“Whither?” asked Crispin dryly.
“Out of this.”
Galliard bowed slightly.
“Fare you well, sir. I'll not detain you. Your way is clear, and it is for you to choose between the door and the window.”
And with that Crispin turned his back upon his companion and crossed to the bed, where the trooper lay glaring in mute anger. He stooped, and unbuckling the soldier's swordbelt—to which the scabbard was attached—he girt himself with it. Without raising his eyes, and keeping his back to Kenneth, who stood between him and the door, he went next to the table, and, taking up the sword that he had left there, he restored it to the sheath. As the hilt clicked against the mouth of the scabbard:
“Come, Sir Crispin!” cried the lad. “Are you ready?”
Galliard wheeled sharply round.
“How? Not gone yet?” said he sardonically.
“I dare not,” the lad confessed. “I dare not go alone.”
Galliard laughed softly; then suddenly waxed grave.