The Tavern Knight. Rafael Sabatini

so much as unfold it, a voice rang harsh and imperative:

      “Hold!”

      Pausing, they turned to confront a tall, gaunt man in a leather jerkin and a broad hat decked by goose-quill, who came slowly forward.

      “The Tavern Knight,” cried one, and the shout of “A rouse for the hero of Red Hill!” was taken up on every hand. For despite his sour visage and ungracious ways there was not a roysterer in the Royal army to whom he was not dear.

      But as he now advanced, the coldness of his bearing and the forbidding set of his face froze them into silence.

      “Give me that letter,” he demanded sternly of Tyler.

      Taken aback, Tyler hesitated for a second, whilst Crispin waited with hand outstretched. Vainly did he look round for sign or word of help or counsel. None was afforded him by his fellow-revellers, who one and all hung back in silence.

      Seeing himself thus unsupported, and far from wishing to try conclusions with Galliard, Tyler with an ill grace surrendered the paper; and, with a pleasant bow and a word of thanks, delivered with never so slight a saturnine smile, Crispin turned on his heel and left the tavern as abruptly as he had entered it.

      The din it was that had attracted him as he passed by on his way to the Episcopal Palace where a part of his company was on guard duty. Thither he now pursued his way, bearing with him the letter which so opportunely he had become possessed of, and which he hoped might throw further light upon Kenneth's relations with the Ashburns.

      But as he reached the palace there was a quick step behind him, and a hand fell upon his arm. He turned.

      “Ah, 'tis you, Kenneth,” he muttered, and would have passed on, but the boy's hand took him by the sleeve.

      “Sir Crispin,” said he, “I came to thank you.”

      “I have done nothing to deserve your thanks. Give you good evening.” And he made shift to mount the steps when again Kenneth detained him.

      “You are forgetting the letter, Sir Crispin,” he ventured, and he held out his hand to receive it.

      Galliard saw the gesture, and for a moment it crossed his mind in self-reproach that the part he chose to play was that of a bully. A second he hesitated. Should he surrender the letter unread, and fight on without the aid of the information it might bring him? Then the thought of Ashburn and of his own deep wrongs that cried out for vengeance, overcame and stifled the generous impulse. His manner grew yet more frozen as he made answer:

      “There has been too much ado about this letter to warrant my so lightly parting with it. First I will satisfy myself that I have been no unconscious abettor of treason. You shall have your letter tomorrow, Master Stewart.”

      “Treason!” echoed Kenneth. And before that cold rebuff of Crispin's his mood changed from conciliatory to resentful—resentful towards the fates that made him this man's debtor.

      “I assure you, on my honour,” said he, mastering his feelings, “that this is but a letter from the lady I hope to make my wife. Assuredly, sir, you will not now insist upon reading it.”

      “Assuredly I shall.”

      “But, sir—”

      “Master Stewart, I am resolved, and were you to talk from now till doomsday, you would not turn me from my purpose. So good night to you.”

      “Sir Crispin,” cried the boy, his voice quavering with passion, “while I live you shall not read that letter!”

      “Hoity-toity, sir! What words! What heroics! And yet you would have me believe this paper innocent?”

      “As innocent as the hand that penned it, and if I so oppose your reading it, it is because thus much I owe her. Believe me, sir,” he added, his accents returning to a beseeching key, “when again I swear that it is no more than such a letter any maid may write her lover. I thought that you had understood all this when you rescued me from those bullies at The Mitre. I thought that what you did was a noble and generous deed. Instead—” The lad paused.

      “Continue, sir,” Galliard requested coldly. “Instead?”

      “There can be no instead, Sir Crispin. You will not mar so good an action now. You will give me my letter, will you not?”

      Callous though he was, Crispin winced. The breeding of earlier days—so sadly warped, alas!—cried out within him against the lie that he was acting by pretending to suspect treason in that woman's pothooks. Instincts of gentility and generosity long dead took life again, resuscitated by that call of conscience. He was conquered.

      “There, take your letter, boy, and plague me no more,” he growled, as he held it out to Kenneth. And without waiting for reply or acknowledgment, he turned on his heel, and entered the palace. But he had yielded overlate to leave a good impression and, as Kenneth turned away, it was with a curse upon Galliard, for whom his detestation seemed to increase at every step.