He was a big fellow, and in his mad struggles he carried: Crispin hither and thither about the room.

Together: they hurtled against the table, which would have: gone crashing over had not Kenneth caught it and drawn it softly to the wall.
Both men were now upon the bed.

Crispin had guessed the soldier's intent to fling himself upon the ground so that the ring of his armour might be heard, and perchance bring others to his aid.

To avoid this, Galliard had swung him towards the bed, and hurled him on to it.

There he pinned him with his knee, and with his fingers he gripped the Roundhead's throat, pressing the apple inwards with his thumb.
"The door, Kenneth!" he commanded, in a whisper.