puritan, andtaking the man's own scarf, he effectively gagged him with it.

  "Now, Kenneth," said he, turning to the lad. Then he stopped abruptly asif smitten by a sudden thought. Presently--"Kenneth," he continued in adifferent tone, "a while ago I mind me you said that were your libertyrestored you, you would join hands with me in punishing the evildoerswho wrecked my life."

  "I did, Sir Crispin."

  For a moment the knight paused. It was a vile thing that he was about todo, he told himself, and as he realized how vile, his impulse was to sayno more; to abandon the suddenly formed project and to trust to his ownunaided wits and hands. But as again he thought of the vast use this ladwould be to him--this lad who was the betrothed of Cynthia Ashburn--hesaw that the matter was not one hastily to be judged and dismissed.Carefully he weighed it in the balance of his mind. On the one hand wasthe knowledge that did they succeed in making good their escape,Kenneth would naturally fly for shelter to his friends the Ashburns--theusurpers of Castle Marleigh. What then more natural than his taking withhim the man who had helped him to escape, and who shared his own dangerof recapture? And with so plausible a motive for admission to CastleMarleigh, how easy would not his vengeance become? He might at firstwean himself into their good graces, and afterwards--

  Before his mental eyes there unfolded itself the vista of a greatrevenge; one that should be worthy of him, and commensurate with thefoul deed that called for it.

  In the other scale the treacherous flavour of this method weighedheavily. He proposed to bind the lad to a promise, the shape of whosefulfilment he would withhold--a promise the lad would readily give, andyet, one that he must sooner die than enter into, did he but know whatmanner of fulfilment would be exacted. It amounted to betraying the ladinto a betrayal of his friends--the people of his future wife. Whateverthe issue for Crispin, 'twas odds Kenneth's prospect of wedding thisCynthia would be blighted for all time by the action into which Galliardproposed to thrust him all unconscious.

  So stood the
case in Galliard's mind, and the scales fell now on oneside, now on the other. But against his scruples rose the memory of thetreatment which the lad had meted out to him that night; the harshnessof the boy's judgment; the irrevocable contempt wherein he had clearlyseen that he was held by this fatuous milksop. All this aroused hisrancour now, and steeled his heart against the voice of honour. Whatwas this boy to him, he asked himself, that he should forego for him theaccomplishing of his designs? How had this lad earned any considerationfrom him? What did he owe him? Naught! Still, he would not decide inhaste.

  It was characteristic of the man whom Kenneth held to be destitute ofall honourable principles, to stand thus in the midst of perils, whenevery second that sped lessened their chances of escape, turning overin his mind calmly and collectedly a point of conduct. It was in hispassions only that Crispin was ungovernable, in violence only that hewas swift--in all things else was he deliberate.

  Of this Kenneth had now a proof that set him quaking with impatientfear. Anxiously, his hands clenched and his face pale, he watched hiscompanion, who stood with brows knit in thought, and his greyeyes staring at the ground. At length he could brook that, to him,incomprehensible and mad delay no longer.

  "Sir Crispin," he whispered, plucking at his sleeve; "Sir Crispin."

  The knight flashed him a glance that was almost of anger. Then the firedied out of his eyes; he sighed and spoke. In that second's glancehe had seen the lad's face; the fear and impatience written on it haddisgusted him, and caused the scales to fall suddenly and definitelyagainst the boy.

  "I was thinking how it might be accomplished," he said.

  "There is but one way," cried the lad.

  "On the contrary, there are two, and I wish to choose carefully."

  "If you delay your choice much longer, none will be left you," criedKenneth impatiently.

  Noting the lad's growing fears, and resolved now upon his course,Galliard set himself to play upon them until terror should render theboy as wax in his hands.

  "There speaks your callow inexperience," said he, with a pitying smile."When you shall have lived as long as I have done, and endured as much;when you shall have set your wits to the saving of your life as oftenas have I--you will have learnt that haste is fatal to all enterprises.Failure means the forfeiture of something; tonight it would mean theforfeiture of our lives, and it were a pity to let such good efforts asthese"--and with a wave of the hand he indicated their two captors--"gowasted."

  "Sir," exclaimed Kenneth, well-nigh beside himself, "if you come notwith me, I go alone!"

  "Whither?" asked Crispin dryly.

  "Out of this."

  Galliard bowed slightly.

  "Fare you well, sir. I'll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it isfor you to choose between the door and the window."

  And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed tothe bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped,and unbuckling the soldier's swordbelt--to which the scabbard wasattached--he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keepinghis back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next tothe table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restoredit to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:

  "Come, Sir Crispin!" cried the lad. "Are you ready?"

  Galliard wheeled sharply round.

  "How? Not gone yet?" said he sardonically.

  "I dare not," the lad confessed. "I dare not go alone."

  Galliard laughed softly; then suddenly waxed grave.

  "Ere we go, Master Kenneth, I would again remind you of your assurancethat were we to regain our liberty you would aid me in the task ofvengeance that lies before me."

  "Once already have I answered you that it is so."

  "And pray, are you still of the same mind?"

  "I am, I am! Anything, Sir Crispin; anything so that you come away!"

  "Not so fast, Kenneth. The promise that I shall ask of you is not tobe so lightly given. If we escape I may fairly claim to have saved yourlife, 'twixt what I have done and what I may yet do. Is it not so?"

  "Oh, I acknowledge it!"

  "Then, sir, in payment I shall expect your aid hereafter to help me inthat which I must accomplish, that which the hope of accomplishing isthe only spur to my own escape."

  "You have my promise!" cried the lad.

  "Do not give it lightly, Kenneth," said Crispin gravely. "It may causeyou much discomfort, and may be fraught with danger even to your life."

  "I promise."

  Galliard bowed his head; then, turning, he took the Bible from thetable.

  "With your hand upon this book, by your honour, your faith, and yourevery hope of salvation, swear that if I bear you alive out of thishouse you will devote yourself to me and to my task of vengeance untilit shall be accomplished or until I perish; swear that you will setaside all personal matters and inclinations of your own, to serve mewhen I shall call upon you. Swear that, and, in return, I will givemy life if need be to save yours to-night, in which case you will bereleased from your oath without more ado."

  The lad paused a moment. Crispin was so impressive, the oath he imposedso solemn, that for an instant the boy hesitated. His cautious, timidnature whispered to him that perchance he should know more of thismatter ere he bound himself so irrevocably. But Crispin, noting thehesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad's fears.

  "Resolve yourself," he exclaimed abruptly. "It grows light, and the timefor haste is come."

  "I swear!" answered Kenneth, overcome by his impatience. "I swear, by myhonour, my faith, and my every hope of heaven to lend you my aid, whenand how you may demand it, until your task be accomplished."

  Crispin took the Bible from the boy's hands, and replaced it on thetable. His lips were pressed tight, and he avoided the lad's eyes.

  "You shall not find me wanting in my part of the bargain," he muttered,as he took up the soldier's cloak and hat. "Come, take that parson'ssteeple hat and his cloak, and let us be going."

  He crossed to the door, and opening it he peered down the passage. Amoment he stood listening. All was still. Then he turned again. In thechamber the steely light of the breaking day was rendering more yellowstill the lanthorn's yellow flame.

  "Fare you well, sir parson," he said. "Forgive me the discomfort I havebeen forced to put upon you, and pray for the success of our escape.Commend me to Oliver of the ruby nose. Fare you well, sir. Come,Kenneth."

  He held the door for the lad to pass out. As they stood in the dimlylighted passage he closed it softly after them, and turned the key inthe lock.

  "Come," he said again, and led the way to the stairs, Kenneth tiptoeingafter him with wildly beating heart.