Then he set himself to a task which he had planned in the intervals of his amorous meditations--a somewhat grizzly task.
Drawing his knife from its sheath, he cut the rough stitching of the grave-clothes, and, with numb hands, dragged them away from the body's head.
The light went out behind a cloud, but, not to waste time, he began to feel the face.
"Sir Christopher's nose wasn't broken," he muttered to himself, "unless it were in that last fray, and then the bone would be loose, and this is stiff.

No, no, he had a very pretty nose." The light came again, and Thomas peered down at the dead face beneath him; then suddenly burst into a hoarse laugh.
"By all the saints! here's another of our Spaniard's tricks.

It is drunken Andrew the Scotchman, turned into a dead English knight.
Christopher killed him, and now he is Christopher.

But where's Christopher ?" He thought a little while, then, jumping out of the grave, began to fill it in with all his might.
"You're Christopher," he said; "well, stop Christopher until I can prove you're Andrew.

Good-bye, Sir Andrew Christopher; I am off to seek your betters.