Towards midnight at last Sir Crispin flung down his cards and rose.
Crispin paused a moment, weighing the position well in his mind.
Covered with blood—the blood of others—Crispin stood before them now.
At length Crispin withdrew his hands from eyes that were grown haggard, and rose.
But Crispin, noting the hesitation, stifled it by appealing to the lad's fears.
He had not stirred from his chair while Crispin had been at the door.
"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.
Nature asserted herself, and, despite his condition, Crispin slept.
Crispin took the Bible from the boy's hands, and replaced it on the table.