There are some, Sir Crispin, that have yet another name for you.
He had not stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the door.
Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and rose.
Crispin laughed softly for answer, and besought of him the tale of what had passed.
"It will tax our wits to get you out of Penrith," said Crispin.
At the news of this, Crispin made a last appeal to the infantry.
Covered with blood—the blood of others—Crispin stood before them now.
Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept.
But Crispin, noting the hesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad's fears.
Crispin took the Bible from the boy's hands, and replaced it on the table.