While he was still urging them, Crispin unceremoniously seized his bridle. “Will you stand here until you are taken, sire?” he cried. “Leave them, and look to your safety.” Charles turned a wondering eye upon the resolute, battle-grimed face of the man that thus addressed him. A faint, sad smile parted his lips. “You are right, sir,” he made answer. “Attend me.” And turning about he rode down a side street with Galliard following closely in his wake. With the intention of doffing his armour and changing his apparel, he made for the house in New Street where he had been residing. As they drew up before the door, Crispin, chancing to look over his shoulder, rapped out an oath. “Hasten, sire,” he exclaimed, “here is a portion of Colonel's Pride's troop.” The King looked round, and at sight of the Parliamentarians, “It is ended,” he muttered despairingly. But already Crispin had sprung from his horse. “Dismount, sire,” he roared, and he assisted him so vigorously as to appear to drag him out of the saddle. “Which way?” demanded Charles, looking helplessly from left to right. “Which way?” But Crispin's quick mind had already shaped a plan. Seizing the royal arm--for who in such straits would deal ceremoniously?--he thrust the King across the threshold, and, following, closed the door and shot its only bolt. But the shout set up by the Puritans announced to them that their movement had been detected. The King turned upon Sir Crispin, and in the half-light of the passage wherein they stood Galliard made out the frown that bent the royal brows. “And now?” demanded Charles, a note almost of reproach in his voice. “And now begone, sire,” returned the knight. “Begone ere they come.” “Begone?” echoed Charles, in amazement. “But whither, sir? Whither and how?” His last words were almost drowned in the din without, as the Roundheads pulled up before the house. “By the back, sire,” was the impatient answer. “Through door or window--as best you can. The back must overlook the Corn-Market; that is your way. But hasten--in God's name hasten!--ere they bethink them of it and cut off your retreat.” As he spoke a violent blow shook the door. “Quick, Your Majesty,” he implored, in a frenzy. Charles moved to depart, then paused. “But you, sir? Do you not come with me?” Crispin stamped his foot, and turned a face livid with impatience upon his King. In that moment all distinction of rank lay forgotten. “I must remain,” he answered, speaking quickly. “That crazy door will not hold for a second once a stout man sets his shoulder to it. After the door they will find me, and for your sake I trust I may prove of stouter stuff. Fare you well, sire,” he ended in a softer tone. “God guard Your Majesty and send you happier days.” And, bending his knee, Crispin brushed the royal hand with his hot lips.