“Well, my master,” quoth Galliard, “for what do you wait?”
“To learn your wishes, sir,” was the answer sullenly delivered.
“My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook less waiting! Open, fool!”
Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the door, which opened immediately upon the street. Into the apartment stumbled a roughly clad man of huge frame. He was breathing hard, and fear was writ large upon his rugged face. An instant he paused to close the door after him, then turning to Galliard, who had risen and who stood eyeing him in astonishment—
“Hide me somewhere, Cris,” he panted—his accent proclaiming his Irish origin. “My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this night!”
“'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?”
“Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've killed a man!”
“If he's dead, why run?”
The Irishman made an impatient gesture.
“A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised the whole of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of my body, 'twill be a short shrift they'll give me. The King will serve me as poor Wrycraft was served two days ago at Kendal. Mother of Mercy!” he broke off, as his ear caught the clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from without. “Have you a hole I can creep into?”