.

AT THE SIGN OF THE MITRE.
For a week after the coming of the King to Worcester, Crispin's relations with Kenneth steadily improved.

By an evil chance, however, there befell on the eve of the battle that which renewed with heightened intensity the enmity which the lad had fostered for him, but which lately he had almost overcome.
The scene of this happening--leastways of that which led to it--was The Mitre Inn, in the High Street of Worcester.
In the common-room one day sat as merry a company of carousers as ever gladdened the soul of an old tantivy boy.

Youthful ensigns of Lesley's Scottish horse--caring never a fig for the Solemn League and Covenant--rubbed shoulders with beribboned Cavaliers of Lord Talbot's company; gay young lairds of Pitscottie's Highlanders, unmindful of the Kirk's harsh commandments of sobriety, sat cheek by jowl with rakehelly officers of Dalzell's Brigade, and pledged the King in many a stoup of canary and many a can of stout March ale.
On every hand spirits ran high and laughter filled the chamber, the mirth of some having its source in a neighbour's quip, that of others having no source at all save in the wine they had taken.
At one table sat a gentleman of the name of Faversham, who had ridden on the previous night in that ill-fated camisado that should have resulted in the capture of Cromwell at Spetchley, but which, owing to a betrayal--when was a Stuart not betrayed and sold ?--miscarried.

He was relating to the group about him the details of that disaster.
"Oddslife, gentlemen," he was exclaiming, "I tell you that, but for that roaring dog, Sir Crispin Galliard, the whole of Middleton's regiment had been cut to pieces.