"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."