“Danger? To me?” echoed Crispin.
“Aye—for having harboured me. That whelp of Montgomery's Foot suspects you.”
“Suspects? Am I a man of straw to be overset by a breath of suspicion?”
“There is your lieutenant, Kenneth Stewart.”
“Who has been a party to your escape, and whose only course is therefore silence, lest he set a noose about his own neck. Come, Harry,” he added, briskly, changing his manner, “the night wears on, and we have your safety to think of.”
Hogan rose with a sigh.
“Give me a horse,” said he, “and by God's grace tomorrow shall find me in Cromwell's camp. Heaven prosper and reward you, Cris.”
“We must find you clothes more fitting than these—a coat more staid and better attuned to the Puritan part you are to play.”
“Where have you such a coat?”
“My lieutenant has. He affects the godly black, from a habit taken in that Presbyterian Scotland of his.”