Sink me, it was! I sought his sword-arm; but the light was bad, and my point went through his chest instead." For a moment Crispin stood frowning, then his brow cleared, as though he had put the matter from him.
"Well, well--since he's dead, there's an end to it." "Heaven rest his soul!" muttered the Irishman, crossing himself piously.
And with that he dismissed the subject of the great wrong that through folly he had wrought--the wanton destruction of a man's life, and the poisoning of a woman's with a remorse that might be everlasting.
"It will tax our wits to get you out of Penrith," said Crispin.

Then, turning and looking into the Irishman's great, good-humoured face--"I am sorry you leave us, Hogan," he added.
"Not so am I," quoth Hogan with a shrug.

"Such a march as this is little to my taste.

Bah! Charles Stuart or Oliver Cromwell, 'tis all one to me.
What care I whether King or Commonwealth prevail?
Shall Harry Hogan be the better or the richer under one than under the other?
Oddslife, Cris, I have trailed a pike or handled a sword in well-nigh every army in Europe.

I know more of the great art of war than all the King's generals rolled into one.