“Sir,” quoth Crispin wearily, “you would outtalk a woman.”
“I've done, I've done,” he cried in trepidation, making shift to depart. On the threshold he paused again. “I leave you the lanthorn,” he said. “May it light you to a godlier frame of mind. I shall return at daybreak.” And with that he went.
Crispin yawned noisily when he was gone, and stretched himself. Then pointing to the pallet:
“Come, lad, 'tis your turn,” said he.
Kenneth shivered. “I could not sleep,” he cried. “I could not.”
“As you will.” And shrugging his shoulders, Crispin sat down on the edge of the bed.
“For cold comforters commend me to these cropeared cuckolds,” he grumbled. “They are all thought for a man's soul, but for his body they care nothing. Here am I who for the last ten hours have had neither meat nor drink. Not that I mind the meat so much, but, 'slife, my throat is dry as one of their sermons, and I would cheerfully give four of my five hours of life for a posset of sack. A paltry lot are they, Kenneth, holding that because a man must die at dawn he need not sup to-night. Heigho! Some liar hath said that he who sleeps dines, and if I sleep perchance I shall forget my thirst.”
He stretched himself upon the bed, and presently he slept again.
It was Kenneth who next awakened him. He opened his eyes to find the lad shivering as with an ague. His face was ashen.
“Now, what's amiss? Oddslife, what ails you?” he cried.