They crossed the room, and a moment or two later they had dropped on to the narrow railed pathway overlooking the river, which Crispin had observed from their prison window the evening before. He had observed, too, that a small boat was moored at some steps about a hundred yards farther down the stream, and towards that spot he now sped along the footpath, followed closely by Kenneth. The path sloped in that direction, so that by the time the spot was reached the water flowed not more than six feet or so beneath them. Half a dozen steps took them down this to the moorings of that boat, which fortunately had not been removed. “Get in, Kenneth,” Crispin commanded. “There, I'll take the oars, and I'll keep under shelter of the bank lest those blunderers should bethink them of looking out of our prison window. Oddswounds, Kenneth, I am hungry as a wolf, and as dry--ough, as dry as Dives when he begged for a sup of water. Heaven send we come upon some good malignant homestead ere we go far, where a Christian may find a meal and a stoup of ale. 'Tis a miracle I had strength enough to crawl downstairs. Swounds, but an empty stomach is a craven comrade in a desperate enterprise. Hey! Have a care, boy. Now, sink me if this milksop hasn't fainted!” CHAPTER XI. THE ASHBURNS Gregory Ashburn pushed back his chair and made shift to rise from the table at which he and his brother had but dined. He was a tall, heavily built man, with a coarse, florid countenance set in a frame of reddish hair that hung straight and limp. In the colour of their hair lay the only point of resemblance between the brothers. For the rest Joseph was spare and of middle weight, pale of face, thin-lipped, and owning a cunning expression that was rendered very evil by virtue of the slight cast in his colourless eyes. In earlier life Gregory had not been unhandsome; debauchery and sloth had puffed and coarsened him. Joseph, on the other hand, had never been aught but ill-favoured. “Tis a week since Worcester field was fought,” grumbled Gregory, looking lazily sideways at the mullioned windows as he spoke, “and never a word from the lad.” Joseph shrugged his narrow shoulders and sneered. It was Joseph's habit to sneer when he spoke, and his words were wont to fit the sneer. “Doth the lack of news trouble you?” he asked, glancing across the table at his brother. Gregory rose without meeting that glance. “Truth to tell it does trouble me,” he muttered. “And yet,” quoth Joseph, “tis a natural thing enough. When battles are fought it is not uncommon for men to die.” Gregory crossed slowly to the window, and stared out at the trees of the park which autumn was fast stripping. “If he were among the fallen--if he were dead then indeed the matter would be at an end.” “Aye, and well ended.” “You forget Cynthia,” Gregory reproved him. “Forget her? Not I, man. Listen.” And he jerked his thumb in the direction of the wainscot.