project to Hogan, who laughed at the
simplicity of it, for all that inwardly he cursed the risk Sir Crispin
must run for the sake of one so unworthy.

"If the maid loves him, the thing is as good as done."

"The maid does not love him; leastways, I fear not."

Hogan was not surprised.

"Why, then it will be difficult, well-nigh impossible." And the Irishman
became grave.

But Crispin laughed unpleasantly. Years and misfortune had made him
cynical.

"What is the love of a maid?" quoth he derisively. "A caprice, a fancy,
a thing that may be guided, overcome or compelled as the occasion shall
demand. Opportunity is love's parent, Hogan, and given that, any maid
may love any man. Cynthia shall love my son."

"But if she prove rebellious? If she say nay to your proposals? There
are such women."

"How then? Am I not the stronger? In such a case it shall be mine to
compel her, and as I find her, so shall I carry her away. It will be
none so poor a vengeance on the Ashburns after all." His brow grew
clouded. "But not what I had dreamed of; what I should have taken had
he not cheated me. To forgo it now--after all these years of waiting--is
another sacrifice I make to Jocelyn. To serve him in this matter I must
proceed cautiously. Cynthia may fret and fume and stamp, but willy-nilly
I shall carry her away. Once she is in France, friendless, alone, I make
no doubt that she will see the convenience of loving Jocelyn--leastways
of wedding him and thus shall I have more than repaired the injuries I
have done him."

The Irishman's broad face was very grave; his reckless merry eye fixed
Galliard with a look of sorrow, and this grey-haired, sinning soldier of
fortune, who had never known a conscience, muttered softly:

"It is not a nice thing you contemplate, Cris."

Despite himself, Galliard winced, and his glance fell before Hogan's.
For a moment he saw the business in its true light, and he wavered in
his purpose. Then, with a short bark of laughter:

"Gadso, you are sentimental, Harry!" said he, to add, more gravely:
"There is my son, and in this lies the only way to his heart.".

Hogan stretched a hand across the table, and set it upon Crispin's arm.

"Is he worth such a stain upon your honour, Crispin?"

There was a pause.

"Is it not late in the day, Hogan, for you and me to prate of honour?"
asked Crispin bitterly, yet with averted gaze. "God knows my honour is
as like honour as a beggar's rags are like unt