The Tavern Knight Part 9

"I go since you oppose with violence my ministrations. But I shall pray for you, and I will return anon, when perchance your heart shall be softened 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 s.h.i.+ft to depart.

On the threshold he paused again. "I leave you the lanthorn," he said. "May it light you to a G.o.dlier frame of mind. I shall return at daybreak." And with that he went.

Crispin yawned noisily when he was gone, and stretched himself. Then pointing to the pallet:

"Come, lad, 'tis your turn," said he.

Kenneth s.h.i.+vered. "I could not sleep," he cried. "I could not."

"As you will." And shrugging his shoulders, Crispin sat down on the edge of the bed.

"For cold comforters commend me to these cropeared cuckolds," he grumbled. "They are all thought for a man's soul, but for his body they care nothing. Here am I who for the last ten hours have had neither meat nor drink. Not that I mind the meat so much, but, 'slife, my throat is dry as one of their sermons, and I would cheerfully give four of my five 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 sleep perchance 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 lad s.h.i.+vering 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 the youth.

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 my boot. If you would rather have cold steel, 'tis done. It is the last service I may render you, and I'll be as gentle as a mistress. Just there, over the heart, and you'll know no more until you are in Paradise."

Turning down the leather of his right boot, he thrust his hand down the side 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 to exchange one form for another? Is there no way out of this? Is there no way, Sir Crispin?" he demanded with clenched hands.

"The approach of death makes you maudlin, sir," quoth the other, in whom this 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; and there is the door, but it is locked, and there is a sentry on the other side."

"I might have known it. I might have known that you would mock me. What is death to you, to whom life offers nothing? For you the prospect of it has no terrors. But for me--bethink you, sir, I am scarce eighteen years of age," he added brokenly, "and life was full of promise for me. O G.o.d, pity me!"

"True, lad, true," the knight returned in softened tones. "I had forgotten 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--a task of vengeance? And by my soul, I know no greater spur to make a man cling 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 accomplis.h.i.+ng, the drop to the river is seventy feet at least. I measured it with my eyes when first we entered here. We have no rope. Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tied together would scarce yield us ten feet. Would you care to jump the remaining sixty?"

At the very thought of it the lad trembled, noting which Sir Crispin laughed softly.

"There. And yet, boy, it would be taking a risk which if successful would mean life--if otherwise, a speedier end than even the rope will afford you. Oddslife," he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, and seizing the lanthorn. "Let us look at these bars."

He stepped across to the window, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon the base of the vertical iron that barred the square.

"It is much worn by rust, Kenneth," he muttered. "The removal of this single piece of iron," and he touched the lower arm of the cross, "should afford us pa.s.sage. 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 thrown many a main with Fate, but never one wherein the odds were more generous. Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and we will attempt it if we can but move the bar."

"You mean to leap?" gasped the lad.

"Into the river. It is the only way."

"O G.o.d, I dare not. It is a fearsome drop."

"Longer, I confess, than they'll give you in an hour's time, if you remain; but it may lead elsewhere."

The boy's mouth was parched. His eyes burned in their sockets, and yet his limbs shook with cold--but not the cold of that September night.

"I'll try it," he muttered with a gulp. Then suddenly clutching Galliard'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 he would return at daybreak."

"Let him come," answered Galliard grimly, as he moved towards the cas.e.m.e.nt.

He gripped the lower bar with his lean, sinewy hands, and setting his knee against the masonry beneath it, he exerted the whole of his huge strength--that awful strength acquired during those years of toil as a galley-slave, which even his debaucheries had not undermined. He felt his sinews straining until it seemed that they must crack; the sweat stood 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 my friend, for the rains have sadly rusted that iron."

Without, their sentry was pacing before the door; his steps came nearer, pa.s.sed, and receded; turned, came nigh again, and again pa.s.sed on.

As once more they grew faint, Crispin seized the bar and renewed his attempt. This time it was easier. Gradually it ceded to the strain Galliard set upon it.

Nearer came the sentry's footsteps, but they went unheeded by him who toiled, and by him who watched with bated breath and beating heart. He felt it giving--giving--giving. Crack!