“To what purpose? There is the window. But even if the bars were moved, which I see no manner of accomplishing, the drop to the river is seventy feet at least. I measured it with my eyes when first we entered here. We have no rope. Your cloak rent in two and the pieces tied together would scarce yield us ten feet. Would you care to jump the remaining sixty?” At the very thought of it the lad trembled, noting which Sir Crispin laughed softly. “There. And yet, boy, it would be taking a risk which if successful would mean life--if otherwise, a speedier end than even the rope will afford you. Oddslife,” he cried, suddenly springing to his feet, and seizing the lanthorn. “Let us look at these bars.” He stepped across to the window, and held the light so that its rays fell full upon the base of the vertical iron that barred the square. “It is much worn by rust, Kenneth,” he muttered. “The removal of this single piece of iron,” and he touched the lower arm of the cross, “should afford us passage. Who knows? Hum!” He walked back to the table and set the lanthorn down. In a tremble, Kenneth watched his every movement, but spoke no word. “He who throws a main,” said Galliard, “must set a stake upon the board. I set my life--a stake that is already forfeit--and I throw for liberty. If I win, I win all; if I lose, I lose naught. 'Slife, I have thrown many a main with Fate, but never one wherein the odds were more generous. Come, Kenneth, it is the only way, and we will attempt it if we can but move the bar.” “You mean to leap?” gasped the lad. “Into the river. It is the only way.” “O God, I dare not. It is a fearsome drop.” “Longer, I confess, than they'll give you in an hour's time, if you remain; but it may lead elsewhere.” The boy's mouth was parched. His eyes burned in their sockets, and yet his limbs shook with cold--but not the cold of that September night. “I'll try it,” he muttered with a gulp. Then suddenly clutching Galliard's arm, he pointed to the window. “What ails you now?” quoth Crispin testily. “The dawn, Sir Crispin. The dawn.” Crispin looked, and there, like a gash in the blackness of the heavens, he beheld a streak of grey. “Quick, Sir Crispin; there is no time to lose. The minister said he would return at daybreak.” “Let him come,” answered Galliard grimly, as he moved towards the casement. He gripped the lower bar with his lean, sinewy hands, and setting his knee against the masonry beneath it, he exerted the whole of his huge strength--that awful strength acquired during those years of toil as a galley-slave, which even his debaucheries had not undermined. He felt his sinews straining until it seemed that they must crack; the sweat stood out upon his brow; his breathing grew stertorous. “It gives,” he panted at last. “It gives.” He paused in his efforts, and withdrew his hands.