That cry, which she but half understood, was still ringing in her ears, when the door was of a sudden flung open, and across the threshold a very daintily arrayed young gentleman stepped briskly, the expostulating landlord following close upon his heels.

“I tell thee, lying dog,” he cried, “I saw him ride into the yard, and, 'fore George, he shall give me the chance of mending my losses. Be off to your father, you Devil's natural.”

Cynthia looked up in alarm, whereupon that merry blood catching sight of her, halted in some confusion at what he saw.

“Rat me, madam,” he cried, “I did not know—I had not looked to—” He stopped, and remembering at last his manners he made her a low bow.

“Your servant, madam,” said he, “your servant Harry Foster.”

She gazed at him, her eyes full of inquiry, but said nothing, whereat the pretty gentleman plucked awkwardly at his ruffles and wished himself elsewhere.

“I did not know, madam, that your husband was hurt.”

“He is not my husband, sir,” she answered, scarce knowing what she said.

“Gadso!” he ejaculated. “Yet you ran away from him?”

Her cheeks grew crimson.

“The door, sir, is behind you.”

“So, madam, is that thief the landlord,” he made answer, no whit abashed. “Come hither, you bladder of fat, the gentleman is hurt.”

Thus courteously summoned, the landlord shuffled forward, and Mr. Foster begged Cynthia to allow him with the fellow's aid to see to the gentleman's wound. Between them they laid Crispin on a couch, and the town spark went to work with a dexterity little to have been expected from his flippant exterior. He dressed the wound, which was in the shoulder and not in itself of a dangerous character, the loss of blood it being that had brought some gravity to the knight's condition. They propped his head upon a pillow, and presently he sighed and, opening his eyes, complained of thirst, and was manifestly surprised at seeing the coxcomb turned leech.

“I came in search of you to pursue our game,” Foster explained when they had ministered to him, “and, 'fore George, I am vastly grieved to find you in this condition.”

“Pish, sir, my condition is none so grievous—a scratch, no more, and were my heart itself pierced the knowledge that I have gained—” He stopped short. “But there, sir,” he added presently, “I am grateful beyond words for your timely ministration, and if to my debt you will add that of leaving me awhile to rest, I shall appreciate it.”

His glance met Cynthia's and he smiled. The host coughed significantly, and shuffled towards the door. But Master Foster made no shift to move; but stood instead beside Galliard, though in apparent hesitation.

“I should like a word with you ere I go,” he said at length. Then turning and perceiving the landlord standing by the door in an attitude of eloquent waiting: “Take yourself off,” he cried to him. “Crush me, may not one gentleman say a word to another without being forced to speak into your inquisitive ears as well? You will forgive my heat, madam, but, God a'mercy, that greasy rascal tries me sorely.”

“Now, sir,” he resumed, when the host was gone. “I stand thus: I have lost to you to-day a sum of money which, though some might account considerable, is in itself no more than a trifle.

“I am, however, greatly exercised at the loss of certain trinkets which have to me a peculiar value, and which, to be frank, I staked in a moment of desperation. I had hoped, sir, to retrieve my losses o'er a friendly main this evening, for I have still to stake a coach and four horses—as noble a set of beasts as you'll find in England, aye rat me. Your wound, sir, renders it impossible for me to ask you to give yourself the fatigue of obliging me. I come, then, to propose that you return me those trinkets against my note of hand for the amount that was staked on them. I am well known in town, sir,” he added hurriedly, “and you need have no anxiety.”

Crispin stopped him with a wave of the hand.

“I have none, sir, in that connexion, and I am willing to do as you suggest.” He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew forth the rings, the brooch and the ear-ring he had won. “Here, sir, are your trinkets.”

“Sir,” cried Mr. Foster, thrown into some confusion by Galliard's unquestioning generosity, “I am indebted to you. Rat me, sir, I am indeed. You shall have my note of hand on the instant. How much shall we say?”

“One moment, Mr. Foster,” said Crispin, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “You mentioned horses. Are they fresh?”

“As June roses.”

“And you are returning to London, are you not?”

“I am.”

“When do you wish to proceed?”

“To-morrow.”

“Why, then, sir, I have a proposal to make which will remove the need of your note of hand. Lend me your horses, sir, to reach Harwich. I wish to set out at once!”

“But your wound?” cried Cynthia. “You are still faint.”

“Faint! Not I. I am awake and strong. My wound is no wound, for a scratch may not be given that name. So there, sweetheart.” He laughed, and drawing down her head, he whispered the words: “Your father.” Then turning again to Foster. “Now, sir,” he continued, “there are four tolerable posthorses of mine below, on which you can follow tomorrow to Harwich, there exchanging them again for your own, which you shall find awaiting you, stabled at the Garter Inn. For this service, to me of immeasurable value, I will willingly cede those gewgaws to you.”

“But, rat me, sir,” cried Foster in bewilderment, “tis too generous—'pon honour it is. I can't consent to it. No, rat me, I can't.”

“I have told you how great a boon you will confer. Believe me, sir, to me it is worth twice, a hundred times the value of those trinkets.”

“You shall have my horses, sir, and my note of hand as well,” said Foster firmly.

“Your note of hand is of no value to me, sir. I look to leave England to-morrow, and I know not when I may return.”

Thus in the end it came about that the bargain was concluded. Cynthia's maid was awakened and bidden to rise. The horses were harnessed to Crispin's coach, and Crispin, leaning upon Harry Foster's arm, descended and took his place within the carriage.

Leaving the London blood at the door of the Suffolk Arms, crushing, burning, damning and ratting himself at Crispin's magnificence, they rolled away through the night in the direction of Ipswich.

Ten o'clock in the morning beheld them at the door of the Garter Inn at Harwich. But the jolting of the coach had so hardly used Crispin that he had to be carried into the hostelry. He was much exercised touching the Lady Jane and his inability to go down to the quay in quest of her, when he was accosted by a burly, red-faced individual who bluntly asked him was he called Sir Crispin Galliard. Ere he could frame an answer the man had added that he was Thomas Jackson, master of the Lady Jane—at which piece of good news Crispin felt like to shout for joy.

But his reflection upon his present position, when at last he lay in the schooner's cabin, brought him the bitter reverse of pleasure. He had set out to bring Cynthia to his son; he had pledged his honour to accomplish it. How was he fulfilling his trust? In his despondency, during a moment when alone, he cursed the knave that had wounded him for his clumsiness in not having taken a lower aim when he fired, and thus solved him this ugly riddle of life for all time.

Vainly did he strive to console himself and endeavour to palliate the wrong he had done with the consideration that he was the man Cynthia loved, and not his son; that his son was nothing to her, and that she would never have accompanied him had she dreamt that he wooed her for another.

No. The deed was foul, and rendered fouler still by virtue of those other wrongs in whose extenuation it had been undertaken. For a moment he grew almost a coward. He was on the point of bidding Master Jackson avoid Calais and make some other port along the coast. But in a moment he had scorned the craven argument of flight, and determined that come what might he would face his son, and lay the truth before him, leaving him to judge how strong fate had been. As he lay feverish and fretful in the vessel's cabin, he came well-nigh to hating Kenneth; he remembered him only as a poor, mean creature, now a bigot, now a fop, now a psalm-monger, now a roysterer, but ever a hypocrite, ever a coward, and never such a man as he could have taken pride in presenting as his offspring.

They had a fair wind, and towards evening Cynthia, who had been absent from his side a little while, came to tell him that the coast of France grew nigh.

His answer was a sigh, and when she chid him for it, he essayed a smile that was yet more melancholy. For a second he was tempted to confide in her; to tell her of the position in which he found himself and to lighten his load by sharing it with her. But this he dared not do. Cynthia must never know.