him.

The Irishman's broad face was very grave; his reckless merry
eye fixed Galliard with a look of sorrow, and this grey-haired,
sinning soldier of fortune, who had never known a conscience,
muttered softly:

"It is not a nice thing you contemplate, Cris."

Despite himself, Galliard winced, and his glance fell before
Hogan's. For a moment he saw the business in its true light,
and he wavered in his purpose. Then, with a short bark of
laughter:

"Gadso, you are sentimental, Harry!" said he, to add, more
gravely: "There is my son, and in this lies the only way to his
heart.".

Hogan stretched a hand across the table, and set it upon
Crispin's arm.

"Is he worth such a stain upon your honour, Crispin?"

There was a pause.

"Is it not late in the day, Hogan, for you and me to prate of
honour?" asked Crispin bitterly, yet with averted gaze. "God
knows my honour is as like honour as a beggar's rags are like
unto a cloak of ermine. What signifies another splash, another
rent in that which is tattered beyond all semblance of its