"Hide me somewhere, Cris," he panted - his accent proclaiming
his Irish origin. "My God, hide me, or I'm a dead man this
night!"

"'Slife, Hogan! What is toward? Has Cromwell overtaken us?"

"Cromwell, quotha? Would to Heaven 'twere no worse! I've
killed a man!"

"If he's dead, why run?"

The Irishman made an impatient gesture.

"A party of Montgomery's foot is on my heels. They've raised
the whole of Penrith over the affair, and if I'm taken, soul of
my body, 'twill be a short shrift they'll give me. The King
will serve me as poor Wrycraft was served two days ago at
Kendal. Mother of Mercy!" he broke off, as his ear caught the
clatter of feet and the murmur of voices from without. "Have
you a hole I can creep into?"

"Up those stairs and into my room with you!" said Crispin
shortly. "I will try to head them off. Come, man, stir
yourself; they are here."

Then, as with nimble alacrity Hogan obeyed him and slipped from
the room, he turned to the lad, who had been a silent spectator
of what had passed. From the pocket of his threadbare doublet
he drew a pack of greasy playing cards.