n as candid with himself
as he was with Crispin, he must have recognized that it was mainly
Crispin's offences towards himself that his mind now dwelt on in=deeper
rancour than became one so well acquainted with the Lord's Prayer.

"You had not cause enough," he added impressively, "to defile your soul
and risk its eternal damnation because the evil of others had wrecked
your life."

Crispin drew breath with the sharp hiss of one in pain, and for a moment
after all was still. Then a bitter laugh broke from him.

"Bravely answered, reverend sir," he cried with biting scorn. "I marvel
only that you left your pulpit to gird on a sword; that you doffed your
cassock to don a cuirass. Here is a text for you who deal in texts, my
brave Jack Presbyter--'Judge you your neighbour as you would yourself
be judged; be merciful as you would hope for mercy.' Chew you the cud of
that until the hangman's coming in the morning. Good night to you."

And throwing himself back upon the bed, Crispin sought comfort in sleep.
His limbs were heavy and his heart was sick.

"You misapprehend me, Sir Crispin," cried the lad, stung almost to shame
by Galliard's reproach, and also mayhap into some fear that hereafter
he should find little mercy for his own lack of it towards a poor
fellow-sinner. "I spoke not as I would judge, but as the Church
teaches."

"If the Church teaches no better I rejoice that I was no churchman,"
grunted Crispin.

"For myself," the lad pursued, heeding not the irreverent interruption,
"as I have said, I pity you with all my heart. More than that, so deeply
do I feel, so great a loathing and indignation has your story sown in
my heart, that were our liberty now restored us I would willingly join
hands with you in wreaking vengeance on these evildoers."

Sir Crispin laughed. He judged the tone rather than the words, and it
rang hollow.

"Where are your wits, O casuist?" he cried mockingly. "Where are your
doctrines? 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!' Pah!"

And with that final ejaculation, pregnant with contempt and bitterness,
he composed himself to sleep.

He was accursed he told himself. He must die alone, as he had lived.

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 listened
to his companion's regular breathing. He had not Galliard's nerves nor
Galliard's indifference to death, so