"Suffer me to leave you, Sir Crispin, to your bottle, your croaking, and your memories." "Aye, go your ways, sir; you'd be sorry company for a dead man--the sorriest ever my evil star led me into.

The door is yonder, and should you chance to break your saintly neck on the stairs, it is like to be well for both of us." And with that Sir Crispin Galliard lay back in his chair once more, and took up the thread of his interrupted song But, heigh-o! she cried, at the Christmas-tide, That dead she would rather be-O! Pale and wan she crept out of sight, and wept 'Tis a sorry-- A loud knock that echoed ominously through the mean chamber, fell in that instant upon the door.

And with it came a panting cry of-- "Open, Cris! Open, for the love of God!" Sir Crispin's ballad broke off short, whilst the lad paused in the act of quitting the room, and turned to look to him for direction.
"Well, my master," quoth Galliard, "for what do you wait ?" "To learn your wishes, sir," was the answer sullenly delivered.
"My wishes! Rat me, there's one without whose wishes brook less waiting! Open, fool!" Thus rudely enjoined, the lad lifted the latch and set wide the door, which opened immediately upon the street.

Into the apartment stumbled a roughly clad man of huge frame.

He was breathing hard, and fear was writ large upon his rugged face.