"Twas an accident. Sink me, it was! I sought his sword-arm;
but the light was bad, and my point went through his chest
instead."

For a moment Crispin stood frowning, then his brow cleared, as
though he had put the matter from him.

"Well, well - since he's dead, there's an end to it."

"Heaven rest his soul!" muttered the Irishman, crossing himself
piously. And with that he dismissed the subject of the great
wrong that through folly he had wrought - the wanton
destruction of a man's life, and the poisoning of a woman's
with a remorse that might be everlasting.

"It will tax our wits to get you out of Penrith," said Crispin.
Then, turning and looking into the Irishman's great,
good-humoured face - "I am sorry you leave us, Hogan," he
added.

"Not so am I," quoth Hogan with a shrug. "Such a march as this
is little to my taste. Bah! Charles Stuart or Oliver Cromwell,
'tis all one to me. What care I whether King or Commonwealth
prevail? Shall Harry Hogan be the better or the richer under
one than under the other? Oddslife, Cris, I have trailed a
pike or handled a sword in well-nigh every army in Europe. I
know more of the great art of war than all the King's generals
rolled into one. Think you, then, I can rest content with a
miserable company of horse when plunder is forbidden, and even
our beggarly pay doubtful? Whilst, should things go ill - as