Now that Crispin was silent and asleep, that spectre returned, and the lad grew numb and sick with the horror of his position.
Thought followed thought as he sat huddled there with sunken head and hands clasped tight between his knees, and they were mostly of his dull uneventful days in Scotland, and ever and anon of Cynthia, his beloved.
Would she hear of his end?
Would she weep for him ?--as though it mattered! And every train of thought that he embarked upon brought him to the same issue--to-morrow! Shuddering he would clench his hands still tighter, and the perspiration would stand' out in beads upon his callow brow.
At length he flung himself upon his knees to address not so much a prayer as a maudlin grievance to his Creator.

He felt himself a craven--doubly so by virtue of the peaceful breathing of that sinner he despised--and he told himself that it was not in fear a gentleman should meet his end.
"But I shall be brave to-morrow.

I shall be brave," he muttered, and knew not that it was vanity begat the thought, and vanity that might uphold him on the morrow when there were others by, however broken might be his spirit now.
Meanwhile Crispin slept.

When he awakened the light of a lanthorn was on his face, and holding it stood beside him a tall black figure in a cloak and a slouched hat whose broad brim left the features unrevealed.
Still half asleep, and blinking like an owl, he sat up.
"I have always held burnt sack to be well enough, but--" He stopped short, fully awake at last, and, suddenly remembering his condition and thinking they were come for him, he drew a sharp breath and in a voice as indifferent as he could make it: "What's o'clock ?" he asked.
"Past midnight, miserable wretch," was the answer delivered in a deep droning voice.

"Hast entered upon thy last day of life--a day whose sun thou'lt never see.