Charles saw it, and with a muttered word that was not caught by Crispin, he obeyed the knight, and fled.
Scarce had he disappeared down that narrow passage, when the door gave way completely and with a mighty crash fell in.

Over the ruins of it sprang a young Puritan-scarce more than a boy--shouting: "The Lord of Hosts!" But ere he had taken three strides the point of Crispin's tuck-sword gave him pause.
"Halt! You cannot pass this way." "Back, son of Moab!" was the Roundhead's retort.

"Hinder me not, at your peril." Behind him, in the doorway, pressed others, who cried out to him to cut down the Amalekite that stood between them and the young man Charles Stuart.

But Crispin laughed grimly for answer, and kept the officer in check with his point.
"Back, or I cut you down," threatened the Roundhead.

"I am seeking the malignant Stuart." "If by those blasphemous words you mean his sacred Majesty, learn that he is where you will never be--in God's keeping." "Presumptuous hound," stormed the lad, "giveway!" Their swords met, and for a moment they ground one against the other; then Crispin's blade darted out, swift as a lightning flash, and took his opponent in the throat.
"You would have it so, rash fool," he deprecated.
The boy hurtled back into the arms of those behind, and as he fell he dropped his rapier, which rolled almost to Crispin's feet.